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THE GIRL FROM MALTA

By FERGUS HUME.

AUTHOR OF
"THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB,"
AND "MADAME MIDAS."

TORONTO:

THE NATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY

Entered according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture by the National Publishing Company, Toronto, in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine.

THE GIRL FROM MALTA.

[CHAPTER I.]

A RUINED LIFE.

It was a calm southern night, with a silver moon shining serenely in a cloudless sky, and over the glittering expanse of ocean steamed the P. and O.'s vessel "Neptune" on her way from Brindisi to Malta. Every revolution of her powerful engines sent her plunging through the blue waters, with the waves breaking in tumbling masses of white foam from her towering sides. The passengers, numbering about three hundred, were all in high spirits, having had a most delightful voyage from Australia, and were looking forward, with pleasure, to their arrival at Valletta on the morrow.

Can there be anything in the world more pleasant than sea life on a steamship with jolly people? Anyone, who is a good sailor, will answer "No," though perhaps Ulysses, who travelled over these same waters, might not agree, but then the wandering Greek had not a P. and O. steamer at his command.

On this charming night a dance was in progress on the hurricane deck, and the immense area had been draped with brilliantly coloured flags, thus turning it into an admirable ball-room. Miss Kate Lester, the belle of the ship,--a position she knew she occupied, and, by the way took full advantage of all benefits to be derived therefrom,--was the pianist, and was playing the "Venetia Valse," to which a number of young people were dancing. The white dresses of the ladies, the darker costumes of the men, and the vivid tints of the flags, all seen under the powerful radiance of the electric lights, made up a very pretty picture.

Ronald Monteith thought so, at all events--and Mr. Monteith was a very good judge of beauty, especially if it were feminine. He leaned lazily against the bulwarks and surveyed the festive scene with a smile on his handsome face, but--Joseph like--took no notice of the many glances he received from bright eyes. Tall and sinewy, with fair hair and mustaches, blue eyes, and a skin bronzed by exposure to the hot southern sun, Monteith was decidedly good-looking, and by no means undervalued his personal appearance. His father was a wealthy Australian squatter, who owned large stations in the Riverina District, and, being a liberal-minded and liberal-handed man, had sent his son forth to see the world. Master Ronald, nothing loth, departed with a goodly supply of money, several letters of introduction, and a huge capacity of enjoyment; so, as can easily be seen, this lucky young man's lines were cast in pleasant places. There were lots of pretty girls on board who would have liked to marry him, nevertheless, his highness threw his handkerchief to none of them, yet flirted with all. He was not a clever man by any means, but he could ride, shoot, swim and box to perfection, all of which athletic accomplishments found favour in the eyes of women; he was, moreover, an honourable gentleman, with a kind heart and a generous spirit.

As he stood there in a meditative attitude, wondering if he could summon up sufficient courage to dance with the thermometer at somewhere about eighty, a young fellow who rejoiced in the name of Patrick Ryan, came up and took him by the arm.

"Come and have a drink, me boy," said Mr. Ryan, with a slight touch of the brogue. "I'm half dead with dancin', not to mention the way I've to talk to the girls, and tell 'em enough lies to make me recordin' angel take to shorthand."

"Then why the deuce don't you stop it?" retorted Ronald, as he accepted this bacchanalian invitation, and they went down to the bar.

"Oh, begad, think how the girls would tear their hair, and mine too, if I didn't look after them," replied Pat; "it's purely ornamental ye are, but 'tis better to be good than beautiful, and a mighty poor consolation anyhow."

Pat Ryan was certainly not beautiful, being short and dark, but his lack of good looks was more than made up by the possession of a clever tongue, which was generally going from morning till night, and as he could sing, play, write verses, and flatter a woman to perfection he was a great favourite on board.

"Well, I'm off to the halls of dazzlin' light," he observed when they had finished their drinks and were once more on deck; "come along, ye lazy divil, and I'll get you a partner."

"I'm too hot," objected Ronald, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Oh, jist hear him," said Pat in disgust. "Why, I've seen ye all day in the saddle under a burnin' sun, and divil a growl from ye, and yet when I offer ye a pretty girl to dance with, ye refuse; and as for the girl, begad, her beauty would tempt St. Anthony himself and small blame to him."

"Who is she?" asked the Australian, with some show of interest.

"Miss Lester, no less."

"I thought you were sweet there yourself Pat."

"I'm sweet on all the girls me boy--there's safety in numbers, and I believe in quantity as well as quality."

"You're getting too deep for me," said Ronald, pulling a very black pipe from his pocket, "so I'll go and have a smoke."

"A pipe too!" echoed Pat; "faith, it's woman's greatest enemy."

"And man's greatest friend," retorted Monteith, as he strolled off.

Pat, laughing, went away to arrange another dance, and to this end asked Mrs. Pellypop to play the Lancers. Mrs. Pellypop, tall, majestic and aggressively virtuous, was the mother-in-law of a Bishop, and was on her way home to pay her daughter a visit, an event regarded by the worthy prelate with anything but unmixed joy. She had an eye-glass--very effective to crush presuming people--a chilling smile and very strong opinions about her own position; in short she was a type of all that was virtuous and--disagreeable.

While the dancing was thus going on Ronald, having lighted his pipe, strolled up and down the long deck for a few minutes, then leaned meditatively over the side and watched the glittering waters sweeping past. While thus engaged he felt a light touch on his arm, and, on turning round, saw a man he knew standing near him.

"Hullo, Ventin," said Ronald, removing his beloved pipe for a moment, "why aren't you dancing?"

"Because I hate dancing," retorted Mr. Ventin irritably; "I'm sick of the perpetual jangle of that d--d piano, of Miss Lester's flirtations, and of Mother Pellypop's virtues--I'm sick of the whole thing and I wish the voyage were over."

"I don't," replied Ronald taking a seat on one of the deck chairs; "it's very jolly I think."

"Yes, I daresay," said Ventin gloomily; "you are young and rich, with all the world before you. I, on the contrary, am old."

"Rubbish!"

"If not in years, at least in experience. I have lost all my illusions, and have discovered the gold of fancy to be only the tinsel of reality. You stand on the threshold of a happy career; I can only look back on a ruined life."

Ronald looked at him curiously as he spoke. A handsome face certainly, but with innumerable wrinkles and hollow cheeks; dark, piercing, restless eyes; black, smooth hair touched with white at the temples; and a thin-lipped mouth, with a heavy, dark mustache. Yes, Lionel Ventin was handsome, but one whom a woman would rather fear than admire. For the rest, a slender figure, high-bred manner, and in general a cool, nonchalant demeanour, which but ill accorded with the restless glances of his eyes on this particular night.

Ronald had been introduced to him in Melbourne a year previously, and then lost sight of him, never expecting to set eyes on him again. But the first person he met on board the "Neptune" was Ventin, and a strong friendship soon sprung up between them, which seemed quite unaccountable, considering the difference in their dispositions. But the fact was Ventin liked Ronald's happy, pleasant manner, and, on his part, Monteith felt for the other that strong admiration which a young man always has for one who is older and knows more about the world than himself. Ventin had been everywhere, and seen everything. He had shot big game in the Rocky Mountains, hunted elephants in Africa and tigers in India, knew London, Paris, and Vienna thoroughly, and, when he chose to exert himself, could be a most delightful companion. To-night however, he seemed restless and ill at ease, which rather surprised Ronald accustomed, as he was, to the cool, careless manner of his friend.

"I don't know why the deuce I should trust you," said Ventin, sitting down near Ronald and eyeing him keenly; "we are only fellow-travellers, and I am not usually given to confidences, but occasionally it does a man good to open his heart to someone."

"Fire away old boy," said Ronald, puffing out a big cloud of smoke, and settling himself comfortably in his chair; "you look like a man with a history."

"Happy the nation that has no history," quoted Ventin, cynically. "I suppose the same remark applies to a man's life. My history begins in that accursed Malta, for it was there I met her."

"Oh! a woman?"

"Of course; most men's histories commence and end with a woman, that is why confidences are so monotonous. Well," turning restlessly in his seat, "I may as well say Ventin is not my real name. No--it is--well I need not tell you my real name, as it is quite unnecessary. I didn't do much credit to it when I had it, and I daresay my present name is not quite blameless. Bah! Why do I sentimentalize? Forty years of life ought to have knocked all that out of me."

"You're not forty!" said Ronald looking curiously at him.

"Why?" asked Ventin quickly turning his haggard face towards the Australian; "do you think these wrinkles due to age or dissipation?--To both I'm afraid, though I suspect the latter has had more to do with them than the former. God made man in His own image. He can't be very delighted when He sees how hard we strive to mar His handiwork."

There was silence for a few minutes, and the two men could hear the regular beating of the screw, the fitful sound of music mellowed by distance, and the gay laughter of the dancers. The voices of the whist players, disputing over some point in their game, came from the smoking-room, and in the semi-darkness extending along the deck could be heard the soft notes of a woman's voice, or the deeper tones from a man.

Then Ventin began to speak in slow, measured tones, quite different from his former vehement style.

"I was never a good young man," he said cynically; "but I don't think I was worse than the generality of fellows. Give a boy money and place him amid the temptations of London, and, in nine cases out of ten, he'll go to the devil, or, if he doesn't go, it is because some lucky accident prevents him. Perhaps he has a man-of-the-world friend who advises him--or he loses his money, and has to leave the primrose path--or, he may marry a good woman, and her influence may save him from his worst enemy, himself. Ah! if we only knew the value of a good woman's love--how she can be our guardian angel, and keep us pure and honourable in the midst of temptation! But we never find out the value of such treasures till it's too late,--but there,"--with a weary sigh,--"I am sentimentalizing again! Let me go on with my story.

"I lost both parents at the age of twenty, and I went to London with plenty of money and no experience whatever. Unluckily, I had no one to play the part of Mentor to my Telemachus, so I had to gain wisdom by experience, and pretty dearly I paid for it. I became a hard, cynical man of the world, for a thirteen years' residence in London was a liberal education to me in the nil admirari philosophy of to-day, and then--well my money lasted longer than my health, and I became seriously ill--so bad indeed that my doctors ordered me to Malta to be cured. Oh, heavens how ironical is Fate--it was merely a case of out of the frying-pan into the fire--for my part I prefer the frying-pan. It was true the balmy air and bright skies of Malta cured me of one disease, but unfortunately I contracted another not so easily dealt with,--that of love.

"I became acquainted with two charmingly pretty girls of the ages of twenty-three and nineteen, and--forgive my apparent egotism--both fell in love with me. It was the choice of Hercules over again, but unluckily I chose the wrong lady, and married the elder. 'Hell has no fury like a woman scorned,' so the younger soon hated me like poison, and left Malta for England. I married the woman of my choice and then my punishment commenced. She was a perfect devil, with nothing but her beauty to recommend her. Her father boasted they had Arab blood in their veins, and my belief is that the ancestor of the family must have been Eblis himself. Often and often she threatened to kill me for some petty thing, and I believe she would had not some instinct of danger restrained her. If I looked at another woman, there was a storm of reproaches--if I were away for a day, her jealous mind conjured up a hundred infidelities--in short, our married life was a hell upon earth. At last, after a year of this cat-and-dog existence, I determined to leave her, and to this course she assented, after a good deal of persuasion. A deed of separation was drawn up, by which I allowed her a handsome income on condition that she resided in Valletta. She agreed to this and, after a stormy parting, I went to England, and lived there a moody, discontented man."

"You did not see the other sister?" asked Ronald.

"No," he replied; "I never set eyes on her again. She was a nice girl, and I dare say I did treat her badly by leading her to believe I cared for her.

"Well, I wandered all over the United Kingdom and, while staying with some friends in the Highlands, I met the woman who made a better man of me--for a time. She was an orphan was Elsie Macgregor. Her father had been a soldier who died of consumption contracted in the trenches of Sebastopol, during the Crimean War. Fair and slender, with quiet, blue eyes and hair like yellow corn--I loved her devotedly--yes, too well to wrong her innocence, and would have gone away in silence, but she, with a woman's keen instinct, saw there was something wrong, and begged me to tell her all. I did so, and she--oh, Monteith, what do you think she did?--left her home and her friends--defied the sneers of the world and the scornful looks of her own sex and became my mistress. Yes--she saw that hers alone was the hand that could arrest me in my downward course; so to save me she ruined herself. I lived with her for one happy year, and always looked back to that time as the brightest era in my life.

"Then my devil of a wife found me out and instituted proceedings in the Divorce Court against me. I did not object, as I thought I would then be free to marry Elsie. The decree was pronounced, and as soon as I was able I married Elsie and took my passage with her to Australia--there intending to start a new life in a new land. We built castles in the air of a happy future, but it was not to be; for, just as the ship was leaving, that Maltese devil came on board, and then a fearful scene took place. I cannot describe to you the terrible way she went on, and Elsie, being in delicate health, clung to my arm nearly fainting. At last the climax came, for my former wife sprang forward and struck Elsie on the face--the poor girl fell in a faint on the deck, and after considerable difficulty that Maltese fiend was removed by force from the ship. We sailed, and I thought Elsie would soon recover, but the iron had entered into her soul, and before we rounded the Cape she was buried at sea."

Here Ventin covered his face with his hands, and Ronald, respecting his emotion, said nothing.

After a few moments of silence, Ventin resumed in an unsteady voice:

"I landed in Australia, a broken-hearted man--heedless of my life, and with no hope of happiness in the future. I went from Australia to New Zealand, thence to America, and travelled all over the new world trying to drown my bitter thoughts in dissipation, but without success. I went in for gambling, drinking, racing, threw away money on women, kept a theatre; in fact did everything I could to ruin myself. Then, wearied of the reckless life I was leading, I went back to Australia and tried to settle down, but it was no use. Like Orestes, pursued by the Furies, I had to fly, so I took my passage on board the 'Neptune,' and thus, here you find me a ruined cynic at the age of forty, and all through a woman."

"And what do you intend to do when you reach England?" asked Ronald, who had been listening with the deepest interest.

"England!" murmured Ventin dreamily; "perhaps I may never see England."

"What do you mean?" asked the Australian, a little startled as the thought of suicide flashed across his mind.

"No not that," replied Ventin, guessing his thoughts, "but when I was in Australia I received a letter from my first wife saying she would kill me the first time we met."

"She would never dare----"

"Oh yes she would--she has Arab blood in her veins remember; and when she is mad with rage, she would put a knife in me and take the consequences."

"But are you sure the letter was from her?"

"Who else could it be from?" said Ventin, shrugging his shoulders; "it was not signed, and the handwriting was slightly different from her usual style, but then she often threatened to kill me, and I've no doubt puts into writing what she often said."

"You have no enemies?"

"None that would go so far as to desire my death. No my friend, the letter was from the charming Maltese, and she'll carry out her purpose if she can."

"Is she in Valletta?"

"I don't know; if she is, and find me out, well--I may reach England alive, but I doubt it; and after all I don't think I'd care much: I'm sick of life, and if one could be only certain that death is an eternal sleep--well," with a sneer, "I think I'd be inclined for the nap; but come," rising to his feet, "I've bored you enough for one night, let us go into the smoking-room and have one pipe before turning in."

Ronald assented, and walked slowly after Ventin, wondering at the strange story he had heard, and at the strange man who told it to him.

"He's had a queer life," mused Monteith as they stepped into the smoking-room. "I wonder if his end will be as queer."

The dance being over all the ladies had gone below, the electric lights were out in the saloon and on deck, and only the smoking-room was lighted up for the benefit of the night-birds. Here they all came flushed and excited with their exercise, and soon all the marble-topped tables were covered with glasses containing different beverages from whisky-and-soda down to a modest squash, while the atmosphere resembled nothing so much as a London fog. Ventin had recovered his spirits, and told stories, made epigrams, and sang songs, until Ronald could hardly believe he saw before him the same man who had told him such a pitiful story.

Ventin saw his friend's eyes directed curiously at him once or twice, and guessing the meaning of his looks, came up to him to say "Good-night."

"I've put on the cap and bells, you see," he said, cynically; "broken hearts are not in favour with the world, and life is only a masquerade after all."

[CHAPTER II.]

IN THE STRADA REALE.

Tunisians, Maltese, English, Italians! Was there ever such a motley crowd as that collected in the principal street of Valletta? Bare-kneed Highlanders, in their picturesque tartans, elbowed wide-trousered Mahomedans from Tunis and Fez; swarthy, black-eyed Italians from Naples jostled against red-coated Tommy Atkins as he swaggered along, and the ascetic face of a priest, looking severely from under his long shovel hat, was seen close to the piquant countenance of a Maltese damsel, blushing under her ugly, black silk hood as she tripped gaily onward attended by her watchful duenna. Here and there parties of tourists came laughing and joking along the crowded pavement. English ladies, lithe and bright-looking in their neat-fitting yachting costumes, accompanied by smart young gentlemen, who had left their clubs and offices for a breath of the invigorating Mediterranean air, and crowds of ragged beggars were shrieking for money, and never satisfied with what they got. Such a mass of colour, such a diversity of costumes, such a confusion of tongues, and over all the clear blue sky, with the hot sun blazing down on the tall white houses and steep narrow streets.

The "Neptune" cast anchor about two o'clock in the afternoon and, according to the notice posted at the top of the saloon stairs, would not leave till nine o'clock at night, so all the passengers--the men in flannels and straw hats and the ladies in white dresses with sunshades--went on shore to enjoy themselves. The great ship steamed majestically into the still, blue waters of the Grand Harbour, and cast anchor under the massive walls which rose in towering heights from the precipitous rocks, and still bore on their weather-beaten fronts, which had withstood so many rude assaults, the proud crests of the famous Order of St. John of Jerusalem. On each side stood the cities of Valletta and The Borgo with their square, flat-roofed houses showing white and clear as they arose in serrated masses against the vivid, blue sky, and all round the big steamer innumerable boats, with canopies erected in the stern to keep off the sun, were darting about impelled by screaming, vociferating boatmen who had more conversation than clothes. Down the side of the ship the passengers went in a never-ending stream, and as boat after boat was filled with a laughing crowd and sheered off, there was soon quite a procession to the shore. It appeared as if the ship would be quite empty, save for the crew; but one, at least of the passengers, remained behind. This was Lionel Ventin, who preferred a lazy day on board with a pipe and novel to the discomfort of exploring the steep streets and picturesque buildings of Valletta.

"I'm sick of Malta," he said, in reply to Ronald's persuasions; "I know every hole and corner of that confounded Valletta, and agree with Byron about it; besides," with a significant glance, "I might meet my wife."

Against this last argument Ronald had nothing to urge, so went down to join his party, which consisted of Mrs. Pellypop, tall and majestic, in black silk, Kate Lester, and the irrepressible Pat Ryan. As they moved off, Ventin, who was arrayed in a suit of spotless white, waved his straw hat to them.

"How sulky that Mr. Ventin is," said Miss Lester, as they were pulled rapidly towards the shore; "he never speaks to anyone.

"Shows his bad taste," replied Mr. Ryan, "considerin' the pretty girls on board."

Mrs. Pellypop froze him.

"Your remark is flippant," she rejoined, putting up her glasses.

"It's true for all that," answered Pat bravely; "and ye'll see how these foreign chaps will stare at ye to-day, mam."

No woman is too old for flattery, and though Mrs. Pellypop was rigorously virtuous she was also a woman, so she received Pat's compliment very graciously.

"I know all about Valletta," she began. "I----"

"The deuce ye do," murmured Pat, "ye must know some nice things anyhow."

"And," continued she "will be your guide."

The other three looked at one another in dismay, and, with a strong effort, Pat gasped out a word of thanks.

"I say," whispered Ronald to Miss Lester, "she'll be as bad as Murray's guide book."

"Yes but not so accurate!"

"Never mind," said Pat, in a low tone, answering the last remark; "she'll make up for her mistakes by her obstinacy in stickin' to 'em; and perhaps," consolingly, "if we've luck we'll lose her."

They arrived on the rocky shore of Mount Sceberras, whereon Valletta stands, and admired the massive walls and the broad gateway, at which several red-coated sentries were keeping guard. Numerous guides offered their services but Mrs. Pellypop, in the purest of English--of which they did not understand one word, though her gestures were eloquent enough--sent them all away, and marched into Valletta, at the head of her party of three, like a victorious general into a conquered city. Then they began to climb the steep street leading to the Strada Reale, and under a burning sun the exercise was not pleasant. Oh! those interminable steps, how many oaths have they not been answerable for since Lord Byron abused them so heartily! Both Pat and Ronald cursed under their breaths, and if Miss Lester had not been very strictly brought up she also might have been tempted to use a word beginning with "D." Mrs. Pellypop, however, clad in her black silk--which must have been awfully hot, but extorted no remark from that excellent woman--toiled steadily upward, and not a word did this indomitable female say, though, like the celebrated parrot, she no doubt thought a lot.

"Capital exercise isn't it," observed Miss Lester as they paused for breath.

"I dare say, if we were training for a circus," retorted Pat dryly, taking off his straw hat. "I'm like Arethusa, and will melt into a stream of water if this goes on. I believe old Pellypop will swear shortly."

Kate laughed and looked at Mrs. Pellypop who, unassisted, was climbing slowly up the endless stairs.

"I don't think you gentlemen are very gallant," observed Kate, demurely glancing at Pat and Ronald walking on either side of her, "or you'd offer to help the old lady."

"We prefer to help the young lady," they cried in chorus, and Miss Lester blushed, not ill-pleased at this tribute to her charms.

On reaching the Strada Reale they found the place already crowded with their fellow-passengers, and after a few recognitions and salutations, Mrs. Pellypop's party went into one of the shops, where the ladies bought lace and the young men cigarettes. Ronald also purchased some lace handkerchiefs in order to pay off certain debts incurred by playing phillipine after dinner with sundry ladies on board, and, judging from the cost of his forfeits, he must have found the game somewhat expensive.

The next thing to be done was to see the celebrated Church of St. John, the glory of Valletta, so thither they went, and beheld a depressing-looking building not by any means remarkable for architectural beauty. But they were amply repaid for their disappointment by the magnificent sight which met their eyes on stepping out of the hot sunlight into the semi-gloom of the great building.

The arched roof covered with paintings of scenes from the life of St. John the Baptist, the exquisite tapestries hanging low down on either side, the vividly tesselated pavement under which so many valiant knights lay buried, and, to crown all, the wonderful appearance of the grand altar, glittering with gold--all this made up a marvellous picture, which for brilliancy of colour and harmony of effect, has not its equal in the world.

After admiring the splendour of the central nave for some time, they went into all the side chapels--each of which was dedicated to a special language--and saw the tombs of dead and gone Grand Masters, and also the famous silver gates, one of the few things on the island that Napoleon did not carry away.

"Fancy how grand and inspiring it must have been," observed Mrs. Pellypop seizing the occasion to moralize, as befitted the mother-in-law of a Bishop. "When this place was thronged by noble knights, all in the different dresses of their orders, when----"

"Yes, rather jolly being a knight," interrupted Ronald, "shouldn't mind it myself."

"I should," said Pat, flippantly; "they weren't allowed to marry, and what is home without a mother?"

Miss Lester laughed, but Mrs. Pellypop was so disgusted by the giddy way in which the young man spoke, that she hastily left the church, having first reflected however, that there was nothing more to be seen.

"That young man would joke at his father's funeral," she said to Kate when they were once more in the hot sunshine.

"Well there's nothing like making the best of things," retorted Pat, who was just behind and overheard the remark.

"But really the church was grand," cried Ronald quickly in order to prevent a storm.

"Lots of show and very little religion I fancy," said the irrepressible Pat.

"I don't agree with you Mr. Ryan," observed Mrs. Pellypop, severely; "the solemn grandeur of that church would have an effect even on the most frivolous mind," with a significant glance at the Irishman.

"I daresay the effect wouldn't endure long," said Ronald, lightly. "Religion, which appeals purely to the senses, is never so strong as that which comes straight to the mind."

"Of course not," replied Pat who knew nothing about what he was talking, and only spoke to irritate the old lady, "I'd back Presbyterianism against Catholicism any day for fanaticism: it's a fight between Calvin and Peter--two to one on the winner."

Mrs. Pellypop made no reply, being struck with horror at the light way in which the young man treated religion, and walked hastily away with Miss Lester so as to close the discussion.

"Hang it Pat!" said Ronald, as they walked slowly behind, "why can't you leave the old girl alone?"

"Because she won't leave us alone," retorted Pat. "Why the deuce should she come with us to spoil sport?"

"Two young men and only one girl isn't sport!"

"Oh begad! we'd have tossed for her, and the loser could have made himself scarce."

They then went to the Capuchin Convent and saw the dried monks, looking grim and ghastly enough in the dim light of candles carried by their living brethren. Pat's comment on their appearance was original.

"They look like Bombay duck," he said, alluding to the dried fish usually eaten with curry. "I don't think I'll touch any more of it."

Kate Lester laughed.

"You are amusing, but irreligious," she said, turning away.

"Irreligious, certainly," observed Virtue, in the person of Mrs. Pellypop; "but amusing, no."

"I don't think the old thing's got much sense of humour," whispered Pat to Ronald as they went up again into the light of day.

"Well, if no one else laughs at your jokes, Pat, you always do yourself," retorted the Australian consolingly. "But come along, we'll go to the Barraca and see the view."

They strolled slowly along, inhaling the fresh air, and going through the ruined Barraca, which was unroofed by one of the Grand Masters, they stepped out on to the terrace, and saw that wonderful panorama, which is one of the finest things in Valletta. A magnificent view of the open sea, the blue waters of the Quarantine Harbour, while immediately below are the Sultan's garden, the huge walls of Fort Lascaris, and the Fish Market. Away in the distance can be seen Fort Sant Elmo protecting the entrance to the port, Fort St. Angelo, which is one of the oldest in Malta, and the angular lines of fortification standing sharp and clear against the vividly blue sky. It was a gorgeous panorama, and even Mrs. Pellypop was impressed.

"This place is impregnable," she said, surveying it through her glasses.

"I don't think so," said Pat, in a contradictory tone; "a few of our new guns would knock it to pieces in no time."

Mrs. Pellypop deigned no reply to this flippant remark, but walked off indignantly, wishing that the fate he intended for Valletta would befall this intrusive young man.

Suddenly Ronald uttered an exclamation:--

"By Jove! what pretty girls!"

Valletta, its traditions, its views, its pleasures, all vanished to nothing as he saw before him feminine beauty. Mrs. Pellypop was disgusted, as she considered no man had a right to admire a woman when another was beside him. This however was merely the Pellypop code, and not generally adopted.

But the two ladies who had caused Ronald's exclamation fully justified his remark. One was tall and slender, with a dark, oval face, and coils of jet-black hair wreathed round her small head. Wonderfully dark eyes which had a sleepy look, a straight, delicately chiselled nose, and a full red mouth. She was dressed in a loose, white gown, with a crimson sash round her waist, and instead of the ugly hoods generally worn by the Maltese ladies, had a saucy sailor hat on her head, long Suède gloves, and a tall pompadour umbrella of red silk, completed her costume.

The other was somewhat similar in appearance, but evidently older, and had rather a repelling expression of countenance. She was dressed in black, and did not show to such advantage as her companion, so, after a careless glance at her, Ronald--who, like all fair men, admired dark women--turned his attention to the younger of the two. They appeared to have been quarrelling, and the younger girl was walking quickly a little in advance of her friend with an indignant expression on her face, while the other followed more slowly with a frown on her strongly marked features. When they disappeared, Ronald turned to his companion with a sigh.

"Yes awfully pretty."

"I confess," observed Mrs. Pellypop, slowly, "I do not think so."

Ronald was discreet, and surrendered.

"I dare say not," he observed hastily, "but you see one is so often deceived by a passing glance."

They wandered all over the city--went to the market and bought fruit, and were warned against eating it by an officious Maltese--saw the Armoury in the Grand Master's Palace--strolled round St. George's Square, and viewed with patriotic pride the flattering inscription to British Power over the Main Guard-House--sat in the carriage of the last Grand Master, and then went and had a light afternoon meal at a well-known hotel. It was now getting late, so, with a farewell glance at the Strada Reale and its queer crowd, they went down to the water-gate, where they found their boat waiting. A crowd of passengers was there, full of excitement about bargains made and experiences gained, and some guilelessly thought they had got the better of the Maltese shopmen, a thing quite impossible in this enlightened age.

They rowed to the steamer through the dark waters, with the lights of the city gleaming like stars in the distance, and the tall forms of ships looming like phantoms in the gloom. At last, after an adventurous journey, they arrived on board, and the first thing Ronald saw was Ventin leaning over the bulwarks watching fresh arrivals. As soon as Mrs. Pellypop and Kate, escorted by Pat, had gone below, Ronald went to Ventin.

"Have you been on board all day?" he asked.

Ventin shook his head.

"No; I changed my mind and went on shore shortly after you left."

"Did you see her?"

"I did."

"The devil--did she see you?"

"I think so."

"Oh, so she didn't speak to you?"

"No! I was afraid of a scene, and came back to the ship at once."

"Well, she won't come on board now," said Ronald, consolingly; "so you'll be all right."

Ventin sighed.

"Nothing is so certain as the unforeseen," he replied, mournfully.

[CHAPTER III.]

FOUND DEAD.

The excitement of arrival at a new place is only equalled by the excitement of departure, and as the "Neptune" was to leave at nine o'clock no one thought of going to bed until the anchor was up.

The deck was crowded with passengers talking gaily about their adventures during the day, and here and there could be seen the strange faces of new arrivals on board. All round the steamer numerous boats, each bearing a light, were cruising about, and the water looked as if covered with restless fire-flies. Every now and then the whistle would sound in order to summon heedless passengers who had forgotten the hour of sailing. A lot of people had come to see new passengers off, and some were having a parting glass at the bar, while others were talking together in knots on deck. It was a very animated scene, and Ronald, standing by Ventin, felt amused at the chatter and bustle that was going on. Ventin however, eyed the crowd in his usual gloomy manner, and Ronald could not help asking him the cause of his lowering looks.

"Nothing more than common," he answered, carelessly; "I've seen all this sort of thing so often, it has become dreary--I'm bored, and I detest being bored."

"Are you afraid of seeing your wife?"

"Well, I don't know," replied Ventin, pulling his mustache; "if she thinks she can make a row she certainly will, but as I am under another name she will ask for me by my real one, and therefore she will be told there's no such person on board."

"And then?" interrogatively.

"Oh as she saw me in Valletta to-day she will think I'm stopping there, and hunt everywhere for me--I hope her patience will be rewarded--by the way, when do we start?"

"Nine o'clock," replied Ronald, looking at his watch, "it's now half-past eight."

"I'll go to bed, I think," observed Mr. Ventin, holding out his hand.

"Won't you wait till we start?"

"Too sleepy," yawned the other.

"Well if your fellow-traveller enters later you will be awakened."

"I daresay," said Ventin; "but I've got a whole cabin to myself--queer you haven't seen some things you'd like to look at."

"What is the number?" asked Monteith, carelessly.

"Forty-three."

Some one pushed against Ronald at that moment and he did not hear Ventin's answer.

"What number did you say?"

"Forty-three," from Ventin, in a louder tone of voice, "look me up in the morning--at present, good-bye," and he shook the young man's hand cordially.

"Good night you mean," said Ronald, laughing.

"It's all the same thing," replied Ventin, idly, "like Kathleen Mavourneen--it may be for years and it may be for ever--good night," and he moved away slowly down the saloon steps.

Ronald remained leaning over the bulwarks looking at the stream of people coming up, and presently he was joined by Pat Ryan, who made facetious remarks on the late arrivals.

"How much sham jewellery have ye got, Chester?" he asked of a fair young man who came lurching up, evidently having more on board than he could carry. Mr. Chester made some unintelligible reply, and Pat resumed, "Oh! it's sham-pagne ye took instead; it's a bad pun, but a heavenly truth. That you Bentley: how many girls have you mashed to-day? Begad, if your success has only been equal to your knowledge of Maltese it's mighty small progress ye've made. Ah! Monteith me boy, that's a pretty girl in black, I hope she's come on board to stop; keep your wicked eyes off her, ye villain, or I'll set Mrs. Pellypop on to you."

The girl in question was neither pretty nor fascinating, but Pat's tongue, once started, never knew when to stop; and Ronald was just going to march him off to the bar as the only way of closing his mouth, when the last bell was rung, and the cry of "All aboard for the shore" was heard.

A rush took place to the side, and a black line of people streamed down the gangway, then the ladder was lifted up; the old and new passengers lined the bulwarks and sang out "good-byes" to their friends in the darkness--the anchor was tripped--the whistle blew, and the throb of the engines announced that the "Neptune" was once more on her way to England.

"I wonder if anyone is left behind," said Ronald to Ryan, as they went to the smoking-room.

"They must be deaf if they are," retorted Pat; "that divil of a whistle would wake the dead--now me boy, what is it to be?"

"Whiskey and soda for me," said Monteith, when they were comfortably established in the smoking-room, through the wide doorway of which they could see the lights of Valletta fading slowly away.

"I'll follow suit," said Pat promptly, lighting his pipe. "Two whiskeys and soda, steward, and not too much soda."

All the ladies, tired with their experiences of Valletta, had gone to bed, and the smoking-room was filled with gentlemen whose tastings of the wines of the country had made them more exhilarated than usual. Being convivially disposed they ordered more liquor, and prepared to make a night of it.

"Where's Ventin?" asked Pat.

"Gone to bed," replied Monteith, knocking the ashes from his pipe.

"The deuce he has," said Ryan with surprise; "that's unusual for him."

"Tired I suppose," was the answer.

"It's a pity," observed Ryan, regretfully; "he is a deuced good fellow for a song."

"Give us one yourself Pat," said Bentley, tapping his glass on the table.

"Mr. Ryan for a song gentlemen."

"Yes a song--a song"--from all.

"Something jolly?" from Chester, who was now quite intoxicated.

"I'll sing ye 'Killaloe,'" said Pat; "it's got a touch of the brogue about it that will go beautifully with the whiskey."

So he accordingly sang "Killaloe" to a delighted audience, who joined in the chorus with bacchanalian vehemence, and who gave the "Whoop ye divils" at the end with a vigour worthy of Donnybrook Fair. Then Ronald sang, "Wrap me up in my old stable jacket"--that old song which is always such a favourite; and after sundry other selections had been given by gentlemen with good intentions, but husky voices, Pat was called on to sing his favourite nigger song, "I love a lubly gal." A pleasant voice had Pat, and he sang the plaintive little melody in a charmingly sympathetic manner--

"I love a lubly gal, I do,
And I have loved a gal or two;
An' I know how a gal should be
Lub'd--you bet I do."

Ronald found himself humming it as he went to bed, and then fell to sleep, and dreamt the dark girl he had seen that day in Valletta was the "lubly gal" he loved.

* * * * *

Next morning they were out of sight of land, afloat on the blue waters, with the blue sky above them. Ronald was up early, as he found it too hot to remain below, and having had his tub and arrayed himself in his flannels, he went on deck to have a smoke before the ladies put in an appearance. The lascars were washing down the deck, and disturbing numerous sleepers who had been taking their rest all night upstairs for the sake of coolness. One of these was Pat, who came stumbling out of the smoking-room in his pyjama, with a fur rug under one arm and a pillow under the other.

"Hullo Pat," said Monteith, laughing; "you look as if you were going to the pawnbroker."

"I want to go to bed," retorted Pat crossly; "those divils in the smoking-room always commence shyin' pillows in the morning, and I'm as sleepy as Rip Van Winkle. I'll have another forty winks."

"Nonsense," said Ronald, looking at his watch; "it's about seven; go and have your bath and join me on deck."

"All roight," assented Pat, with a gigantic yawn; "I daresay cold water will wake me up."

"And, I say," called out Monteith, as Pat rolled along towards the saloon, "knock up Ventin; his cabin is No. 43."

"Roight you are," from Pat, as he disappeared.

Ronald took a turn along to the end of the hurricane deck and, after surveying the slumbering forms in the smoking-room, walked back again. Just as he got to the captain's cabin he saw a steward emerge therefrom with horror and alarm on his face.

"Hullo," said the Australian, stopping short; "what's up?"

"Oh, sir," gasped the steward, pausing a moment, "Mr. Ventin, sir--he's dead--murdered!" and he ran off to the cabin of the first officer.

Ronald sat down on the nearest seat and let the cigarette drop from his fingers.

Ventin--dead--murdered!

Monteith thought of the dead man's story and how he said he would never reach England alive. His presentiment of evil was right after all for his wife had fulfilled her promise, and killed him. "But she will not escape punishment," thought Ronald, "for in order to commit the crime she must have come on board."

The news was soon all over the ship, and in a short time all the passengers were on deck. The captain, the first officer, the doctor, and the purser all went along to see the body, after which the door of the cabin was locked while they deliberated over what was to be done. The excitement was intense, for no one doubted but that a murder had been committed, though no official notice had been given, and everyone was puzzling over what could have been the motive for such a crime. Only one man on board had a clue, and this was Ronald Monteith, who determined to tell the captain Ventin's strange story, and then have the ship thoroughly searched to see if the Maltese wife of the deceased could be discovered.

After breakfast, when all the passengers were gathered in excited groups talking over the affair, Monteith went along and asking permission to see the captain on the subject, told him everything, while the doctor went down to make an examination of the body.

As the weather was very hot, the corpse would have to be buried before arrival at Gibraltar, and Captain Templeton determined to hold an inquest at once. A jury was chosen from the passengers, and the captain acted as coroner, while the witnesses were the steward, who had discovered the body, the doctor, and Ronald Monteith.

The jury, having inspected the body, went into the captain's cabin to hold the inquest, and the proceedings were opened by a speech from Captain Templeton.

He stated that a crime had been committed on board the ship, and it behoved every passenger to use his or her best energies to find out who had committed it. The idea of suicide had been talked about, but they would hear from the evidence of Mr. Monteith, an intimate friend of the deceased, that the dead man had distinctly denied having any such idea. He went to bed the previous night at half-past eight, and at seven that morning one of the stewards, by name Matthew Dalton, had gone to the deceased's cabin and found him lying dead with a stiletto in his heart. The stiletto would be laid before the jury, the evidence of the steward, the doctor, and of Mr. Monteith taken, and every attempt would be made to find the author of this dastardly crime.

The first witness called was Dalton, who deposed that he had knocked at the door of the deceased at seven as usual, but receiving no reply had entered, and found him lying in the lower berth, with a stiletto (produced) in his breast. He was completely dressed, and as all the furniture of the cabin was in order, there was no sign of any struggle.

The stiletto produced was a slender, steel instrument, about seven inches long, with a curiously carved ivory handle, representing the head of Bacchus, surrounded by clusters of grapes.

Captain: Were the bed-clothes in the berth disarranged?

Witness: No sir; he was lying on top of 'em.

Captain: Quite dressed?

Witness: Yes sir; just as if he was taking a sleep afore turning in.

Captain: Any of his jewellery missing?

Witness: No sir; his watch was in his pocket, and two rings on his fingers.

Captain: When did you last see him alive?

Witness: Yesterday, when he came on board at Valletta.

Captain: How long was he ashore?

Witness: About an hour sir; he came back at three o'clock; he seemed upset, and asked me to get him a glass of brandy.

Captain: Do you know what time he went to bed?

Witness: No sir.

Captain: Was there any blood about the cabin?

Witness: No sir; just a little oozing from his breast.

The doctor was next called upon to give his evidence, and deposed that he had examined the body of Lionel Ventin, deceased. It was that of a man of thirty-seven, or thereabouts, well nourished; very little food in the stomach, but a faint spirituous odour, which showed that the deceased must have been drinking previously to his death. The deceased had died from a stab inflicted by a stiletto, which had penetrated the heart. The stiletto was in the wound when the body was discovered.

Captain: At what time do you think the crime was committed?

Doctor: That is difficult to say; it was quite cold when I felt it, at seven this morning. I should say at least eight or nine hours.

Captain: From the way the wound was inflicted, did the idea of suicide occur to you?

Doctor: No; the stiletto was long, and as the body was lying in a lower compartment, he could not have lifted the stiletto high enough to have driven it so deeply, without knocking his hand against the bottom of the top berth.

Captain: If he had managed to do so, would there be any bruise or mark on his hand?

Doctor: I should say very likely; but I did not discover any.

Captain: Was there much blood?

Doctor: Very little; the stiletto had been driven into the heart and left there, so comparatively little blood could ooze out.

This closed the evidence of the doctor, and then Ronald Monteith stepped forward and told the jury the story of the deceased.

Captain: You say the deceased expected to be killed by his wife?

Monteith: He told me so several times.

Captain: And did he ever say he would commit suicide?

Monteith: He distinctly denied having any such intention.

Captain: When did you see him last?

Monteith: At half-past eight last night; he said he would go to bed early.

Captain: Was he excited in any way?

Monteith: No; just the same as usual.

Captain: If your theory is correct, and the deceased was murdered by his wife, as he expected to be, do you think she came on board at Valletta?

Monteith: Yes; I am sure of it. (Sensation.)

Captain: Will you give us your reasons?

Monteith: The deceased saw his wife in Malta, and she recognised him. When he left me at half-past eight to go to his cabin, there was a number of strangers on board; if his wife were on board, she could easily have followed him to his cabin and killed him.

Captain: But she would not know the number of his cabin?

Monteith: Yes, she would. He asked me to see him in the morning, and told me the number of his cabin twice; the second time he spoke so loudly, that anyone could have heard, and immediately afterwards went away.

Captain: Then you think the crime was committed before the sailing of the ship?

Monteith: I can't say; if, as the doctor says, the deceased had been dead for nine hours, this would bring the time of the commission of the crime to nine o'clock last night, at which time the ship sailed.

The captain asked Monteith a few other questions, and then the inquest was adjourned till the next morning.

[CHAPTER IV.]

THE NEW PASSENGERS.

When the inquest had been adjourned, and the excited passengers were assembled in saloon and smoking-rooms giving their ideas on the subject, Ronald Monteith, at the captain's request, remained to talk over things.

"It is a curious case altogether," said Captain Templeton, sitting back in his chair. "I never knew of such a thing to occur aboard one of our steamers before, and your story is a strange one."

"It is, rather," assented the Australian, pulling moodily at his mustache; "but I think it is true. Poor Ventin told me it only too bitterly to leave any doubt in my mind as to his veracity."

The captain took up the stiletto, which still lay on the table, and looked at it thoughtfully.

"Have you ever seen this in Ventin's possession?" he asked.

"No," replied Monteith, casting a careless glance at it. "But, then, I never was in his cabin. We sat next to one another in the saloon at meals, and talked together a good deal. Beyond the story I told you I know nothing about his life."

"Excuse me putting the question to you again; but do you really think this Maltese wife killed him?"

"Well, of course, I can't say for certain, but it looks very black against her. She wrote and told him she would kill him."

"Oh!" interrupted the captain, "did he show you the letter?"

"No; but it might be among his private papers, which you will of course take charge of."

"Yes; I will look over his things to-night. But go on."

"Well, he goes on shore at Valletta, sees his wife, who recognises him, comes back, she follows, hears the number of his cabin, and kills him."

"And then?"

"Well, the question is easy to answer. She must have committed the crime before nine o'clock, and escaped on shore in the confusion, or----"

"Well."

"She must be still on the boat. What passengers came on board at Valletta?"

"I ascertained that when I heard your story this morning--two only."

"Maltese or English?"

"The former. Marchese Matteo Vassalla is the name of one, and the other is Miss Cotoner--both cousins."

"Do you think she is the wife of Ventin?" asked Ronald, eagerly.

"How the deuce do I know?" said Templeton, quickly; "I never saw her before!"

"What age should you think she was?"

"About twenty-four or five."

"Women's appearances are so deceptive."

"What the deuce are you driving at?" asked the captain, annoyed.

"I know the exact age of the Maltese wife."

"How so?"

"Ventin told me he was forty years of age, and that he was twenty when he started his career in London; he said he had thirteen years of fast living there, so in order to be forty now, seven years must have elapsed since his marriage."

"But what has this got to do with the age of his wife?"

"Everything; he said his wife was twenty-three years of age when he met her first; that by my argument must have been seven years ago, so to-day his wife must be thirty years of age--now is this new passenger thirty?"

"No, I'm certain she isn't; besides, the Marchese told me his cousin and himself stayed on deck till the vessel started."

"Oh!" said Ronald, thoughtfully, "so that disposes of this young lady, it cannot be she, but the Marchese might help us."

"I don't think so; he wouldn't know Ventin."

"Perhaps not, but he might know Mrs. Ventin, as he lives at Valletta, and the whole affair might be sifted to the bottom; but oh hang it, I forgot," broke off Monteith in dismay, "Ventin was not his real name."

"Heavens, you don't say so! Then what was it?"

"He did not tell me."

"How vexatious," said Templeton, rising to his feet, "this involves the affair in still deeper mystery, for if Ventin were not his real name, we cannot find the former Mrs. Ventin, and will not be able to ascertain if there's any truth in the story he told you."

"Examine his boxes," suggested Ronald, as he followed the captain outside, "his real name may be among his papers, or else a crest; you might find out from that."

The captain jumped at the idea, and was going down to carry it into effect, when Ronald stopped him.

"I say," he asked, eagerly, "who is that pretty girl with the dark hair?"

"Oh that," said Templeton, with a laugh, "is the object of your suspicions, Miss Cotoner."

Captain Templeton turned away, and Ronald discovered the young lady in question was the very one he had seen on the Barraca, and of whose face he had been dreaming ever since. She, guilty of a crime? The thought was madness; if any one even hinted at such a thing, he'd throw him over the side, and he no longer was astonished at the captain's indignation at his suggestion. The fact was, Master Ronald was in the first stage of that universal disease called love. He approached Mrs. Pellypop as she sat knitting industriously, and took a seat beside her; of course, she commenced on the great subject of the day, and expressed her opinion that it was a "lascar."

"But what motive?" asked Ronald, absently; "couldn't be robbery--nothing was stolen."

"Then it must have been a steward," said Mrs. Pellypop, determinedly. "Mr. Ventin looked like a man with a temper, and very likely struck a steward, who retaliated by killing him--oh, it's as clear as day to me."

"But where did he get his weapon?" asked Ronald.

"Stole it from the plate basket," said Mrs. Pellypop, whose idea of stilettos was vague.

"It was not a table knife," began Ronald, then broke off suddenly as he saw Miss Cotoner move away with a tall, slender, dark man. "I say, Mrs. Pellypop, who's that?"

"Whom?" asked Mrs. Pellypop, putting up her glasses. "Oh, the girl from Malta?"

"No not Miss Cotoner, I know who she is; but the fellow?"

"Oh, her cousin, the Marchese Vassalla," answered Mrs. Pellypop; "not that I care much for foreign titles myself, but he looks a gentleman."

And, as a matter of fact, he was by no means ill-looking, but when Ronald saw him he instantly took a dislike to him. Why, he did not know, unless it was on the Dr. Fell principle; it might have been instinct, perhaps prejudice; but the fact remained nevertheless--he did not like Matteo Vassalla. A handsome face certainly, with swarthy skin, brilliant, black eyes, and a coal black beard carefully trimmed. In his slender, sinewy figure there was something of the lithe grace of a panther; and what with the graceful movements of his hands, and the deferential manner with which he bent towards Miss Cotoner, he decidedly did not impress Monteith favourably.

But the lady--well, she has been described before, and as Ronald looked at her he only found new perfections. She had rather a sad expression on her face, and her head was a little bent down, but, for the rest, she was as straight and graceful as Artemis. Ronald, who had stoutly resisted all the blandishments of the pretty girls on board, caught one glance of those brilliantly black eyes and surrendered at once. He also caught the glance of another pair of eyes which did not regard him in such a friendly manner, and drew himself up haughtily as he left Mrs. Pellypop, and went down to the saloon.

"What the deuce did that foreign cad mean by staring at me like that;" he muttered, quite forgetting that the cad in question had a title, and was of higher rank than himself; "I don't suppose he has anything to do with her; perhaps they are engaged--hang it, it's impossible, she'd never throw herself away on a thing like that. I'll ask old mother Pellypop to-morrow, she'll be sure to know all about her in that time."

Having thus, in his own mind, satisfactorily settled the affair, Ronald went down to his cabin to dress for dinner.

Meanwhile Miss Cotoner and her cousin were having a few words on the subject of Mr. Monteith.

"What a handsome man," said Miss Cotoner, following the tall figure of the Australian with her eyes.

"Bah! a beef-eating Englishman," retorted Vassalla, with an angry light in his wicked black eyes, "he has no brain."

"You've to find that out yet," retorted the young lady, who seemed to take delight in tormenting her companion. "I think he's charming. I'm sure he looks it; I saw him yesterday on the Barraca."

"Remember you are engaged to me," replied the Marchese, angrily.

"By my parents, yes," she replied, coldly; "but not with my own consent."

"Consent, bah! let wiser heads guide yours, Carmela."

"Well, I certainly would not ask your head to take the position," replied Carmela, contemptuously. "Why do you annoy me like this; do you think I left my sister only to be worried by you? No, I don't think so, there is too much of the frying-pan into the fire theory in that for me."

"I will get your sister to take you back," he said, vindictively.

"Oh no, you won't," she retorted, turning on him; "I'm of age--my own mistress, and I have elected to go and stop with my cousins in England. If I choose to marry an Englishman I certainly will in spite of your threats; so good-bye Matteo, I'm going to dress for dinner," and she walked gracefully away, leaving the Marchese in a delightful temper.

"Bah!" he muttered angrily to himself, "she is only a woman; patience my good Matteo, you shall win her yet, and then----." He closed his mouth with an angry snap that did not argue well for the happiness of Miss Cotoner's future life.

"What a flirt that girl is," thought Mrs. Pellypop, as she looked after the young lady; "I'm sure I don't know what the world is coming to; I never flirted," and to Mrs. Pellypop's credit, it must be said, she never had, but then, as Rochefoucauld remarks, some women are safe because nobody seeks after them.

When Ronald emerged from his cabin in evening dress, he was caught at the foot of the stairs by Pat, who, in company with a few convivial spirits, was having a sherry and bitters.

"Come and have something to drink after all your labours," he said, in a hospitable manner; "anything new about the affair?"

"No, I don't think so," replied Ronald sadly; "poor Ventin! To think he was so jolly last night and now dead."

"Do you think the person who killed him is on board?" asked Pat, confidentially.

"No I don't," retorted Ronald, decisively; "I believe she's to be found at Malta, and I'll hunt her down and punish her somehow."

"Why?"

"Because I liked Ventin--he had a miserable life, and a miserable end, and a wicked woman like that wife of his is not fit to live."

"Stop a bit old boy," observed Pat, coolly, "you haven't brought the crime home to her yet."

"But I will," reiterated Monteith, doggedly; "I'm sure it's she, and if it isn't, I'll make it my business in life to find out who is the criminal."

"I say Monteith," said Bentley, a vacuous-looking youth with no brains and lots of money, "Ventin's place was next to you at table--who are they going to put there?"

"I don't know and I don't care," growled Ronald, savagely turning away, cursing Mr. Bentley under his breath for his callous way of speaking.

"Seems cut up," lisped Bentley, putting up his eye-glass in nowise disturbed.

"Well, it's no joke having a fellow you like murdered," said Pat, finishing his sherry; "and Ventin was a good sort anyhow."

Then they all commenced talking again about the mystery till Pat grew weary of the discussion, and went on deck, where he found Ronald leaning over the side looking moodily at the water.

"Well old chap," said Pat, slapping him on the shoulder, "don't take it so much to heart."

"It wasn't that," replied Monteith; "I was thinking how we could find out his real name."

"Why, wasn't it Ventin?"

"He said it wasn't."

"Search his baggage."

"That's been done, but without result--all his linen is marked L. V., all his letters directed to Lionel Ventin, in fact, it's the only name that can be found."

"Then it must be his real name," asserted Pat.

"Not necessarily; he told me he changed his name, so he evidently did it thoroughly."

"Any crest--that might give a clue?"

"No, nothing."

"Oh! it seems a deuce of a muddle. Hullo, there's the dinner bell--come down old boy, I'm starving."

They went below, and found nearly all the tables full. Pat went to his own table, and Ronald sat sadly down by the side of Ventin's empty chair. He was not there very long when he heard a rustle, and on turning round saw that Miss Cotoner was sitting beside him. Yes, sitting in the dead man's chair, so with a sudden impulse Ronald arose.

"I beg your pardon," he said, bowing; "but would you mind taking my chair instead of that one?"

"Why?" asked the young lady coldly.

"Because--because," he stammered, confusedly, "it was Mr.--Mr. Ventin's, the gentleman who died."

"Oh!" she said, and turned rather pale, "thank you"--rising--"I will accept your offer," and she sat in Monteith's chair while he took poor Ventin's.

Of course this little incident was observed by all, and by none more so than Matteo Vassalla, who sat at a distant table, and looked remarkably savage.

"Wait a little," he muttered; "when you are mine, I'll tame you."

Pat, indicating Ronald and Miss Cotoner to Kate Lester, hummed the first line of his favourite song, "I love a lubly gal I do."

"What do you think?" he asked.

Miss Lester laughed and nodded.

"I think the same as you," she answered.

[CHAPTER V.]

A DAY AT "GIB."

THE inquest on the body of Lionel Ventin was resumed next day, but nothing new was discovered, and taking into consideration the strange story told by the deceased to Monteith, the time of the committal of the crime, which, according to the Doctor's showing, must have taken place when the ship was leaving Valletta, there appeared no doubt but that the murder had been committed before the steamer left Malta. As the deceased's real name was not Ventin, and all the evidence was purely circumstantial, the jury brought in a verdict of "Wilful murder against a person unknown." The evidence was taken down so as to be handed to the authorities in Gibraltar, entries were made in the log-book about the affair, and poor Lionel Ventin's body was committed to the deep.

There is something inexpressibly sorrowful and solemn in a burial at sea. The body, wrapped in a sail, with iron shot at its feet, was placed on the lower deck near the open bulwarks, and was covered with the Union Jack. A number of the passengers were present, leaning from the upper deck, but many of the ladies, among whom was Mrs. Pellypop, were reading the service for the dead to themselves in the saloon. The captain, surrounded by his officers, read the service over the deceased, and at a signal the body was pushed over the side, slipping from under the Union Jack, and fell with a dull splash into the sea. Then everyone dispersed, the engines, which had been slowed down during the burial, resumed their usual speed, and life on board went on as usual. There was a gloom, however, over all the ship, for it was not an ordinary death, and it was not until the "Neptune" reached Gibraltar that the passengers began to recover their usual gaiety.

Meanwhile Ronald Monteith had become the slave of Carmela Cotoner, and, judging from her gracious manner towards him, she was in no wise displeased at having him at her feet. Ronald had hitherto laughed at the tender passion, but now he was being paid back for insulting the god of Love, as he found out to his cost. He was always at Carmela's elbow--carried her rugs and pillows about for her, danced with her, read poetry to her, and, in fact, was so constant in his attentions, that it was soon patent to the whole ship that Monteith was madly in love with the girl from Malta.

And, indeed, she was called nothing else. Mrs. Pellypop, not knowing her name at first, had given her that title, and everyone else followed suit. She was the belle of the ship, vice Kate Lester resigned, and was always followed by an adoring crowd of young men, of whom Ronald grew unspeakably jealous, and would get quite sulky if she smiled or spoke to anyone else. He carried this absurd behaviour to such an extent that Pat Ryan took him to task one day for his sins.

"You are a jolly old ass, Ronald," observed the candid Irishman, "to go on like this, making a fool of yourself."

"I can't help it," said Monteith, ruefully surveying at a distance a group of young fellows standing round Carmela; "just look at her; she doesn't care a bit about me."

"Of course, you say that," said Pat, lighting a cigarette, "because she doesn't devote herself exclusively to you. I tell ye what, girls don't like being made faces at because they speak to another fellow; hang it, I've seen you speak to girls enough."

"That was before I--I," hesitatingly, "met Miss Cotoner."

"Before you were in love, ye mean," retorted Pat; "begad, ye've got the disease badly. Are ye going to marry her?"

"I will, if she'll have me."

"Then why don't you ask her?"

"I've only known her a few days. Isn't that rather soon?"

"Not a bit, women like to be taken by storm," wisely remarked Pat, who was just out of the nursery, and fancied he knew the sex--Heaven help him--"go in, and win, my boy."

"By Jove I will," said Ronald, eagerly, and then fell to thinking what his father would say to the marriage. He didn't know who the young lady was--what she was--knew nothing about her family, and yet--and yet, he adored her. Why shouldn't he marry her? He was his own master, and if his father cut him off with a shilling, he could work--she was worth working for--yes, he would ask her to marry him--of course she would say yes--for it never entered this confident young man's head that women sometimes say "No." So Master Ronald went on building castles in the air, all inhabited by himself and Mrs. Monteith--no hang it, not yet--the girl from Malta.

He was aroused from these golden visions by a touch on his arm, and turning round, saw his special dislike, the Marchese Vassalla, looking at him. The Marchese detested Monteith, both for his good looks, and for the evident regard Miss Cotoner had for him. He would like to have dropped his rival over the side along with poor Ventin's body, but as he couldn't do this, he was excessively polite, and watched for an opportunity to do him an injury. Here was a chance now, and the wily Maltese took full advantage of it. He overheard the conversation between Pat and Monteith, so determined to dash all Ronald's hopes to the ground, by telling him that Carmela was engaged. To this end the serpent came into Ronald's paradise, and smiling, invited him not to have an apple, but a drink. The young man would have refused, but then he thought he might learn something about Carmela, and after all, the Marchese was her cousin, so he consented, and went down to the bar with the smiling Maltese gentleman.

As it was about eleven o'clock, they found the bar surrounded by thirsty souls having cocktails. In fact, there was a "Cocktail Club" on board, and it was a very popular drink with the young men, particularly if they had been up late the night before. Cocktails therefore, being the prevailing beverage, the Marchese and his victim each had one, and then the former gentleman opened the campaign.

"I shall be sorry when this voyage is over," he said, carelessly.

"So shall I," replied Monteith, thinking of the chances of meeting Carmela in London. "But I daresay I'll meet Miss--I mean you again."

"I don't think so," said Vassalla, coldly. "Myself and my cousin only stay a few days in London, and then go down to some friends in the country."

"Oh!" said Ronald, and looked blank.

"And then," pursued his tormentor, eyeing him mercilessly, "I am coming back to London to arrange about our marriage."

The poor lad turned pale as death.

"Whose marriage?"

"Mine and my cousin's. Did you not know we were engaged?"

Ronald finished his drink in a mechanical sort of way, and putting down his glass, walked away to his cabin, and shut himself in. The Marchese looked after him with a grim smile.

"I think that will give you food for reflection my friend," he muttered, lighting a cigarette as he strolled away.

"What's up with that Maltese devil?" asked Bentley. "He looks quite pleased with himself."

"It's more than Monteith did; he walked away as pale as a ghost," said Pat.

"It's about the girl from Malta, you bet," said Bentley, sagely, and no one contradicted him.

Miss Cotoner was without her attentive cavalier all that day, and was much surprised thereat. She asked her cousin about him, and that smiling gentleman told her Ronald was ill, and had gone to lie down. And indeed, Ronald was ill, not with a headache, but with a heart-ache, which is worse, and he lay all day in his narrow berth bemoaning his hard fate. Nor did he come to dinner, and Miss Cotoner was so vexed to think he was so ill, that she sent her steward with a little note to his cabin, saying how sorry she was, and she hoped he would be well enough on the morrow to take her over Gibraltar, all of which Monteith read and puzzled over.

"She's a flirt, a heartless coquette," cried the poor boy; "she's engaged to another man, and she's trying to break my heart, but she won't. I care no more for her than this bit of paper," and he threw the little note on the floor.

After a bit, however--with the usual inconsistency of lovers--he picked it up, and thought what a pretty hand she wrote, and then that he would go over Gibraltar with her, and he would find out if she were really engaged to that beastly Maltese. Ronald's language was strong but not choice. Then he sent a reply to Carmela, saying he would see her in the morning, and afterwards drank a bottle of champagne, and felt better. Oh what a queer disease is love, with its hopes, its fears, its smiles and tears, its kisses and blisses, and--its intense egotism.

The next day Monteith arose, cooled his hot head with a shower bath, donned a suit of spotless, white flannels, put a straw hat on his curly locks, and sallied forth with the determination to save his charming Princess from the clutches of the ogre Vassalla, or die in the attempt.

"Hullo," cried Pat, seeing the unusual splendour of Master Ronald's apparel, "going on the mash to-day? gad you'll knock the Gib girls over like nine-pins."

Whereat Ronald informed Pat in confidence that he intended to try his fate with Miss Cotoner that day, and Pat informed Ronald, likewise in confidence, that he thought he was quite right, and would bet him a bottle of champagne he would be accepted, which wager Monteith took, and went on deck with a light heart and a strong determination to win. All this time, however, in spite of his new-born love, Monteith never for a moment wavered from his determination to hunt down the assassin of his dead friend, and told Captain Templeton as much.

"How are you going to do it?" asked Templeton, dubiously, "we cannot even find out Ventin's real name."

"Isn't there a portrait of him among his luggage?" asked Monteith. Templeton shook his head.

"Not anything likely to lead to identification," he answered, "but I'll have a talk with you after we leave Gibraltar, for I must confess I would like the riddle solved," and the captain went off to his post on the bridge as they were now nearing the famous Rock.

Who that has once seen it can forget that enormous grey mass rising up from the blue water into the blue sky, with the red-roofed town nestling at its base? Monteith had never seen anything so impressive since Aden, which he had beheld, vague and mysterious, in the starlight. He realized with a thrill of pride that this was one of the visible signs of England's greatness, and he thought, with satisfaction, that he, too, was of the race that had conquered it. Aden, Malta, Gibraltar, all held by England; it made Ronald quite patriotic when he thought of the impregnability of these strongholds. If he had been a poet he would have burst into verse, but as he was not he simply contented himself with a commonplace observation--

"By Jove, it's wonderful!"

The Anglo-Saxon race are rarely enthusiastic.

The ship cast anchor about a mile from the shore, and soon Ronald and his beloved were in one of the boats dancing over the choppy water. Pat also was in the boat, and so was Mrs. Pellypop and Kate Lester. Ronald hinted to Pat that the old lady would be in the way, but Pat magnanimously said he would look after both her and Miss Lester, so as to leave Monteith free to pursue his wooing with Carmela.

When they reached shore, they rejected all the offers of carriages made by brown-skinned natives of the Rock, and sauntered leisurely up the dusty street, under the massive gateway above which they could see the red-coated sentries, and walked right into the market-place, where a lot of buying, selling, swindling, and talking were going on. Jews, with black, beady eyes and hooked noses, invited them into dingy little shops and produced oriental goods; and sedate-looking Moors in baggy trousers and large turbans, watched them, with Eastern apathy, as they passed along. The tall white houses with the striped awnings over the windows, the crowd of dirty little brats howling for money, the number of red uniforms about, and the narrow, crowded streets, all afforded them much amusement. Then Mrs. Pellypop, inveigled by the wily Pat, went into a shop to buy some things, and was soon engaged in a lively altercation with the shopman, who spoke broken English, and showed her broken things which he said came from Granada, and would have had a broken head if Mrs. Pellypop had not reflected that using her umbrella for such a purpose, might lower her dignity. Pat and Miss Lester looked on and laughed at the scene, so, taking advantage of the confusion, Ronald and Carmela slipped away and climbed up the steep lanes to the old Moorish castle which frowns over the town.

"I don't care much for ruins," said Miss Cotoner, putting up her red sunshade, and a pretty picture she looked under it; "there's a good deal of sameness about them; but Moorish architecture is picturesque."

"Yes, very!" assented Ronald, who would have agreed to anything she said.

"I have Arab blood in my own veins," observed Carmela; "at least, so my father said. One of our ancestors was an Emir."

"Is your father alive?" asked Ronald, who saw in this remark a good opportunity for finding out all about his beloved.

"No, he died a long time ago," she said, sadly. "My mother is also dead, and I lived in Malta with my sister."

"Was that your sister who was with you the first time I saw you?"

Carmela nodded.

"Yes, we did not get on well together, so I left her and am going to some relations in England."

"Then I shall not see you again," said the young man, in a moody tone.

"That depends on yourself," she replied, blushing.

All the blood rushed to Ronald's fair face, and it was only by a great effort he prevented himself from taking her in his arms, and kissing her.

"Does your cousin, the Marchese go with you?" he asked eagerly.

"I believe so."

"I suppose you are glad?"

"Glad!" she looked at him with surprise; "why on earth should I be glad?"

"Because--because--well"--desperately--"he's going to marry you."

Carmela frowned.

"Who told you so?"

"Vassalla himself--is it true?" asked the young man breathlessly.

Miss Cotoner looked at him in a queer manner for a moment, then turned away her head.

"My parents arranged a match between us," she answered, nervously.

"And you?"

"I'm not in favour of it--I don't think there is any chance of my ever marrying the Marchese."

Ronald sprang forward with a cry of delight.

"Oh, Miss Cotoner--Carmela--I----"

"Would like to see the fortifications," she answered, quickly nipping the declaration, she knew was coming, in the bud; "I wouldn't; let us go down to the Almeda."

She turned away, and Ronald followed mortified and humbled at his failure, but half way down the hill began to pick up his spirits.

"I can't expect her to fall like ripe fruit into my mouth," he thought, hopefully; "and it's impossible she can love me in so short a time."

He was wrong there, for Carmela liked him very much--in fact, more than she cared to acknowledge to herself; but she would not allow him to speak because--well, because she was a riddle. Woman is an eternal riddle that man has been trying to solve since the beginning of the world, but every attempt has failed.

Monteith, however, took his failure like the honest gentleman he was, and turned the conversation. Remembering his anxiety to solve the mystery of Ventin's death, he thought he would question his fair companion. "Did you know a lady in Valletta called Mrs. Ventin?" he asked, as they walked slowly along in the burning sun.

"No, I never heard the name before," replied Carmela promptly, looking at him.

"Of course not," thought Monteith; "it wasn't his right name."

"Who is she?" said Carmela carelessly; "that's the same name as the gentleman who died."

"She was his wife," replied Ronald.

"Does she live at Valletta?" asked Miss Cotoner.

"I think so."

"Strange I never met her."

"She was married to my friend seven years ago."

"Oh!" said Miss Cotoner with a slight start; "no I never heard of her, Mr. Monteith."

They were strolling along the Almeda by this time, and the Grand Promenade of Gibraltar was crowded. Many an admiring glance was directed at the pretty girl Ronald as escorting; and one young officer was heard to declare that "That dark girl was deuced good style you know."

On the Almeda they met Mrs. Pellypop, and the ever-lively Pat along with Miss Lester, and the whole party were tired and dusty with sight-seeing. Mrs. Pellypop, in fact, was rather cross, but triumphant, as she had secured a number of bargains, though, truth to tell, she had paid dearly for her purchases. She was not at all pleased at seeing Ronald escorting Carmela, and observed, with some asperity, that it was time to return to the ship. Everyone being weary agreed, and they went down the steep street out of the gate, and Pat ran to get a boat. While thus waiting, the Marchese Vassalla came up and addressed himself with some anger to Miss Cotoner.

"I did not get on shore till you left, and have been looking for you all day; you ought to have waited for me to escort you."

"Thank you," replied his cousin languidly; "Mr. Monteith has been kind enough to relieve you of your duties."

The look Vassalla cast on Ronald was not, by any means, a pleasant one.

[CHAPTER VI.]

MRS. PELLYPOP TALKS.

Mrs. Pellypop was an epitome of all that was good; a happy mixture of Hannah More and Florence Nightingale, with just a slight flavour of Mrs. Candour to add piquancy to her character. She was an excellent housekeeper, a devout Christian, rigorous in all her social duties, a faithful wife--and yet, the late Mr. Pellypop must have been glad when he died. She was too overpoweringly virtuous, and wherever she went showed herself such a shining example of all that was excellent, that she made everyone else's conduct, however proper it might be, look black beside her own. The fact is, people do not like playing second fiddle, and as Mrs. Pellypop always insisted on leading the social orchestra, her room was regarded as better than her company.

Her father had been a clergyman, and when she married Mr. Pellypop, who was in the wine trade, and came out to Melbourne to settle, she never lost an opportunity of acquainting people with the fact. Mr. Pellypop died from an overdose of respectability, and left his widow fairly well off, so she declined to marry again--not having any chance of doing so--and devoted herself to the education of her only daughter, Elizabeth, whom she nearly succeeded in making as objectionably genteel as herself. Elizabeth was good, gentle, and meek, and as Mrs. Pellypop wanted a son-in-law of a similar nature, she married Elizabeth to the Rev. Charles Mango, who was then a humble curate in Melbourne.

After marriage, the Rev. Charles turned out to have a will of his own, and refused to let Mrs. Pellypop manage his household as she wished to do. Indeed, when he was created Bishop of Patagonia for his book on "Missionary Mistakes," he went off with his meek little wife to his diocese in South America, and absolutely refused to let his upright mother-in-law accompany him. So Mrs. Pellypop made a virtue of necessity, and stayed behind in Melbourne; talked scandal with her small circle of friends, bragged about her son-in-law the Bishop, gave tracts to the poor, which they did not want, and refused them money, which they did, and, in short, led, as she thought, a useful, Christian life. Other people said she was meddlesome, but then we all have our enemies, and if the rest of her sex could not be as noble and virtuous as Mrs. Pellypop, why it was their own fault.

At last she heard that the Bishop and his wife had gone to England to see that worthy prelate's parents, so Mrs. Pellypop sold all her carefully preserved furniture, gave up her house, and took her passage on board the "Neptune" in order to see her dear children before they went back to the wilds of South America. On board the ship she asserted her authority at once, and came a kind of female Alexander Selkirk, monarch of all she surveyed. Two or three ladies did indeed attempt a feeble resistance, but Mrs. Pellypop made a good fight for it, and soon reduced them to submission. Her freezing glance, like that of Medusa, turned everyone into stone, and though the young folk talked flippantly enough about her behind her back, they were quiet enough under the mastery of her eye.

When the ship left Gibraltar, late in the afternoon, Mrs. Pellypop was not pleased, and sat in her deck chair steadily knitting, and frowned at the grand mass of the Ape's Head on the African coast as if that mountain had seriously displeased her. She was annoyed with the conduct of Miss Cotoner who took an independent stand and refused to be dictated to by Mrs. Pellypop or anyone else; so the good lady, anxious to guide the young and impulsive girl, and find out all about her, determined to speak to her and subjugate her, if possible. So she sat in her chair knitting away like one of the Fates, and pondering over her plan of action, for Mrs. Pellypop never did anything in hurry, and always marshalled her forces beforehand.

Carmela, with the Marchese on one side and Ronald on the other--both of which gentlemen were exchanging scowls of hate--was looking at the romantic coast of Spain as they steamed through the Straits. The rolling, green meadows--undulating, like the waves of the sea, with the glint of yellow sunlight on them made a charming picture, and, turning to the other side, she could see the granite peaks of the Ape's Head with wreaths of feathery clouds round it, and, a little farther back, the white houses of Ceuta. Add to this charming view, a bright sky, a fresh breeze, which made the white sails belly out before it, and two delightful young men to talk to, it was little to be wondered at that Carmela felt happy.

"So these are the Pillars of Hercules?" she said, looking from one side of the strait to the other.

"Yes," answered her cousin, "so the Greeks said. I don't think much of Hercules as an architect--do you?"

"Indeed I do," replied Carmela, enthusiastically; "what can be grander than Gibraltar and the Ape's Head?"

"They are not exactly alike," said Ronald, looking at Vassalla, "and the Marchese likes consistency."

"Of course, I do," retorted Vassalla, with an angry flush on his cheek, "especially in women," with a significant look at his cousin.

"Then my dear Matteo, you are sure to be disappointed," retorted Miss Cotoner, calmly, "for you'll never get it--the age of miracles is past my friend."

Ronald laughed, and was rewarded by a scowl from the Marchese, and then Carmela, tired of keeping peace between these hot-headed young men, went off to talk to Mrs. Pellypop. Without doubt, there would have been high words between the rivals had not a steward come up to Ronald with a message that the captain wanted to see him. So Ronald retreated, leaving Vassalla in possession of the field, and the Marchese, seeing there was no chance of talking to Carmela, went off to solace himself with a cigarette.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Pellypop received Carmela with an affectation of friendliness, and proceeded to question her in a Machiavellian manner.

"What a pretty place Valletta is," said the matron, dropping her knitting and rubbing her plump white lands; "I suppose you know it very well?"

"I ought to," answered the girl laughing; "I've lived there nearly all my life."

"Yet you speak English well," said Mrs. Pellypop sceptically.

"Yes, there are so many English people in Malta; and, besides, my mother was English."

"Oh," thought Mrs. Pellypop, noticing the use of the past tense, "her mother is dead." "So you are going home to your mother's people I suppose?" she asked aloud.

"Just on a visit," replied Carmela carelessly.

"Indeed, they live in London I presume?"

"No, at Marlow on the Thames."

"Oh!" said Mrs. Pellypop, sitting up suddenly, "is that so? I am going down there myself on a visit to my son-in-law. He's the Bishop of Patagonia, my dear, and his parents live near Marlow. Mango is the name. I believe they are well known."

"Yes; I've heard of them," said Carmela cordially. "A dear old couple I believe."

Mrs. Pellypop drew herself up stiffly: "The parents of a bishop should never be called 'a dear old couple';" it savoured of the peasantry.

"May I inquire the name of your relative?" she asked, coldly, taking up her knitting.

"Sir Mark Trevor."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Pellypop, impressed with the fact that the young lady was connected with a baronet. "It's a Cornish name, is it not?"

"I believe so. He has estates in Cornwall; but also has a house on the Thames, where he stays for the summer."

"Oh! a bachelor's place I presume?" said Mrs. Pellypop artfully.

"Not exactly; he's a widower, and has one daughter nearly as old as I am, and they are going to meet me London, and then we intend to go to Marlow for the summer."

"Then I shall probably see you there," said Mrs. Pellypop cordially.

"It's not unlikely," replied Carmela rising. "Good-bye, for the present, Mrs. Pellypop, I'm going to lie down for an hour before dinner."

"Good-bye, my dear," said the matron, resuming her knitting. "I hope I shall meet you on the Thames. I should like you to know the bishop."

Carmela laughed as she went downstairs.

"She's quite pleased with me now," she said gaily; "and all because I have a cousin who is a baronet. Heavens, how amusing these people are!"

Mrs. Pellypop was pleased with Miss Cotoner; and what she had termed forward conduct before, she now called eccentricity. This young lady had aristocratic relatives, which relatives lived near the place to which Mrs. Pellypop was going. So the worthy matron, who had a slight spice of worldliness, resolved to cultivate the girl from Malta as a desirable acquaintance.

"She needs a mother's care," thought good Mrs. Pellypop, "so I must try and look after her."

What would Mrs. Pellypop's conduct have been had Carmela told her that her cousin was a butcher? Just the same of course; for how could a good woman attach any importance to such idle things as rank and wealth?

Meanwhile Ronald was in the captain's cabin talking over the mysterious crime which had takes place on board the "Neptune;" and both of them were in considerable doubt how to proceed.

"I want the affair cleared up," said Templeton, "if only for the credit of the ship; it won't encourage people to travel with us if they think there's a chance of being murdered on board."

"The difficulty is how to start," replied Ronald thoughtfully; "you see there is absolutely no clue to follow."

"Precisely," answered the Captain leaning forward, "let me state the case. A gentleman comes on board at Melbourne, and conducts himself in a rational and sane manner, which puts the idea of suicide quite out of the question--just before we arrive at Malta he is restless and uneasy, and tells you the story of his life, which affords strong grounds for suspicion that his wife wanted to kill him--he goes on shore, spies his wife, and returns at once on board--he goes to bed before the ship sails, and the deck is crowded with all sorts and conditions of people, such a crowd that there's absolutely no chance of knowing any of them. He is found dead next morning, with an Italian stiletto in his breast, a weapon which a Maltese would probably use in preference to a knife. There is no evidence to show that anyone was seen near his cabin. Now your theory is that his wife came on board before the ship sailed, killed him, and escaped on shore in the confusion?"

"Yes; that is my theory, but only founded on the story he told me."

"Very good! We then find he told you that Ventin as not his real name. I search his boxes and papers, ad find no other name but Lionel Ventin, and yet he distinctly denied that that was his proper name?"

"He did--distinctly."

"I place all the facts and evidence in the hands of he authorities at Gibraltar, and they are equally mystified, with ourselves--they suggest that it might have been a lascar or a steward."

"Impossible! there was no motive."

"No robbery, certainly," answered Templeton; "but do you think there could have been any other motive?"

"How could there? With the exception of myself, he was very reserved with everyone else on board."

"Then we dismiss the steward and lascar theories; it must have been the wife. Now I have stated the case; how do you propose to unravel the mystery?"

"Ask me something easier," replied Ronald with laugh.

"Think again--he told you his story, did he mention any names?"

"One; Elsie Macgregor."

"Good: now do you see a clue?"

"Ah!"--Ronald thought a moment,--"yes, I see what you mean, if Ventin were divorced, Elsie Macgregor must have been joined as co-respondent."

"Exactly," answered Templeton; "I see you've caught my idea; now I can't take up this case, and though I'll have to put it into the hands of the authorities, they are sure to make a mess of it, so if you want to unravel this mystery, you must find out the murderer or murderers of Lionel Ventin yourself."

"I see," said Ronald, pulling his mustache, "you want me to find out the divorce case."

The Captain nodded triumphantly.

"But Macgregor is such a common name," objected Ronald; "there may be dozens of co-respondents called Macgregor."

"Very likely, but what about the sex? The co-respondent you look for must be a woman called Elsie Macgregor.

"Yes," cried Ronald, quickly, "and then I'll find out Ventin's real name."

"Of course," answered the Captain, "and once you find out his real name you'll soon find the wife."

"And then?"

Templeton shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, then you'll have to prove the truth of his story to you."

"But if I find out all about her, the stiletto will have to be put in evidence."

"Of course," answered Templeton; "and that you can get from the authorities at Gibraltar, in whose hands I placed it."

"I have a letter of introduction to the son of an old friend of my father," said Ronald; "he is a barrister, of the Middle Temple."

"Oh--young?"

"About thirty."

"The very man," replied Templeton rising, "go and see him and tell him all about it; if he's anxious to make a mark in the world----"

"Which he hasn't done yet," interjected Ronald.

"He'll go in for this case; gad, I wish I could go into it myself; I ought to have been a private detective."

"Well," said Ronald, as they went out on to the deck; "I came for a pleasure trip, but it looks as if I shall have to work all the time."

"Yes, but think of the time you will have of it putting this puzzle together," replied Templeton, "it will be most exciting; besides, if you bring this crime home you'll get your reward; if not on earth, at least in heaven."

"I'd rather have it on earth," said Ronald, thinking of Carmela.

[CHAPTER VII.]

THE END OF THE VOYAGE.

There is no sadder word in the English language than "Farewell." How many quivering lips have said it with breaking hearts and scalding tears--the soldier marching away with flying banners and martial music--the emigrant sitting on deck, seeing the blue hills of the land of his birth fading away in the shadows of the night--the young man going forth into the world, and turning once more to see through tear-dimmed eyes the old house where he was born, and the lovers parting--never to meet again. Yes it is a sad word, and has caused more tears and heart-aches than any we use. Now that the voyage was coming to an end, those who had been in close companionship for nearly six weeks, knew that they must separate in a short time and, that the memory of the pleasant company on board the "Neptune" would soon be only a dream of the past. No wonder then, that as the steamer glided up the Thames, everyone was a little melancholy.

The voyage from Gibraltar had been pleasant. They had seen the famous Trafalgar Bay, where Nelson won his Waterloo--passed Cape St. Vincent in the night--caught a glimpse of the mouth of the Tagus in the early morning, and steamed safely through the Bay of Biscay, which did not act up to the reputation gained for it by the song, but was as calm as a mill-pond.

On arriving at Plymouth, some of the passengers had gone to London by rail, in preference to facing the chance of a collision in the English Channel. It was Ronald's first glimpse of England, and Chester, who was very patriotic, asked him what he thought of it?

"It's the best groomed country I've seen," said Ronald, with a smile, and, indeed, though the epithet was odd, it was very appropriate, for after all the barbaric colouring they had seen at Colombo--the arid rocks of Malta and Gibraltar, and the sandy shore of Port Said, this wonderfully, vividly green land, with fields and well-kept hedges cultivated down to the water's edge, looked, as the Australian said, "well groomed."

They anchored for about two hours at Plymouth, but there was no time to go on shore, so they gazed longingly at the quaint town so famous in English History. The Hoe--the bowling green where Sir Francis Drake played bowls when the Armada was descried "stretching out like a crescent,"--and Mount Edgecumbe, which the commander of the great fleet designed for his residence when England was conquered. Ronald stood silent, looking at all this beauty, when a remark of Pat's made him laugh.

"I say," said Pat, mindful of Colombo and Aden, to Chester, who was quite inflated with patriotic pride, "will the people here come off, and dive for pennies?"

Chester glared at him viciously, and then stalked away too indignant to speak, while all around roared at the queerness of the remark.

"Well I thought they might," explained Pat to his grinning auditors; "the natives did it at all the other places."

"There are no natives here confound you!" said Chester, who had returned.

"Oh, indade!" replied Pat innocently, "this England's inhabited by foreigners."

After this Chester concluded to leave Pat alone.

It was night when they sailed up the Channel, and they could see in the distance the twinkling lights of Folkestone, Dover, Margate, and all the other well-known places, and as it was the last night on board, there was a general jubilation in the smoking-room after the ladies had retired. Songs were sung, toasts were proposed, speeches were made, and when the electric light was put out, candles were produced, and the concert kept up far into the night, or rather morning, One gentleman said he could play musical glasses, and broke fifteen tumblers in demonstrating his ability to do so--then they had more liquor, sang "God save the Queen," and went off to bed one by one, and everything was quiet.

And what a curious appearance the deck presented next morning--everyone in his best--no more flannel suits and straw hats, but accurate frock coats and tall hats, while the ladies came out in dresses of the newest fashions. Knots of people were talking together--giving addresses, making appointments, and promising to write, until it was queer to hear the jargon like this:--

"You won't forget--the Alhambra you know--best shop in London--lace veils cheaper than----address will always find me--Piccadilly Circus, on----cheap hotel; just off--Margate's the jolliest--Oh! the devil take the--nicest girl you ever--set foot on shore," and so on, until Ronald, who stood by Carmela, could not help laughing. The Marchese was looking after his own things, and as Ronald had his luggage in perfect order, he had Carmela all to himself.

"So this is the Thames," he said, looking at the dull, leaden stream, flowing between the dingy banks.

"The Thames of commerce, not of poetry," she corrected, smiling, "you must come down to Marlow and see the real river."

"May I?" he asked, eagerly, thinking he detected an invitation in her tones.

"Of course you may," she answered, carelessly. "I don't control your movements."

"Not at present, but you might," he replied, hurriedly.

There was an awkward pause, luckily broken by Pat, who came rushing along with his usual impetuosity.

"Ah Miss Cotoner, an' is that you?" said Pat, dolefully; "the best of friends must part, and we may niver meet again."

"We might," answered Carmela, with a laugh; "the world is small."

"Begad, I wish me heart was," said Ryan, sadly; "it's large enough to hold all the girls on board--you included."

"Much obliged," retorted the young lady, with a bow, not in the least offended, for Pat was a licensed Jester; "but I'll not consent to be one of many."

"Ye'd rayther have one honest heart?" asked Pat, looking keenly at her.

She turned his remark off with a laugh.

"Depends upon the owner of the heart," she replied, gaily.

"Ah begad thin I'm out of it," said Pat, and ran off, leaving them in exactly the same awkward situation as he found them.

"What are you going to do when you reach London?" asked Carmela after a pause, during which Ronald kept his eyes on her face.

"Many things," he answered, calmly; "first I am going to set to work to find out who killed my friend Ventin."

"I'm sure I hope you will be successful," she replied, heartily; "but why in London--the crime was committed at Malta?"

"Yes, but the motive for the crime will, I think, be found in London."

"They say a woman killed him."

"I think so, but it is purely theoretical."

"I dare say; for what motive could any woman have for such a crime?"

"Do you think a woman always requires a motive?" She looked at him in surprise.

"Certainly I do; there can be no cause without an effect."

"In some cases yes," he replied, gravely; "in this case I believe the woman had no motive in committing the crime."

"Then why did she do it?" asked Carmela, looking at him.

"That is what I have to find out," he answered, and so the conversation ended.

It was one o'clock when the steamer got into St. Katherine's Docks, and on the shore crowds of people were waiting to meet their friends. No one, however, came to meet Pat and Ronald, so their mutual sense of loneliness drew them yet closer together.

"Where are you going to stop?" asked Pat, linking his arm in that of the Australian.

"The Tavistock," replied Ronald, "the Australian cricketers generally stop there, so it will feel home-like."

"I'll go there too," sail Ryan promptly, "we'll go to the Alhambra or the Empire to-night, and to-morrow call at the Langham."

"To see whom?"

"Oh a lot of passengers are going to stop there; Miss Lester among the number," said Pat, with a slight blush.

"Oh Pat, your heart is lost there," observed Ronald, smiling.

"And what about your own and the girl from Malta?" asked Pat, whereat Master Ronald also blushed, and the two friends went below to get their stewards to look after their luggage.

Among those who had come on board was a tall elderly gentleman, very straight and severe-looking, scrupulously dresses, with gold-rimmed spectacles, accompanied by a pretty, vivacious-looking brunette, who was clinging to his arm.

"I don't see her Bell," said the gentleman, looking inquiringly round.

"Perhaps she's below papa," said the young lady. "Oh!" with a little scream, "there she is--there she is--Carmela! Carmela!" and with another ejaculation, she ran forward to where Miss Cotoner was standing talking to Vassalla.

"My dear Bell," said Carmela kissing her, "how good of you to come and meet me; how do you do Sir Mark?" and she gave her hand to the elderly gentleman, who now advanced.

"I am pleased to see you looking so well my dear Carmela," he said in cold, measured tones, and then turned an inquiring glance on Vassalla.

"My cousin," said Carmela introducing him; "this is his first visit to England."

Sir Mark and the Marchese both bowed and murmured something, indistinctly.

"We are stopping at the Langham Carmela," said Bell brightly, looking up in Miss Cotoner's face; "papa doesn't like our town house you know, and we're going to stay a fortnight in town! Isn't it Jolly?"

"Bell!" reproved her father, "do not use slang I beg of you."

"I can't help it," said the vivacious Bell, "it was born with me, and--Oh my!" with another little scream, "what a good-looking boy! who is he?"

The quartette turned their heads and saw Ronald, looking handsome and high-bred in his frock coat and tall hat, advancing, evidently with the idea of saying good-bye.

"It's Mr. Monteith," said Carmela, paling a little at the thought that she might not see him again. "You are going away?" she asked, aloud, holding out her hand.

"Yes," he answered, gravely; "Mr. Ryan is with me, and I am going to explore the wilds of London."

"Let me introduce you," said Carmela, despite the black looks of Vassalla; "Sir Mark Trevor, Mr. Monteith; Miss Trevor, Mr. Monteith."

The Australian bowed in his usual grave manner, and then said good-bye to Carmela.

"I shall see you, I presume, in London?" he said, lingering a little.

"If you like to call at the Langham Hotel, I shall be there for a fortnight," she answered, and his face lit up with a happy smile as he went off.

"Why did you do that Carmela?" asked the Marchese in a vexed tone; "we don't want to see him in London."

"You may not; I do," replied Miss Cotoner, with calm contempt. "Shall we go on shore now Sir Mark?" and without another word, she went off with the Baronet and his daughter, leaving him alone.

"So he has not given up the chase yet," muttered Vassalla, as he looked after the luggage, "well, we shall see, we shall see."

Mrs. Pellypop, to her disgust, found no one to meet her, so went off to the Langham Hotel, and wrote a severe letter to the Bishop, which had the effect of bringing the prelate up to London next day.

And so they all went their different ways, and the happy family on board the "Neptune" was scattered abroad through the streets of London town.

Ronald saw the Captain before he left, and had a talk with him about Ventin's death, promising to look up his barrister friend on the morrow. Then he went with Pat to the Tavistock, where they had a capital little dinner, after which they patronised the Alhambra, followed by a supper at the Cavour. Then, though Pat was inclined to make a wet night of it--particularly as they had met several of the boys at the theatre--Ronald went to his hotel, and retired soberly to bed, first, however, posting his letter of introduction to Gerald Foster, of Middle Temple, so that he could call on him on the morrow, and speak with him about the mysterious death of his friend.

"I'll find out who killed poor Ventin," he said as he went to bed, "and then I'll marry Carmela."

[CHAPTER VIII.]

COUNSEL'S OPINION.

"Everything comes to those who know how to wait." What an excellent proverb for a briefless barrister! Let Mr. Briefless sit in his chambers, surrounded by his law books crammed with learning, and ready to undertake anything--if he wait, will Fame come to him? Not she. Fame is a lazy goddess except when she flies away, and then it is difficult for even the most industrious to catch her and clip her wings.

"He who would seek the wealth of the Indies must take out the wealth of the Indies." Is not that saying a true one? In order to gain fame, riches, and ease, must not one bring industry, perseverance, and knowledge? If Mr. Gerald Foster, barrister, of the Inner Temple, had adopted the motto of knowing how to wait, he might have done so till the end of the chapter, and then have been no better off at the end than the beginning.

But Mr. Foster was not of this fatalistic creed; he did not believe that what must be must, and that if a man is to be famous he will be so whether he idles at home or goes out into the world and works. No; he saw clearly that every day the prizes were fewer and the multitude of competitors greater, and so he did not rest idly on his oars after being admitted to the bar, but went in for hard study, both of men and books. Books, as he knew, are all very well, but according to Pope, the proper study of mankind is man, and Gerald went out into the world and neglected no opportunity of getting fish into his net. He went into the theatrical world, and knew all the most famous actors and actresses in London; he went into the political world, and had all the burning questions of the day at the end of his tongue; he noted the rising and falling of shares on the Stock Exchange, and knew exactly how the money market stood, and he went into society and became acquainted with the follies of the hour.

All this work was for a purpose, for he was a young gentleman who never lost an opportunity, and his sprats were all sent forth to catch mackerel. As yet, in spite of his assiduity to work, and his cultivation of the follies and virtues of his fellow-men, he had succeeded but little, but then he was only twenty-eight years of age, and fortune is not a goddess to be wooed roughly, so he went on, keeping his brain cool, his eyes open, and his mind cultivated, and had no doubt in his own mind that he would succeed. With such indomitable perseverance Gerald knew he must win at last. Fortune, fickle though she he, becomes weary of incessant assaults, and yields in the end to the persevering suitor. So Mr. Gerald Foster, aged twenty-eight, with clever brains, good health, and plenty of tact, worked assiduously at his profession, waiting for the hour that would bring him fame and riches.

Not a handsome man, certainly not; that is, he was not an oiled and curled darling of society. He dressed well, because it was part of his business; but even his kindest friend could not hove pronounced him handsome. A bald head, with a thick fringe of brown hair round it, a prominent nose, a clean-shaven face, with a thin-lipped mouth, and two brilliantly black eyes under bushy eyebrows, he would have been ugly, but for the wonderful charm of his smile. A most delightful smile, that changed all his features, and turned him from the ugly beast into the handsome young prince of the fairy tale. And, above all, his face was one that inspired confidence--an invaluable quality in a lawyer.

On the morning after the arrival of the "Neptune," he sat in his office in the Temple looking over his letters. Accurately dressed, in frock coat, black trousers and tie, and spotless linen, he was turning over his letters, when he came on that of Ronald's, and something in the handwriting of Mr. Monteith senior, seemed to strike him, for he opened it first. Reading it over carefully, he gave vent to a low whistle of astonishment.

"Hum," said Mr. Foster' surveying the letter thoughtfully, "'friend of your father's--only son--first visit to England--would like you to look after him--exactly,'"--laying down the letter--"a cub I expect, with no looks, and less manners, brought up in the wilds, and can't eat his food properly--a delightful aboriginal to introduce into London society. Well, I suppose I must. I love my dear old father too well to think of refusing to do a good turn to any friend of his. Confound it! I'm sure this son is awful. Well, perhaps he'll be rich, and that will cover a multitude of sins. We are fond of whited sepulchres now-a-days."

He put the letter of introduction on one side, and proceeded with the rest of his correspondence, carefully answering each letter, and putting it neatly away. Then he rang for his clerk, and giving him a pile of letters, told him to post them, and taking up the "Daily Telegraph," proceeded to read that paper and wait for clients. Of course, he went first for the money market; then he looked over the political news, glanced at the law reports, and read all the leaders, ending with the theatres. These principal items being finished, he glanced idly over the paper, and at last came on something that interested him.

"Hum," said Mr. Foster, thoughtfully, "a murder committed on board the 'Neptune.' That is the boat the cub came home in. Think I'll read it, that I may have something to talk about when he does come."

He read the article carefully, which told all about Ventin's murder, and the suspicions entertained by Monteith, after which he laid the paper down, and rising from his seat, walked slowly up and down the room with his hands behind his back.

"Don't think the cub can be so bad after all," he said, musingly. "Indeed, judging from his evidence, he seems rather a clever fellow. Queer case, and one I'd like to have a hand in: to unravel a mystery like that would make a fellow's fortune; but these things don't come my way, confound it!"

Here he was interrupted by a knock at the door, and his clerk, a red-headed boy, with a large appetite and fearful dislike for work entered, with a card held in his grimy fingers.

"Gen'lum waitin' sir," said the red-headed youth, who breathed hard in an apoplectic manner. "Ronald Monteith," read Foster on the card; "hum! the cub--show him in Berkles."

Berkles grinned, vanished, and shortly afterwards threw open the door, and announced "Mr. Ronald Monteith."

If ever Gerald Foster got a shock in his life it was seeing the cub of his fancy transformed into the handsome young man of reality. There he stood at the door, hat in hand, tall and noble-looking, quite a distinct being from the ordinary lounger of Regent Street and Hyde Park. Accustomed to rapid observation, Foster took the whole of that stalwart figure and honest countenance in at a glance, and with the sudden liking of instinct advanced towards him with outstretched hand.

"Mr. Monteith I believe?" he said, as Ronald stepped into the room.

"Yes," answered Ronald, grasping the proffered hand--and what an honest firm grip was that of the young Australian; "I sent my letter of introduction to you last night."

"It is here," replied Foster, pointing to the table, as Ronald took his seat.

"I am very glad to see you Mr. Monteith; my father was a great friend of your father's--let us hope the friendship will be hereditary."

"It is very kind of you to say so," said Monteith, in some surprise, "I am quite a stranger to you."

"You are," answered the young lawyer, "but I am a student of Lavater, and I can read faces--therefore, I say, I hope we shall be friends."

"I'm certain we shall," said Ronald, heartily holding out his hand, which the other grasped again.

"You had a pleasant voyage?" asked Foster, in a conversational manner.

"Very, except for one incident."

"Which I know all about,"--pointing to the newspaper.

"I'm glad of that, because, I have just called to see you about it."

"Eh!" said Foster sitting up in his chair; "by Jove, hope you'll put the case in my way. I was just thinking before you came in what a splendid chance was to make a name if one only had the case."

"Well Mr. Foster," said Ronald, slowly, looking keenly at him, "I am very much interested in the case, Ventin was an intimate friend of mine, and as no one that I can hear of is going to try and clear up the mystery of his death, I am going to take that duty on my own shoulders."

"I see," observed Foster nodding sagely; "and you want help?"

"I do--your help."

"You shall have it," cried Foster impulsively; "a subtle case like this is what I require to make my same. At present I am a briefless barrister, but give me the chance and I'm all right. Archimedes wanted a world whereon to rest his lever and move the earth. I am like the Greek. I have the lever--videlicet my brains, now I want a world, namely, a case--this, as far as I can gather from the papers, will be an excellent chance."

"Then you shall have it," said Ronald heartily, "and I am only too glad to think I have such an enthusiastic worker."

"So be it; now tell me the story in your own way; these newspaper accounts are so meagre."

Whereupon Ronald told Foster all about the case, and his own suspicions regarding it, to all of which the young barrister listened carefully, then leaned back in his chair, and put the tips of his fingers together.

"Hum!" he said, thoughtfully, looking up at the ceiling; "you have made out a very strong case against this Maltese wife I must confess; but the evidence is surely circumstantial."

"But who else would have done it?"

"A man might have committed the crime."

"But with what motive?"

"Because he was told to do so."

"But I don't see----"

"Of course you don't," said Foster coolly; "but I will explain, from what you have told me, Mrs. Ventin--we will call her so as we do not know her real name--must have been a woman of very strong passions. Now is it likely that such a woman would remain faithful to her husband? No; I am sure she would not. Depend upon it, she had lovers, or else married again. In the latter case, she might have committed the crime herself, as husbands are not fond of endangering their necks for wives, however pretty; but if she had lovers, depend upon it one of them committed the murder for her sake."

"That's all very well," said Ronald impatiently; "we must not be content with vague speculations but get a clue. Now, how are we to start?"

"I think the idea of Captain Templeton is best," said Foster, thoughtfully, "to look up the divorce case."

"You do not remember it?"

"Not I; there are dozens of divorce cases every year--we are such a moral nation, you know. I can't keep them all in my head; but I will look it up."

"And then?"

"Then I will see the solicitors who had the case in hand, and ask all about Ventin; you knew the man, they knew him, and if your descriptions tally, we will soon establish his identity."

"So far so good," said Ronald, impatiently; "but what follows?"

"Then we must find out where this Maltese wife is----"

"In Malta," said Ronald, abruptly.

"She might not be, by the time we find out her husband's real name," said the barrister coolly; "don't hurry my dear toy; but when we discover where she is, we must set a detective on her to find out her movements on that night when the murder was committed; if she can account for them satisfactorily your theory must fall to the ground."

"But if she can't?"

Foster shrugged his shoulders.

"Then we must be guided by circumstances; we can hardly arrest a woman on the existing evidence; it's a very difficult case, and we must be careful."

"When will you look up this divorce case?"

"To-day, and let you know all about it to-morrow; meanwhile, you had better come and lunch at my club."

"Thank you very much," said Ronald, blushing; "if you will let me away immediately afterwards. I have to make a call."

"Certainly," replied Foster, glancing at his companion's tell-tale face as they went out; "I'll bet he's going to see a woman," he thought, looking at Monteith. "What a transparently honest man he is."

[CHAPTER IX.]

VERSCHOYLE V. VERSCHOYLE AND MACGREGOR.

Business being concluded, as a natural thing, pleasure followed, and having had luncheon with Foster at "The Excelsior," a club much frequented by rising young men, Ronald took leave of the barrister, and went off to his hotel,--there to attire himself for an afternoon call.

It might have been the fashion in the past for lovers to become exceedingly negligent in their dress, and pass their time in writing amatory odes to Chloe and Lydia, not daring to name openly the object of their affections, but now-a-days this is all changed. Strephon puts on his smartest suit, wears his brightest smile, and shows Chloe plainly that he adores her. Instead of wasting his time in writing poetry, he gets Chloe tickets for the theatre, takes her presents of flowers and music, and, on the whole, conducts himself in a matter-of-fact-fashion. So Master Ronald, adopting the modern manner of love-making, dressed himself carefully, placed a flower in his coat, and went off in a hansom cab, to call on Miss Cotoner. He also got a box at one of the theatres and not knowing his divinity's taste in theatricals, judged it by his own, and decided she would like to go to the Frivolity Theatre, at which the sacred lamp of burlesque was burning.

Of course, he found Mr. Ryan there--that young gentleman having come to call on Mrs. Pellypop, and naturally met Miss Lester also--such a delightfully unexpected meeting--the young humbug. It is wonderful how people, who have travelled together, gravitate towards one another on shore, and when Ronald was shown upstairs, he found Mrs. Pellypop, Miss Lester, Carmela and the Marchese, all together having afternoon tea.

Sir Mark and Miss Trevor were also present, and appeared to be enjoying themselves very much. Ronald's entrance was hailed with great delight by all except Vassalla, who scowled at the Australian in a way that showed his animosity had not in any way abated. Carmela came forward with a pretty flush on her cheek, and gave him a cup of tea, after which they all began to talk.

"And what were you doing last night, Mr. Monteith?" asked Mrs. Pellypop, who presided over the tea-service.

"Oh!" said Ronald, innocently, not understanding the violent gestures Pat was making to him. "Pat and I went to the Alhambra."

Mrs. Pellypop put down her cup with a look of horror.

"That dreadful place?" she said, looking severely at Pat; "why, Mr. Ryan, you said you were at Exeter Hall."

Everyone laughed at this, and Pat muttered something about a mistake.

"Oh! the Alhambra isn't a bad place," said Sir Mark, good naturedly; "the ballets are very good."

"It's more than the young women are," retorted Mrs. Pellypop, viciously; "I would not like the Bishop to go there."

"No," said Carmela, with a laugh; "it's hardly the place for a bishop."

"I'm sorry you don't like theatres," began Ronald, to the matron, "but----"

"I do like some theatres," answered Mrs. Pellypop; "and any play of Shakespeare's."

"Ah! you see, they aren't playing Shakespeare just now," said Ronald, dryly; "but I've got a box at the Frivolity to-night, and thought the ladies might like to come," looking straight at Carmela.

Everyone looked grave at this. The Frivolity was such a fast theatre.

"You don't know London very well," said Vassalla, in a sarcastic tone of voice, "or you would find out that the Frivolity is as bad, if not worse, than many a music-hall."

"Oh, I've erred through ignorance, then," retorted Ronald, with a flush, "but I don't think music halls are so very bad; and besides, as far as I can judge, your acquaintance with London is not so extensive as to enable you to correct me, Marchese."

Vassalla would have made an angry reply had not Carmela interposed.

"What are they playing there?" she asked.

"A burlesque," cried Kate Lester, "'Artful Artemis and the Shy Shepherd.'"

"Kate," cried Mrs. Pellypop, in a severe tone, "how can you talk so? In my young days girls knew nothing of such things."

"I wish she wouldn't go back into the dark ages," whispered Pat to Carmela, "she must be a hundred, and young at that," whereon Carmela laughed.

"Well," said Ronald, dismally, "if none of the ladies will come, perhaps the gentlemen will."

"I'm engaged," said Vassalla, promptly.

"Thank heaven," thought Ronald, muttering the regrets which politeness demanded.

"I will come, Mr. Monteith," said Sir Mark, "and I've no doubt Mr. Ryan----"

"Oh, I'll be all there," said Pat, gaily; "I adore burlesque; the stage educates the people, begad, and a mighty nice schoolmaster it is."

"That will be three all together," said Ronald, "so I'll ask my friend, Mr. Foster, to make a fourth; but what are the ladies' plans for to-night?"

"I am going to take my cousin and Miss Trevor to the Italian Exhibition," said Vassalla, quickly.

"Not to-night," replied Carmela, coldly, "I am going to write letters."

"And I am going to wait in to see the Bishop," said Mrs. Pellypop.

"In fact," said Bell Trevor, sarcastically, "we are going to have a quiet, domestic evening."

"I hope you'll enjoy yourself," whispered Pat to Miss Lester, as he rose to go.

"Oh, bother," retorted that young lady, crossly; "I might as well be in a convent. The way Mrs. Pellypop looks after me! However, my father is coming to London this week, and then I'll go everywhere."

"May I come too?" plaintively asked Pat.

"If you're good, yes."

As Ronald said good-bye to Carmela, he asked her what she would be doing in the afternoon of the next day.

"Oh! Sir Mark, Miss Trevor, and I are going to the Italian Exhibition."

"And the Marchese?"

"He'll very likely be there also." she replied, coldly.

Whereupon he took his leave, and determined, privately in his own mind, that he also would be at the Exhibition, and would speak to Carmela on the subject nearest his heart.

"I'm madly in love with her," he told Pat, as they went down the street, "you don't know how much."

"Oh, begad I do," retorted Pat, "haven't I got a heart and a girl of my own? I wonder what Lester père is like."

"If he's as nice as Lester fille, it will be all right," laughed Ronald, and they went along to the Temple, as Monteith wanted to introduce Pat to Foster.

This being accomplished, they all went home to dress for dinner, and Sir Mark also turning up, they had a pleasant meal about seven o'clock, and, as all the party suited one another, they became quite jolly. The baronet soon showed himself to be a capital companion; a little cold, perhaps, but with lots of appreciation of fun, and as for Foster, he kept them all amused by his stories and jokes. Pat was in his best form, and the champagne only made him more exuberant in spirits, while Ronald, forgetting all his love and detective work for the moment, was gay as any of them. After dinner they all went to the Frivolity, and arrived just as the curtain was rising on the new burlesque.

The theatre was crowded, as the Frivolity invariably was, and Ronald saw, with some amusement, that the celebrated masher brigade, of whom he had heard so much, was in full force in the stalls. They looked like rows of waxworks with their immovable faces and phlegmatic manners.

"They look as if they ought to be wound up like clockwork," remarked Pat, gaily.

"Oh, they only keep going on tick, if that's what you mean," said Foster, laughing.

"Oh, what a pun!" observed Ronald in disgust; "as if those in the burlesque weren't bad enough."

"Well, they couldn't be much worse," said Sir Mark, putting up his opera glass.

The burlesque of "Artemis" was in the usual style; the author had taken the beautiful Greek myth of Diana and Endymion, and vulgarised it hopelessly. In it, Artemis, the virgin huntress, was represented as an old maid in love with Endymion, who, of course, was in love with some one else, being, in his case, another man's wife, and the other man, being an apothecary, gives Endymion a powder, which sends him to sleep. In fact, the whole burlesque was written to show that women hunt after men, and that the most amusing thing in life is to get as near divorce as possible, without the actual law business taking place. Artemis was acted by a celebrated lion comique, who sang local songs about the Government and the Royal Family, and Endymion was given by a little girl with yellow hair and saucy, blue eyes, who sang and danced like a fairy. Indeed, when she sang her great song, "Slightly on the Mash," Pat fell head over ears in love with her, and felt inclined to join in the chorus with these beautiful words:--

Slightly on the mash, boys,
Don't I do it flash, boys?
Altho' my income's very small,--
In fact, I guess its none at all--
I'll never go to smash, boys,
While I can cut a dash, boys;
For I'm a chap, without a rap
That's--slightly on the mash.

Heavens! how they applauded her as she ogled and flirted, and winked, and smiled; to hear her was a liberal education--in slang.

"Gad, ain't she a jolly little thing," cried Pat, enthusiastically.

"Don't lose your heart, old chap," whispered Ronald, "remember Miss Lester."

"Begad, my heart's big enough for two," said Pat, with a humorous twinkle in his eye; "but ye needn't be afraid, Ronald, I have no diamonds to give away."

"No wonder the theatre elevates the masses," said Gerald to Sir Mark, who was listening to the song with rather a contemptuous smile; "what with burlesques, sensation dramas, aid shilling shockers, we'll soon attain a wonderful degree of civilization."

"Oh! you look at everything from a utilitarian point of view," replied Trevor, as the curtain fell on the first act, amid thunders of applause.

"I try to," began Foster, when Pat, who had caught the last word imperfectly, started up.

"Yes, I'm dry too," he said, gaily; "let us go and worship at the shrine of Bacchus."

"You go with Sir Mark," said Foster; "I want to speak with Monteith on business."

"Right you are!" replied Pat, "come Sir Mark, I'm as thirsty as a limekiln;" and Mr. Ryan went out of the box humming "Slightly on the mash," followed by Sir Mark Trevor, who was greatly amused with the young Irishman.

"Now then," said Ronald, eagerly drawing his chair close to that of Foster's, "what is it, good news?"

"I think so," replied the Barrister, leaning back in his chair, "I fancy I've found out Ventin's real name."

"The deuce you have! and what is it?"

"Leopold Verschoyle."

"Oh! the same initials."

"Exactly, so that accounts for all his linen being marked L. V."

"How did you find out?" asked Ronald.

"After you left me to-day, I went to see a detective called Julian Roper, who is omniscient and knows everyone and everything. I told him the whole affair, and he remembered something about the divorce; I told Mm the time it took place, about six years ago, and we looked up a file of the 'Times' and found out the case, which was not reported at full length, and the information we gained was very scanty. We found out, however, the name of Mrs. Verschoyle's solicitors, and went there--the managing clerk is a great friend of mine, and he let me have the briefs, and they correspond in every particular to the story Ventin, or rather Verschoyle, told you."

"Then, you think the identity of Ventin with Verschoyle is fully established?"

"To ourselves, yes--to others no; we have only the bare story told by the deceased to connect him with the case, and the argument against that, is that he might have read about the case in the papers."

"But what motive could he have for telling me such a story?"

"None that I can see--I am only putting a supposititious case; but if we are going in for this, we must get our evidence clear and strong."

"And what is to be done?"

"Come to my chambers to-morrow and see Julian Roper, then we can have a talk over things; we are working completely in the dark at present, but I've no doubt that by to-morrow we shall be in a position to make a start. You have no photograph of the deceased, have you?"

"No; and none were found among his papers, but if I saw one I could tell in a minute if it were Ventin; he was not an ordinary looking man by any means.

"Hum," said Foster, thoughtfully; "that might be managed; if I put Roper to work he'll soon find out a photograph, or," with a sudden idea, "better still, you might look yourself?"

"But where?"

"In some of the big photographers' studios. From what you say, Verschoyle, as we must now call him, must have been a fashionable man, and no one in his position would live thirteen years in London without having had his photograph taken."

"It's a slender chance."

"Very, but you must remember the whole case is a very delicate one."

At this moment Trevor and Pat came in, and immediately afterwards the curtain arose again on a beautiful scene representing Diana's home in the moon, so Foster and Ronald had no more opportunity of talking. Ronald paid no attention to the burlesque, but sat at the back of the box thinking over the whole affair, and the mystery of the case began to pique his curiosity. The other three, however, looked at the stage, admired the pretty girls, encored all the songs, and generally enjoyed themselves. When the curtain fell, Sir Mark invited the whole party to Rule's to supper, and thither they went.

The room upstairs was pretty nearly full, but they succeeded in getting a table to themselves, and ordered supper. The place looked very pretty, with the lights all shaded with green and red shades, and the soft glimmer of the candles shining on the diamonds and bare shoulders of the ladies. Plenty of laughter was going on, varied every now and then by the popping of champagne corks and the clatter of dishes.

"Ain't it a jolly place?" said Pat, looking around with delight, "nice way of winding up the night hullo; Ronald," he went on, "there's our Maltese friend."

And so it was, the Marchese, attired in irreproachable evening costume, was having supper with a young lady beautifully dressed, with a loud voice, and suspicious golden hair. He did not see the others, as he was too busy talking to his friend.

"This is his Italian exhibition, eh?" grinned Pat, who wouldn't have minded changing places with Vassalla.

"Well, perhaps he has been there," said Ronald, carelessly lifting his glass.

"He's brought something good away with him, at all events," replied Ryan; "she's a deuced pretty girl, far too good for Vassalla."

"What name?" asked Foster, with a start.

"Vassalla," interposed Ronald, looking quickly at him.

"Hum, that's odd!"

"What is?"

"I'll tell you all about it to-morrow," was the ambiguous reply.

[CHAPTER X.]

A CONFERENCE OF THREE.

Julian Roper was a peculiar character, and had a marked individuality of his own. He was a man of good family, and had been brought up at a public school, the intention of his father being to place him in the army. But Julian objected to his future life being thus mapped out for him, and determined to take his own view of things, and act as inclination led him. This was in the direction of detective work, and his greatest delight was in trying to unravel some mystery of real life which, for strangeness and complication, was far in advance of any work of fiction. But his father, being an aristocratic gentleman of the old school, naturally thought that detective work was not quite the thing for a gentleman, and he sternly commanded his son to dismiss the idea at once. What was the consequence? Julian left his father's house as a prodigal son, and went on the way his particular bias inclined him.

When will fathers learn the great truth that they cannot compel Nature, and that any strong individuality in man or woman is sure to assert itself sooner or later. Every child is not formed on the pattern of its parents, and therefore the parents cannot judge in every case as to the wisdom or fitness of their children's choice. Therefore, as long as the bias is in a right direction, and the children can earn their bread by honourable exercise of their talents, why should they not have free power to display those talents? Julian would have made but an indifferent soldier. As it was, he made an admirable detective, and was noted in London for the quickness of his perception, and the wisdom of his judgments. When the Countess of Darrington's diamonds were stolen, was it not Julian who traced the robbery to none other than the noble lady herself, who had pawned her jewels in order to pay her lover's debts?

When Michael Cantwell was charged with poisoning his wife, was it not Roper who discovered that the wife had poisoned herself, and left a letter laying the blame on her husband out of revenge? Why, these stories are the common talk of the detective force, and when Gerald Foster asked Roper to take the "Verschoyle Mystery" in hand, he knew he had got a good man, with the sagacity of a sleuth-hound, and the inflexible determination of a Richelieu.

And, indeed, when the case was explained to Julian by the barrister, that astute gentleman had eagerly agreed to do his best in discovering the culprit, for it was a mystery which delighted his soul. In fact, Roper was in love with these Chinese puzzles of social life, and nothing pleased him so much as spending months in adding, link by link, to a chain of evidence ending, in the complete clearing up of a curious case.

So the three gentlemen sat in Foster's office, and talked the case over. Ronald; eager and attentive to the views of the others; Foster, quiet, cynical, and keen; and Roper, calm and unfathomable, with his sharp, blue eyes bent on both, and his acute hearing taking in every word said.

It is no use sketching Roper's portrait, for like Proteus he had many shapes, and what the real Roper was no one knew. One day he would be a parson, the next, a sporting gentleman, the third day a tramp, and so on, until the noble fraternity of thieves actually began to suspect each other, so ubiquitous and clever was the famous detective.

"It's the strangest case I was ever in," said Mr. Roper, in his soft, low voice; "but one which it will be a pleasure to work at. At present we have the merest clue. Now, the great thing is to follow it up."

"First," said Foster, taking some papers from the drawer of his desk, "let us look at the divorce case, 'Verschoyle v. Verschoyle and Macgregor.'"

"Oh, we know all about that!" said Ronald, impatiently.

"Not all of it," replied Gerald, smoothing the brief. "In the first place what do you think was the name of Mrs. Verschoyle?"

"Her maiden name?"

"Yes."

"I don't know."

"Then I will tell you. Cotoner!"

"What?"

Ronald sprang to his feet as pale as death.

"Yes," said Julian Roper, pulling out his pocket-book; "did not a lady of that name come on board the 'Neptune' at Malta?"

"My God!" cried Ronald, madly, "you don't mean to say----"

"We mean to say nothing," answered Foster, quietly; "except that the young lady you know is innocent of this crime."

Ronald gave a kind of strangled sob.

"It is sacrilege even to think of her in connection with it!" he said, in a stifled voice; his young face now haggard with pain. "Why, the Maltese wife was thirty, and Miss Cotoner is only twenty-six! Vassalla, her cousin, was with her all the time she was on board before the ship started. She had no motive for killing Verschoyle. She didn't even know him when I spoke about him."

"Not as Verschoyle, no," from Roper.

"Do you believe this?" asked Ronald, savagely.

"No, I don't," replied the detective, blandly; "but we may as well look at all sides of the question. I daresay Miss Cotoner is as innocent as you or I of this crime. Still, we must lose no opportunity of getting evidence."

"Stop a moment," said Ronald, calmly; "because the name of Mrs. Verschoyle was Cotoner I do not see that Miss Cotoner is implicated--there are, no doubt, more people than one of that name in Valletta."

"Of course there are," said Foster, quietly; "but Miss Cotoner's mother's maiden name was Vassalla."

"What?"

"Yes! that was the reason of my surprise, when I heard the name last night."

"That proves nothing."

"Only that her cousin's name is also Vassalla. So it proves, pretty clearly, that Miss Cotoner is Mrs. Verschoyle's sister."

Ronald groaned; for there flashed across him Verschoyle's remark that his wife had Arab blood in her veins, and that Miss Cotoner had made the same statement at Gibraltar; so it seemed true, after all.

"Go on," he said, huskily; "what is to be done now?"

"The best thing to be done," said Roper, quietly, "is to find out some one who knew Verschoyle."

"Yes, but how can you find out such a person?"

"I have done so!"

"Already?"

"Yes; he has a sister staying in London, and I know where to find her."

"Indeed."

"Yes; she is a Mrs. Taunton, and her husband is at artist; if we could see her and get her to show Mr. Monteith a portrait of the deceased, he would be able to recognise it."

"Of course I should," said Ronald, eagerly.

"Then," pursued Mr. Roper, without altering his voice; "there is another bit of evidence we must get hold of; the letter sent by the wife to Verschoyle, saying she would kill him."

"But how can we obtain that?"

"Well," shrugging his shoulders, "I am going on a forlorn hope. Mrs. Taunton may have it."

"Nonsense," said Foster, incredulously.

"I dare say it is--but still there is a chance that Verschoyle, when going to Australia, left some of his papers behind; a man does not care about dragging a lot of luggage all over the world, and it is very likely that Mrs. Taunton has some of her brother's things to look after, till he returned."

"And if this paper is among the things?"

"In that case," observed the detective; "we must get some writing of Mrs. Verschoyle, and compare the two; if they correspond, we shall have strong evidence that she is the criminal."

"And then?"

"Then I will go out to Malta, and see if I can ascertain her movements on the night in question. By the way," to Ronald, "what date was it you left Malta?"

"I think it was the 13th of June."

"Thank you," replied Roper, noting it in his pocket-book; "then I want to find out where she was on the 13th of June between seven and nine o'clock p.m."

"But instead of you going to Malta, why couldn't Monteith ask Miss Cotoner?"

"I won't," burst out Ronald, savagely; "what has she to do with it--she isn't the wife."

"No, but she might be the wife's sister."

Ronald thought a moment.

"Yes, she might," he answered, pale as death; "but all the same, you haven't proved that yet, and I won't insult her by asking her."

Roper sighed as he looked at this stubborn young man; it was no good trying to get assistance from him, so he would have to do the best he could.

"Very well," he said, calmly; "we won't ask Miss Cotoner anything. The first thing to be done is to establish the identity of Ventin with Verschoyle, and then I will go to Malta and see about Mrs. Verschoyle."

"But, how are we to find Mrs. Taunton?" asked Foster.

"There is a meeting of the 'Society for the Improvement of Art,' to-night," said Roper, "and she is sure to be there with her husband."

"Oh, I've got tickets," said Gerald; "so myself and Monteith will go, and we'll soon find out all about her and her brother; will you come, Monteith?"

"No," doggedly.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to go on with this case any more."

"I can understand your reason," said Roper; "you think Miss Cotoner may be mixed up in it."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do, sir--apologising for the contradiction; but if you want to find out who killed Verschoyle, you had better go on with the case; it will be more satisfactory to yourself and"--hesitating--"Miss Cotoner."

"She has nothing to do with it."

"Of course not," said Roper, soothingly; "we've only the similarity of name to go by. I think I would go to this meeting to-night sir, if I were you."

Ronald thought a moment----"Very well, I will," he said resignedly; and then Roper arose to take his leave.

"I'll look in to-morrow, and see what information you've obtained," he said. "Good-day, Mr. Foster--good-day, Mr. Monteith."

"Good-day," replied Ronald, not taking his eyes off the table.

Julian and Foster went out.

"Is he in love with her?" asked the detective.

"He is!"

"I thought so; this case will be harder than you or I think."

"But you don't suppose Miss Cotoner had anything to do with it?"

"No; but I think she's the sister of the woman who committed the crime."

[CHAPTER XI.]

AN ARTISTIC EVENING.

"The Society for the Improvement of Art" was one of the favourite fads of the day, and will no doubt hold its own till some newer "fad" comes to the front, and then it will fall to pieces. It was organized by three or four enthusiasts, who said there was a great deal of latent artistic talent in England which needed development, and they proposed to let everybody, who thought he or she could draw, have an exhibition once a year. Every picture sent in was hung on the walls of their saloon, and some queer things figured there. Unappreciated geniuses with the talents, as they thought, of Michael Angelo, sent in hideous productions, which were enough to send a painter of any knowledge whatever crazy, such was the crudity of the drawing. Some of the pictures were done in a firm, precise manner, as if they were the productions of very young people, and finished by the Governess; others had a dashing, sketchy appearance, as if they had been done in half an-hour, a not unlikely thing; but here and there were some really pretty sketches that were admired. Yet the whole effect of these walls, disfigured in such a manner, was depressing in the extreme. The fact was, the Society for the Improvement of Art was a collection of amiable idiots, who made their mad project an excuse for having evenings when everybody who was anybody went.

On this evening, therefore, the rooms were crowded with all sorts of queer people; some who thought themselves clever, but were not, and tried to make up for their lack of brains by assuming extraordinary costumes; others, who were dressed in the height of fashion only came because everyone else was there; and critics, actors, artists, and literary men all jostled one another in the crowd, and laughed to scorn the feeble efforts of the Society to find hidden talent. There was weak tea, and thin bread-and-butter, and everybody, when they were not looking at the pictures--which was seldom--talked scandal and abused their friends, so it was all very delightful and amusing.

At least Monteith found it so, as he leaned against the wall, and listened to Foster's cynical comments on all who passed along, mostly friends of his own; but, after all, what is the use of having friends if one can't abuse them?

"You see that bald-headed old chap there?" said Signor Asmodeus Foster, who was about to unroof his friends' houses for the benefit of the Australian, "the one with the gaunt female beside him--she was his daughter's governess, and married him by force; she bullies the life out of him, and if he but look at another woman--a thing, by the way, the old scamp is very fond of doing--he catches it when he gets home. That pretty little woman in white is Lady Aspasia, who was not as good as she might be--once--but now she's married and gives good dinners, so Society doesn't rake up her little failures in the past. We are a very generous people when there's money in the question. That young dandy, with the simper and the eye-glass, is Bertie Hardup, who a year ago had not a shilling--his face was his fortune, and a mighty nice income it brought him, for he married Miss McNab, the Scotch heiress, who has red hair and a long pedigree; he doesn't care a fig about her, and keeps Musidora, of the Frivolity, out of McNab's money. By Jove, my dear fellow, all these people have their skeletons, and if they could only become visible, you'd see every one of them attended by a bony figure like those in the Dance of Death."

"Rather a ghastly assemblage," said Ronald, absently.

"Not at all," replied his companion; "bless you, we love our skeletons, and, in the middle of the night, take them out and discuss our private affairs with them; then we lock them up in the little dark cupboards again, and only hear the faint rattle of their bones during the day."

Ronald laughed.

"You are cynical!"

"The fault of the world my dear boy. I would like to go through life keeping all my youthful illusions, but the world won t let me--it has destroyed all my dreams of honour and honesty one by one till--pouf!--it has made me as disbelieving as St. Thomas."

"What strange people are here," said Ronald, looking at the restless crowd.

"Yes!--the dresses are eccentric, are they not?--but that is part of our trade in London; if one cannot be famous--well, the greatest idiot can make himself conspicuous. Let us walk through the rooms to find Mrs. Taunton, or we'll miss her."

Ronald, nothing loth, went off with his Mentor, and could not help laughing at the curiously dressed people he saw. One lady was arrayed in black velvet, trimmed with silver, and looked like a first-class coffin; while another in white, with large red rosettes down the front of her dress, had such square shoulders that she resembled nothing so much as a chest of drawers. Here and there were some pretty girls, but the general impression Ronald had was disappointment at the appearance of the ladies.

"They're so deucedly ugly," he said in disgust.

"Yes, they can't make their faces up properly," observed Foster, putting on his eye-glass; "they're all like very badly painted pictures--but that's a pretty woman over there."

"Yes, by gad, she is," replied Ronald critically; "who is she?"

"The lady we are in search of--Mrs. Taunton--come, and I'll introduce you to her."

So Foster, followed by Ronald, pushed his way through the crowd towards Mrs. Taunton, who was standing with her husband, a tall round-shouldered man to whom she was talking in a vivacious manner. A very charming lady she was--small, fair-haired, and wonderfully bright and quick in her conversation and actions. Her face was wreathed with smiles, but during a pause in the conversation it was in repose for a moment, and then Ronald detected a shade of latent melancholy which reminded him somewhat of the sombre expression of his dead friend's face.

"How do you do, Mrs. Taunton?" said Foster, when he reached her side; "I have not seen you for at least--let me see--a hundred years!"

"If that is the case," replied the little lady, laughing, "you must have the gift of immortality, for you don't look a day older."

"Nor you a minute," said Foster, with a bow. "Permit me to introduce to you my friend, Mr. Monteith; he is come from the wilds of Australia to see if civilization is an improvement on savagery."

"Welcome to London, Mr. Monteith," said Mrs. Taunton, putting out her hand with a sunny smile; "I hope we shall be able to make your stay pleasant."

"I'm sure of that," answered Ronald, heartily, "in such company it would be foolish not to enjoy myself."

"What! they know how to make compliments in Australia?"

"When they have a worthy object," with a bow.

"Another! really, Mr. Monteith, you are a Sir Charles Grandison.'

"I hope not," broke in Foster, who had been talking to Mr. Taunton; "he was a prig,--wouldn't be tolerated now-a-days; but then," shrugging his shoulders, "how could you expect a linen-draper to conceive a gentleman? It would be easier to make a silk purse out a sow's ear."

"Poor Richardson," said the lady, with an amused look, "how severe you are on him. Mr. Monteith, pardon my rudeness; let me introduce to you my husband."

The artist bowed, and shook Ronald by the hand, but said nothing. He was a man of few words, and so left his wife to do most of the talking--a task to which she was fully equal.

"Now then," said Mrs. Taunton, when the introduction had been effected, "Mr. Foster, you can talk art, law, and scandal to my husband, while Mr. Monteith escorts me through the room in order to improve his mind."

Ronald, of course, was delighted, and they strolled off, leaving the lawyer in deep conversation with the artist over a divorce case which was then being published in extenso in the newspapers.

What charming conversationalists some women are! They are as happy in their talk as in their letter-writing; and Mrs. Taunton was a most delightful cicerone; with all Foster's knowledge and wit, but without his cynicism. Cynicism, like garlic, should only be used in moderation, and Ronald found Mrs. Taunton's bright, rapid talk rather a relief after the pessimistic views of his friend, the lawyer. The lady seemed to know everyone--stopped every now and then to talk to people, and, after leaving them, kept up a running fire of conversation about their oddities, which amused the Australian very much.

"How you do seize on people's weak points!" he said, laughing.

"Of course," she replied, "I'm a woman, and have the instinct of the sex."

"Likewise the charms."

"Mr. Monteith, I cannot allow you to pay me any more compliments to-night; but you may call to-morrow at four, if you like, and I shall be prepared for your gallantry."

"I should like it above all things," he said, seriously.

"Why, how grave your face is! I shall have to call you the knight of the rueful countenance. Is anything the matter?"

"I don't know; there might be."

"What an ambiguous reply!" she said, glancing at him curiously. "Are you a spiritualist? Have you had an intimation that all is not right in the other worlds?"

Her flippancy displeased him, knowing the importance of the matter in question.

"Mrs. Taunton," he said, gravely, looking down at the little figure from his tall height, "I was introduced to you for a purpose, and I am going to take a liberty."

Mrs. Taunton looked a little frightened, and wondered if her good-looking cavalier were mad. He guessed her thoughts.

"Don't be afraid, I am in my senses,"

"Then he must be in love with me," thought Mrs. Taunton, in dismay at this eccentric young man; but his next remark caused her to alter her mind.

"You have a brother?" he said, abruptly.

"Yes," she replied, rather puzzled, "I have one brother. I think he is out in Australia. Why," a sudden light breaking in on her, "have you met him?"

"I think so."

"What is he doing?" she asked, eagerly.

Ronald parried the question.

"I don't know," he replied; "but I'll tell you all about him to-morrow."

"Is he ill, or in trouble?" she said, quickly. "Please tell me, because I am very--very fond of him."

"Mrs. Taunton," he said, quietly, "I am come here for a purpose."

"Which concerns my brother?"

"Yes. Believe me, I do not ask out of idle curiosity, but will you answer my questions?"

Mrs. Taunton thought a moment.

"It's all so curious," she said, nervously, "but Mr. Foster, who introduced you, is an old friend of mine,"--after a pause, "yes, I will answer your questions."

He led her to a seat and took one beside her, then began to talk.

"Your brother's name is Leopold Verschoyle?"

"Yes."

"He was married in Malta seven years ago?"

"He was."

"And a year afterwards separated from his wife?"

"He did."

"And then?" hesitatingly.

"Oh, do not be afraid," she said, coldly; "he fell in love with another woman, and there was a divorce case."

"Verschoyle v. Verschoyle and Macgregor."

"You seem to know all about it," replied the lady, a little astonished. "He went to Australia with Miss Macgregor, and since then I have heard nothing about him. What became of them?"

"He married her."

"Oh!" drawing down the corners of her mouth, "then she is his wife now I presume?"

"No; she is dead!"

"Dead! Then my brother is coming back to England?"

"That I cannot tell you till I call on you, to-morrow."

"What do you want me to do?"

"To show me your brother's portrait--have you one?"

"Yes; only one. Taken just before he left for Malta."

"Good. Then I will call to-morrow at four o'clock."

"And then?" rising and taking Monteith's arm.

"I will tell you everything," he replied.

"About what?"

"That depends on--to-morrow."

"You are a most mysterious man," said Mrs. Taunton, in a vexed tone, as he took her back to her husband; "you arouse my curiosity, and then refuse to gratify it--but tell me at least one thing--is my brother well?"

Ronald hesitated. He dare not tell her that her brother--if Ventin indeed, were her brother--was dead so he equivocated.

"I think so," he replied, hurriedly.

"Then I will wait for your promised revelation to-morrow;" and, with a smile, she left him, and went back to her husband, who was still talking to Foster.

"Take me home, George," said Mrs. Taunton, touching her husband's arm; "I am tired."

"Yes, you look pale, my dear," he answered, giving her his arm; "we'd better go at once."

Foster glanced keenly at her and then at Ronald, who, however, shook his head.

"Good night, Mr. Foster," said Mrs. Taunton, giving him her hand; "you are to call on me to-morrow at four, with Mr. Monteith?"

"I will not fail," he replied, with a smile; and taking her husband's arm she moved away, and was soon lost among the crowd.

When she disappeared, Gerald turned to the Australian, quickly.

"Well?"

"I asked her about her brother," said Monteith, quietly; "and her story corresponds in every particular with that of Ventin."

"Then you think Verschoyle is Ventin?"

"Yes, I think so; but I will be certain to-morrow."

"Oh! in what way?"

"Mrs. Taunton is going to show me her brother's portrait."

"And then?"

"Well," observed Monteith, "if it is Ventin as I suspect, I think it will be the beginning of the end."

[CHAPTER XII.]

THE MISSING LINK.

What queer old places there are in Brocade Street--why, the very name is suggestive of the stately times of the early Georges, and indeed, Brocade Street was a fashionable locality even earlier, when Queen Anne was ruling, and Marlborough was winning his brilliant victories, and Duchess Sarah was alternately bullying and coaxing her weak-minded mistress. A dark, narrow street with tall houses of red brick on either side, innumerable windows, and heavy-looking doors which had often opened to let out Belinda to her sedan-chair, or Sir Plume on the way to Wills, to have a chat with Sterne and Addison.

Fancy Swift, with his dark, lowering face, walking down this street with his thoughts fixed upon a possible bishopric, or Dick Steele, swaggering along in his rich dress, stopping to take off his hat to Lady Betty Modish, who looked archly at him through the window. And then, at night, when all the streets were in darkness, save for the link boys, poor lost Richard Savage wandering about in company with Samuel Johnson even at that early age burly and contradictory. Ah, yes; great spirits were abroad in those stirring times, and Brocade Street could tell a few stories of interest, had it a voice; but now the tide of fashion had rolled westward, and the street was left silent and lonely to think over its past glories.

All those famous old houses, with their broad, oak staircases and large, stately apartments, were now used as lodging-houses for decayed gentlefolk; and city clerks found shelter in the rooms which had once re-echoed to the brilliant epigrams of Swift, or the smooth utterances of Joseph Addison.

There were also some artists to be found in the street, for they loved it for its old associations and the dead-world flavour which haunted all the houses?-a perfume of past memories of the beaux and belles of Good Queen Anne's gay Court.

Among these was Mr. Taunton, who occupied a tall, gaunt, grim-looking mansion at the upper end, and, though his merry little wife tried hard to persuade him to move to a more civilized locality, he steadily refused to exchange the dead glories of Brocade Street for the fashionable quarters of Kensington. So, Mrs. Taunton did the best she could, and beautified the quaint, oak-panelled rooms with rich tapestries, curious old china, and bizarre-looking brasses.

She sat now in her drawing-room waiting for Mr. Monteith and his friend, and wondering what could be the reason of their visit. The soft light of the day somewhat subdued by the long curtains which draped the windows, stole into the room and all the picturesque objects were seen in a kind of semi-twilight. Here, a tall column with the bust of a laughing Menade in marble, looking white and still against a background of crimson plush, and there, a landscape picture on an easel with some silken drapery flung carelessly over it. Plenty of easy chairs, spindle-legged tables of Chippendale, cupboards of priceless china, great jars from the Flowery Land which could have hidden the Forty Thieves, and innumerable mirrors all over the walls interspersed with pictures both in oil and watercolours.

Mrs. Taunton herself, in a tea-gown of some soft, clinging material, was flitting about here and there like a restless butterfly--now arranging some flowers with deft hands, and again touching the dainty tea-service of Sèvres china which stood at the end of the room.

"I do wish those men would be punctual," said Mrs. Taunton, for the tenth time, as she stood at one of the long windows and looked down the dismal street; "I feel so miserable being alone."

Her husband was up in his studio painting, so she sat down on the window seat, and leaning her head on her hand began to soliloquize.

"I wonder what that Mr. Monteith wants to tell me," she said to herself; "he must have some news of Leopold; I'm sure I hope so; it is years since I heard from him; and then he left such a lot of things with me; all those jewels which belonged to mother. I hope there's nothing wrong, but I dare say it's all right; Leopold could always look after himself. Ah!" as the rattle of wheels was heard, "there they are," and she left the window quickly, as a hansom drove up to the door.

In a few moments Mr. Monteith and Mr. Foster were announced, and Mrs. Taunton received them with a face wreathed in smiles far different from the melancholy countenance which had gazed out of the window a few moments since. A wonderfully pretty woman she looked in her pale, yellow tea-gown as she advanced to greet the young men with the polished charm of a thorough woman of the world.

"It's rather chilly to-day," observed Monteith, when they were all comfortably seated, and Mrs. Taunton was busy at the tea-table.

"Chilly!" echoed Mrs. Taunton. "Oh! you don't know what cold weather is in London. Wait till you see a fog, a nice, thick, yellow fog, with the sun like a ball of red fire glaring thro' it, then you'll say its chilly."

"Ugh," said the Australian, with a shudder, "your description is suggestive of the charnel-house."

"Monteith longs for the blue skies of Australia," said Foster, with a laugh, as he received his cup of tea from his hostess.

"So would you," retorted Ronald, "if you had once been there. Life in Australia is like the prairie fever, one is always longing to be back again."

"Perhaps that's the reason my brother stops out there so persistently?" said Mrs. Taunton, leaning back in her chair.

The two gentlemen suddenly became grave, whereat the lady sat up again.

"What do you mean by all this mystery," she asked impetuously; "last night Mr. Monteith roused my curiosity to the highest pitch about my brother, and then refused to gratify it. Is anything wrong? Has Leopold run away with another man's wife, or found a gold mine, or committed a murder, or what?"

She tried to speak lightly, but there was a ring of anxiety in her tones.

"You promised to show me his portrait," said Monteith, suddenly looking up.

Mrs. Taunton arose without a word, and going to a distant table, took up a photograph framed in purple plush, which she placed in Monteith's hands.

"Taken seven years ago," she said.

Monteith looked at the dark, handsome face of the portrait with a vague expression of sadness in his eyes, and handed it to Foster with a sigh:--

"It is Lionel Ventin."

"Ah!" said Foster, with a long breath, as he looked at it, "I thought as much."

"What do you mean by calling my brother Lionel Ventin?" asked Mrs. Taunton quickly, clasping her hands; "that is--that is the name of the man that was--that was--murdered!" The last word came out almost in a shriek as she sprang to her feet.

Monteith nodded sadly.

"Yes," he replied, gravely, "Leopold Verschoyle and Lionel Ventin are the same."

"Then he--my brother is the man who was murdered on board the Neptune?" she asked, in a whisper.

Foster arose in alarm.

"Let me get you some water," he said, advancing towards her, but she waved him back.

"Was my brother the man?"

Monteith bowed.

"And you gave evidence at the inquest?"

He bowed again.

Mrs. Taunton braced herself up with a mighty effort, her charming face looking pale, and drawn with horror. She walked away a few steps, then suddenly wheeled round on the two men, who were watching her silently:--

"Who killed him?"

"That is what we intend to find out," said Monteith, slowly, "and you must assist us."

Mrs. Taunton sat down, and, clasping her hands over her knee, sat staring at the Australian with a rigid face. The shadows were falling fast in the street outside, and through the gathering gloom of the room the two men could see the white, set face of this woman looking like that of a lost spirit.

"Do you know what grief is?" she asked, in a dull, hard voice; "do you know what it is to go about with a smile on your lips, and a broken heart? No, of course you don't--you are men; and cannot feel pain as a woman can. I have lost two children, and it nearly broke my heart--my husband is wrapped up in his work, and does not care for me except as a useful ornament to his table--the only two children I had died when I most wanted their love and affection, and I thought my heart would break--perhaps it did--but--I lived--yes--I went about with a smiling face, and talked gaily with my friends--they said I was heartless. God! If they only knew the nights of agony that succeeded to days of apparent joy--but I lived--yes, and I still go about amusing myself--a maelstrom above, but a hell below. This is another blow. I loved my brother dearly, though I had not seen him for years, and now he is dead--murdered--by whom?--you do not know--I do!"

"What do you mean?" asked Monteith, starting to his feet.

She sprang forward and caught his wrist.

"Did he not tell you the story of his life--how he was ruined by a woman?"

"Elsie Macgregor?"

"No, she tried to save him; it is not her I mean--you know--his wife--his Maltese wife, Bianca Cotoner."

Monteith fell back in his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Heavens, was it all true then? was the girl he loved the sister of a murderess? And yet, though it looked so black against her, where was the proof? He looked up suddenly.

"There is no proof," he began.

"Proof!" she flashed out, quickly; "you want proof--I can supply it." And she ran quickly out of the room.

"What does she mean?" asked Monteith.

"I know," said Foster, sagaciously; "she has gone for that paper."

"Impossible!"