criminal, even in his own consciousness of innocent intent. The fact of criminality clung like tar; nothing seemed capable of washing it away.

The passenger by the continental mail was not flying from the face of justice. He was in pursuit of Herbert Whale, whose idiotic or diabolic council, whichever it might prove to be, had brought him to this pass. Mr. Herbert Whale, in leaving London at a critical moment, had taken the precaution not to leave his address where Harry might be likely to find it. But a five-pound But a five-pound note had unlocked the heart of the club-porter, who had murmured "Grand Hôtel de l'Athenée, Paris." The young man was resolute to have Whale back to London to confess the advice that he had given. He would have him there, he declared to himself, if he haled him by the scruff of the neck or by the foot, and swam the Channel with him. He was as yet unconscious of the fact that the Rapide bore the fleeting Hump southward from Paris almost as fast as the mail-train bore himself to that city. That intelligence, however, reached him at what he had supposed would be his journey's end.

Whale had gone to Nice, and though his letters were to be addressed at the Poste Restante, Harry had but little doubt of finding him with ease. There were not more than half a dozen hotels in Nice to which he would be likely to go, and an hour's inquiry would exhaust them. He passed a weary impatient day in Paris. The rain came down in one continuous deluge, and he sat mournfully alone amid a profusion of sporting papers which he tried to read in vain. Night came at last, and saw him started on his new journey. The skies shone blue in Nice and the April air was soft and warm, but the change of climate had no solace for him. took a carriage at the terminus, and sought his man wherever he could think of. He could find no news of him, and at last decided to run on to Monte Carlo. No gentleman of Mr. Whale's proclivities could rest so near the charms of roulette and trente et

He

quarante without being attracted by them. The Salle de Jeu was the likeliest place for him, and thither Harry betook himself. He steered round every table, and satisfied himself that Whale was not there. He stalked up and down the atrium, sat drearily in the reading room, and for a while tried the concert-hall and did his best to listen to the music.

He stayed that night at the Hôtel de Paris, and went back to Nice next morning to renew his search. He saw plenty of people whom he knew, but had no heart to make up to any of them. By and by, and the hunt had gone on now for two or three unsuccessful days, he began to have a grisly feeling that none of his acquaintances cared to notice him. Once or twice he wondered if a veil of invisibility had fallen round him. He bowed to Lady Dyaz and her daughters, and they went by him with a perfect unconsciousness, though he could almost have sworn that they had seen him, and he had danced with the eldest girl not seven weeks ago. This was not the only sign he had. People whom he knew became suddenly engaged in the contemplation of trivial objects when he came in sight, and others had a suspicious knack of going round corners or of taking the other side of the street.

There was at Monte Carlo a certain Lord Ballystead, one of our hereditary legislators, a born pot-boy though he came of an excellent house, a disreputable, foul-mouthed young nobleman whom nobody trusted, and who had crowned a life of blackguard folly by marrying a ballet-girl of unusually blemished antecedents. When it came to this gentleman's turn to show Harry Wynne his back, the young man's cup overflowed with a sudden and galling bitterness. He marched straight to his lordship and tapped him on the shoulder with his walking-stick.

"Good day, Ballystead."

His lordship's ill-bred scowl looked backwards. He stared blankly for five insolent seconds and turned away. Harry walked swiftly round him.

"Come, Ballystead," he said, 66 one dare not know you at home, but one can speak to you here. What's the meaning of this?"

"I don't usually speak to people who've run away from charges of fraud," responded his lordship, with his usual garniture of oaths. Lord Ballystead walked away, with his potboy swagger, and his cane cocked defiantly under his arm.

There are not many ways of responding to a speech of that sort. In fact it may be said that there are no more than two; but choice, though limited, is difficult. There is nothing for it but personal maltreatment or silence; and while rage and dignity struggled with each other in Harry's mind, his lordship solved the disagreeable problem for him by stepping into a public carriage close at hand and driving away.

Here was the explanation of all averted looks or cold, unrecognizing glances. Harry wandered in the warm winter sunshine about the beautiful gardens scarcely daring to look up lest he should encounter some new accusing pair of eyes. This fit soon passed, and he was marching about in a conscious defiance of the world. Nobody had the right to brand him as a defrauder.

He walked back to the Casino, and entered the playing-room. It was early as yet, so far as the hour of the day went, but it was getting late in the season, and between the two factors the tables were but thinly attended. Almost the first person who caught his eye was Hump, languidly punting for louis at the trente et quarante. Harry moved quietly towards him and laid a hand upon his shoulder. Mr. Whale turned easily round, apprehending an ordinary acquaintance, and his nerves being somewhat enfeebled by the achievements of the previous night gave a slight start on recognizing his pursuer.

"Come outside a moment," said Harry. "I want to speak to you."

44

Hold on a bit," returned the other,

"I've got a run on the black, and I want to follow it."

Almost as he spoke the croupier called " Rouge gagne."

"There's your run on the black finished," said the young man soberly. "Come outside. I want to speak to you."

Mr. Whale, not caring to make too great a show of unwillingness, gathered his little golden handful together and slipped it into his pocket. He had recovered his self-possession and was now quite cool to look at. They paused together in the atrium, and Harry came to the point at once.

"You have heard the news about me and that affair of Butterfield's?" "No," said Hump, feigning astonishment and ignorance clumsily.

"I see you have," said the youngster, laying an unconscious hand upon the lappel of his coat, and holding him more tightly than he knew. "You have got to come straight back with me to London."

"Not much I haven't," Hump responded, making an effort to disengage himself. He had already forgotten his initial profession of ignorance, and made no further pretence that way. The atrium itself was quite clear, but two or three stalwart Swiss loitered at the entrance beyond the glass doors.

"I have to appear at Marlborough Street on Tuesday. There's only just time to get there. You must come and acknowledge your part in the business. I got into this scrape by following your advice. An honest word from you is the only service I can expect from anybody."

"Got into the scrape from following my advice?" said Whale. "What advice?"

Harry's eyes began to gleam somewhat dangerously, and Hump, among whose personal virtues courage bore no conspicuous place, began to feel uncomfortable and to wish himself, or the young man, at a distance.

"You told me," said Harry, "to go to Butterfield. You said that he would trust me for a year or two, and

patriots of all nations were away to Constantinople to join the Polish Legion.

The lad's young blood was fired already, and the war-news, and that mention of the Polish Legion, came like fuel to flame. His earliest baby memories were of Uncle Percy and his talk of the Redan and the Malakoff, of Inkerman and Balaclava. He had taken in a patriotic hatred of the Russian almost with his mother's milk. His first remembrance of his mother was as she wore her widow's weeds, and his father had died gloriously on the heights of Alma. Patriotism, filial revenge, despair, and the hope of glory filled him all at once. He would leave

this vile charge and his accusers behind him. He would go out eastward and strike a blow for feeble right, and make a name or die for it.

He wrote a wild letter to Inthia, telling her something of his purpose. He shed hot tears upon the paper, but all the pains he suffered served only to harden his resolve. He took the next train for Marseilles, and happening by hazard to catch a steamer of the Messagerie Maritime at the moment of his arrival, was away on the blue Mediterranean at the hour when he should have presented himself at the court in London, leaving a blasted character behind him.

17

con

It is always profitable from time to time to review the progress made in great national works; and there is an especial importance in the review of our work in Cyprus, for it concerns the material interests of a people who, from no will or action of its own, passed under British rule from that of the least civilized power in Europe. British Imperial interests were sidered by Lord Beaconsfield to require the possession of Cyprus, and the Sultan of Turkey, yielding to strong diplomatic pressure, consented to transfer to Queen Victoria the absolute and unrestricted rule of that island which for some centuries had formed part of his dominions. The wisdom of Lord Beaconsfield's policy is not now the question. It is sufficient that in 1878 England became responsible for the destinies of the people of Cyprus. Now, in 1890, we may fairly ask for the material results of these twelve years of British rule.

Last year a Deputation of Cypriotes visited London to answer that question according to its lights. It was headed by the Archbishop of Cyprus, a prelate distinguished for his intelligence, moderation and personal virtues, and its views may in consequence be safely assumed to represent those of the most reasonable and best informed among the Cypriote people. It was well received at the Colonial Office; and I think I am correct in saying that His Beatitude was particularly touched by the courtesy, kindness and hospitality shown towards him by distinguished members of English society.

What answer the Deputation gave to this question I cannot more safely nor better describe than in the words of the Colonial Secretary himself. Lord Knutsford, in a despatch to Sir Henry Bulwer, says:

No. 373.-VOL. LXIII.

The principal demands of the memoria and of the Deputation are based upon a deterioration in the economical condition of Cyprus which is supposed to have taken place since the British occupation. In the opinion of the Deputation that condition is appreciably worse than under the Turkish administration, and is likely to end in the final ruin of the community owing to the decrease in its products, the pressure of taxation, and the drain on the metallic currency, and they have adduced many facts and arguments which they regard as supporting this contention.

This, it will be admitted, is very disappointing reading to those who naturally expected to learn of great progress effected after eleven years of honest effort, and who had hoped that it would be equally appreciated by all within and without the island. It was freely admitted that the British officials in Cyprus from the High Commissioner down were loyal, well-intentioned, enlightened, and that the justice they administered was incorrupt. Although this admission does not appear in any of Lord Knutsford's communications I had the opportunity of hearing it made by the Archbishop himself, when on his way to England; and it is important as showing that the convictions of His Beatitude, right or wrong, were not influenced by any hostility to the individual instruments of British rule. On this ground the views of the Deputation amply deserved the respectful consideration that they received from Lord Knutsford.

To the impartial critic two points suggest themselves as important. First, are the opinions of the Deputation right or wrong? Second, if wrong, how comes it that the representatives of the best-disposed members of the governed class should believe them right?

In endeavouring to form a judgment

C