"I shall be gone before you are down tomorrow," said Constantia, "so, good-bye." Tears stood in her eyes. Louise also was weeping in sympathy, and Constantia folded her in an embrace that was almost fierce in its intensity. Was it affection, or a desire to cut her throat? Louise could not tell. But she had no longer any fear. She had hung her key round her neck, and, knowing it safe, there was nothing more to dread. But, when Constantia had retired, a strange drowsiness came over Louise. The excitements of the day, no doubt, would account for that. No; she would not have nurse to sleep in her room, or Luigi to watch outside. There was no more danger now. She locked her door carefully, that was all, and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep the moment that her head touched the pillow.

There was good news for Louise next morning. Aunt Irene had passed an excellent night, and had recovered consciousness so far as to ask for her niece. Constantia, too, had departed; and nothing had been seen of Mr. Papyrus, although he had promised an early visit. But Louise was asleep still; and at noon, when Bertie came to see her, she still slept. "I'm not going to waken her," said nurse. "She has had trouble enough lately, poor child; let her sleep it off."

But in a few moments there was heard a cry of alarm and distress from Louise's room. "My key, nurse! I have lost my key!"

"And if you have lost a key, dear, what does it matter?" cried nurse, soothingly, as she entered the room. The door was unfastened, although Louise had locked it the night before.

"But, nurse, you don't know; it is the key of everything of life, happinesseverything."

Louise had gone to sleep with the key safely hanging from a ribbon round her neck. The ribbon was there, cut in two; but the key was gone. And certainly there was the mark of a chisel on the door-jamb, as if somebody had forced back the lock. Was anything else missing? Nothing, as far as could be seen at a hasty glance, except-yes, Louise's hat was gone, and the costume she had worn the day before, when she went into the City.

Bertie was waiting in the drawing-room; and Louise ran to him in dressing-gown and slippers, and with hair hanging down. "Oh, Herbert, help me! I have been robbed of my key-of everything.' And in a few hasty words she told him of the

fortune that had been locked up in the iron safe, and of the imminent peril there was of losing it. For now the plot was evident; and still more evident when Bertie revealed what he had seen the day before. Oh, that he had warned her! Oh, that she had trusted him!

Constantia had carried out the scheme, no doubt, which her brother had perhaps suggested. Constantia had drugged the chocolate. Constantia, in her treacherous embrace, had felt the key, as it hung at her friend's throat. She had forced the door, taken the key, and, clothed in Louise's costume, and resembling her in height and figure and general appearance, she would have had no difficulty in obtaining entrance to the vaults of the "Security Company," when her key would place the contents of the safe at her mercy. And Constantia had been given several hours' start; and as for tracing her, what was there to trace her by? Even the list of securities was with the rest, and beyond Louise's vague recollection of certain bonds among them, there was nothing to identify the spoils.

All was lost, the dream of a day had departed, and once more the spectre of poverty and social extinction resumed its sway. And, to crown all, there could be heard in the hall the stentorian tones of Papyrus, evidently in terrible anger.

cried

"Where is my ten shousant pount? Come, where is my ten shousant pount?" "Oh, treacherous talisman," Louise, bursting into tears. "Why did you not warn me of all this?"

But it was not the fault of the talisman, which had lain neglected in the young lady's drawer ever since she had discovered the key of the safe. But now, as she held it in her hands, the casket closed and fastened at a touch, although before she had long tried in vain to shut it.

Still, the voice of Papyrus could be heard. "Oh, where is my ten shousant pount?" And at that moment something like an inspiration darted into Herbert's mind. He ran out to meet Papyrus.

"Where is your ten thousand pounds? Why, sailing down the river in the Krapoticas,' while George and Constantia are sitting in the cabin counting their money, and laughing at you for an ass.

"What, what!" roared Papyrus; "dey have run away and robbed me! Oh, the scoundrels! the villains!"

"Come along, then; we will stop them," cried Bertie, pushing Papyrus towards the door. "There is nothing like setting a

thief to catch a thief. Good-bye, dearest; I will come back with fortune on my wings." The day passed slowly and dismally enough with Louise. A telegram came from Bertie, dated Gravesend. They had just missed the "Krapoticas." But they hoped to have better luck at Dover.

Then, just at midnight, came another telegram from Dover. "Krapoticas' sunk in the Downs-in collision. Some of crew saved; but passengers drowned. Divers will be employed; but Papyrus claims all salvage. Position difficult. Consult lawyers."

Louise left this telegram open on the table, while she went in to pay a final visit to her aunt. The patient had revived wonderfully since Constantia's departure; she recognised Louise, and could speak a little, though evidently her mind was not yet clear, for she talked about her brother, and how glad she was that he had returned. But when Louise returned to the sittingroom, she saw a strange figure seated at the table, perusing the telegram just received through a pair of eye-glasses.

"Look here," said the intruder, without looking up, "tell them not to bother about divers and lawyers, for I've got the swag myself."

Louise screamed, and then ran into the visitor's arms. The face, the voice were her father's; and he was no ghost, but solid, substantial flesh and blood.

"It was just this," said Mr. Cornely, as he sat refreshing himself, after a long, fatiguing day, with a pipe and glass of toddy. "There were no Kurds at all about the business, but just George, who cut me down as we were shooting in the mountains, and left me there for dead. Still, I got one at him, and I think I broke his arm. However, not being dead, I was picked up by some of those same Kurds who have got such a bad name in the business, and very kindly they treated me. Getting a little better, I found that my camp had been broken up, and all my treasures transported to the coast, and there they were lying still, with the Government seals upon them, waiting till it was safe for the rascals to ship them. Well, I got home as fast as I could by a cargo-steamer that passed that way, and, landing at the docks, it struck me that I would go and look after our little store in the City just to make sure it was all right.

At the very door I met that girl. She wasn't George's sister, by-the-bye. And there was George waiting for her. "Secured at last,' he said, with a charming smile.

"Yes, that's just what you are,' I said, putting my hand on his shoulder.

George dropped. He thought I was a ghost come against him. And when he recovered a bit, he didn't show any more fight, but the pair of them came with me as quiet as lambs. And when I had looked through the bonds, and found them all right:

"Now, you two were going to hook it. Well, go! Here's a hundred pounds for your expenses, and try to lead a better life.'

"I did this, Louey, you know, not wishing that any of your mother's relations should be hanged. But it seems they met with judgement all the same. As for Papyrus, he'll never show those bills again."

Of Mr. Papyrus, indeed, nothing more was heard. He did not venture to produce his bills, and, if he spent any money expecting to recover treasure from the 'Krapoticas," it is to be feared he was disappointed. But as to whether George and Constantia were really drowned, whether they were taken on board some ship and preferred, thereafter, to sink their former identity, it is not possible to speak with certainty.

or

There was a gay wedding in Hanover Square, when the lovely daughter of that distinguished Orientalist, Lucien Cornely, was led to the altar by Herbert, the son of the equally famous Colonel Shepstone. It was Cornely himself who hung round the neck of the happy bride an amulet curious and beautiful, but of no great intrinsic value. "But the key is inside," whispered Lucien to his blushing daughter, "and all the little faggots are put back in the safe; so, if your husband keeps you short of coin, you know where to go."

"I shall always wear the amulet for your sake, father," said Louise, kissing him gratefully; "but the key is too much responsibility; and, with your leave"-taking it out and popping it into her husband's waistcoat pocket-"I will put it into a place of security."

ALL THE

deed; he was handsome; he was very

CHAPTER V. OUT OF HIS ELEMENT.

CAN any of us be sure that along the path of life's daily routine we are not journeying to some great convulsion of our outward circumstances, or of our inward spiritual thought? Sometimes coming events, we are told, cast their shadows before them; we are seized with a dread that has no apparent cause, or we are urged to action by some unrecognised agency. Men or women of the world we may be, sceptics or believers, spiritually or carnally-minded, and yet to all, at special moments, there comes a great feeling of overshadowing mystery; other worlds are round us, and we peer vainly about us, trying to solve the riddle of life.

Hoel had not again seen Elva; his visit had terminated the next morning, and for some days he had been firmly settled in his luxurious bachelor quarters.

Here he felt superior to circumstances. He was not wealthy, but wanted nothing he could not procure. In the dim background he even occasionally contemplated an inheritance from his uncle, Mellish Fenner, who lived laborious days in doing nothing; but this inheritance Hoel despised, and did not reckon on it, or professed not to do so. Still, in his present condition, Hoel knew that he could not marry unless his wife were rich, and he was above hunting for richer.

Hoel had so many virtues, that it was difficult for his sins to find him out. He was high-minded in thought, word,

and

critical faculty, which promised to make him a prince among critics. Several journals had already found this out, and only did not proclaim it for fear of rousing competition. Moreover, he had a just estimate of himself, which, on the one hand, prevented him from being conceited, and on the other from underestimating his powers, and therefore rendering them less useful to him. But Hoel was over-refined with that over-refinement which, though not in the least ef feminate, seems slowly to kill the mcre rugged excellence which, for want of a better word, we may call a grand character.

Everything about Hoel Fenner helped this over-refinement to increase that delightful sitting-room, furnished with exquisite taste, where he often gave afternoon tea to cousins, and cousins' cousins, and literary ladies and their friends; the dining-room, which was also his library, fitted with the best in literature, ancient and modern, not forgetting a row for individual taste, and which spoke well of the man. Yes, in Hoel's lodgings, from the butler to the books, everything was perfect; and the owner preferred his rooms to the Johnstonian Club, where pleasant men talked literary shopgossip. Lately Hoel Fenner had been taking the work of the literary editor at "The Current Reader's" office. It was here he had come across Jesse Vicary, who had gone there to ask for reporting work; and Hoel had been attracted to him by that undefinable something which he possessed, and which Hoel vaguely felt was wanting in himself.

Such was Hoel Fenner; and yet, though we have placed one hand on the weak

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