Chapter III: A Grave Accusation

Thus valiant, the Major entered the library at the appointed time. He was, however, taken aback on finding that it was not only the gentlemen he had to confront, but also two of the ladies—Mrs Joseph and Mrs John. Nellie had positively refused to be present. He had not bargained for an examination in the presence of the ladies, for he could not say before them what he must say in order to exculpate himself. He felt that he was being very unfairly treated. But he was thankful for small mercies. They might have had Miss Euphemia in to witness his humiliation—for humiliation it must be to confess his stupidity in despatching the letters in the wrong envelopes.

The Squire was seated at his writing-table, and assumed something of his magisterial air (he was a J.P.) as he requested the Major to take a chair. The three letters were on the desk before him; and he proceeded to read them carefully, whilst profound silence prevailed. Mrs Joseph darted angry glances alternately at her husband and the culprit. Mrs John looked more serious than usual, but still showed symptoms of an inclination to titter. John Elliott stood in the shadow of a large bookcase; Maynard near the window which opened to the terrace, impatiently twirling his moustache and at intervals glancing fiercely towards the Major, who, in his indignation at the whole proceeding, returned the glance in a like spirit.

The Squire cleared his throat with a raucous cough. ‘You have placed me in a most painful position, Major,’ he began with an evident desire to be friendly, which was checked by the frown of his wife. ‘I am as tolerant as anybody of a joke. You know that well enough, Dawkins; but I can’t stand such a hoax as you have played upon us in sending these letters here.’

The Major rose; he felt so much injured, that he was calm. ‘My dear friend Elliott’——

‘Oh, confound it—there’s the beginning of the plaguy things,’ ejaculated the Squire.

‘Allow me to explain. I intended no hoax. These letters were written with an earnest desire to avert misunderstanding. Unfortunately, in my agitation and haste, I blundered.’

‘Not a hoax—not a joke!’ bellowed the Squire, rising to his feet and thrusting the letters into a drawer of the table. ‘Do you mean to say, then, that I suspected my wife of anything?’

‘No.’

‘Do you mean to say that a word could be spoken about me in association with any one which could or should cause Nellie—Miss Carroll—to be displeased with me?’ broke in Maynard threateningly.

‘No.’

‘Do you mean to say that I am in any way involved with another lady?’ snapped Elliott of Arrowby.

‘No.’

‘Stop a minute,’ interposed Mrs John, in her light-hearted way, coming to the rescue of Major Dawkins, and turning to her husband. ‘The Major did not say you were involved, John; he only warned me not to mind any nonsense I might hear about you. Give our friend time to explain.’

‘I am grateful for your intercession, madam,’ said the Major stiffly. ‘If your husband has read the letter which, as I have told you, fell into Mrs Joseph’s hands by mischance, he knows precisely how the matter stands, and I request _him_ to explain, or to speak to me in private.’

‘I have read the letter, of course,’ was the peevish response of John Elliott; ‘and it does not suggest anything for me to explain, or why you should require a private interview with me.’

The Major had the opportunity to avenge himself on the instant by stating before them all why he had written the letters. But Mrs John was evidently quite ignorant of her husband’s suspicions; why should he pain her by revealing them? The outcome of the revelation would be an inevitable rupture between the man and wife. Nellie Carroll had not heard John Elliott’s scandal about Maynard: why should he, for his own convenience, stir the stagnant pool and increase the distress he had already unintentionally caused? No; he would not do that. He had blundered, and must pay the penalty.

‘Since Mr John Elliott declines to say anything or to grant me a private interview,’ said the Major firmly, ‘the affair must end here. I withdraw everything that is written in these unlucky letters, and request you to give them back to me, so that they may be at once destroyed.’

‘That won’t do,’ rejoined the Squire gruffly; ‘if you won’t make the thing clear to us, it has gone too far to end here. I shall place the letters in the hands of my solicitor to-morrow morning, and leave him to arrange with you.’

‘In that case, you will provoke a family scandal which will cause you all much vexation, and cannot possibly do good to anybody.’

‘It will at least teach _some_ person a serious lesson,’ observed Mrs Joseph sternly.

‘O madam, the lesson has been learned already,’ answered the Major bitterly.—‘But since you, Squire, are not satisfied that I am sufficiently punished for my mistake by the loss of your friendship, but also mean to take legal proceedings, I must summon a friend from town who will convince you that the trouble did not originate with me.’

‘So be it, Major Dawkins; and as things stand, I shall expect your visit to Todhurst to terminate to-morrow,’ said the Squire, getting the inhospitable words out with much difficulty.

‘It would terminate this instant, were it not that I still desire to serve you and your family. So much you will acknowledge to-morrow, and then my presence will no longer disturb you.’

There was a degree of dignity in the Major’s retreat which impressed everybody except the hot-headed lover, Maynard, who muttered between his teeth: ‘If this were not my friend’s house, I would horsewhip the little beggar.’ As he could not enjoy that luxury, he occupied his talents in seeking a reconciliation with Nellie, and unluckily, but naturally, besought the aid of Mrs John. His conversations with her in the drawing-room and on the lawn again irritated the suspicious husband, who, instead of speaking out frankly, endeavoured to hide the bitter thoughts which were passing through his mind, and became more abstracted and more disagreeable than ever.

Mrs Joseph perversely held to her opinion that the guest had ‘something’ to say which she ought to know.

‘But you don’t mean to say, Kitty,’ the Squire expostulated, ‘that if I had any fault to find with you I should not speak it straight out to yourself, instead of blabbing it to other folk? Past experience ought to make you sure that when I am not pleased, you will hear about it soon enough.’

‘I know that perfectly well—there is no lack of fault-finding on your part to myself; and how am I to tell what you have been saying about me to others?’ retorted Mrs Joseph, whose temper being once roused, as has been stated, was not easily allayed.

‘Nonsense, Kitty—you don’t believe that I would speak about you to outsiders.—Come, now; drop this humbug, for you know it is humbug; and, ’pon my honour, I think we have been too hard on poor Dawkins.’

‘Before deciding on that point, I shall wait to hear what this friend he is summoning from London has to say to-morrow.’

‘I take his word for it, that there was a mistake.’

‘Then he should not make such a mistake, and having made it, ought to suffer the consequences.’

‘But, my dear, don’t you see that he is taking the consequences?—and infernally unpleasant ones they are. I tell you there is nothing in it; and if he had only said it was all a joke, I should have been satisfied.’

‘But he said it was not a joke, and told you that if you prosecuted him, it would result in a grave family scandal. How can you answer that?’

‘I can’t, and he wouldn’t; so we must wait for the person who will.’

There was a kind of armed truce declared in this way between the husband and wife—she feeling guiltily conscious that she was somehow making a mountain of a molehill; and he feeling perfectly sure of it.

* * * * *

The Major went straight to his room, resolved that he would hold no intercourse with the family until Mrs John’s brother, Matt Willis, arrived. Had there been a train that evening to town, he would have taken it and brought his friend down; and if there had been a hotel in the village, he would have left the house forthwith. But there was no train and there was no hotel—not even a beershop, for the country folk thereabout mostly brewed their own ale. There was, however, a post and telegraph office in the village, and Hollis was despatched with a message for Willis, entreating him, for his sister’s sake, to come down by the first train on the following morning. That done, he endeavoured to compose himself and to take a calm survey of his position. He had upset everybody, and most of all himself, by his good-natured anxiety to save others from the consequences of their own folly. The thing ought to have resulted in a laugh and a shake-hands all round; but instead of that, it threatened to become a serious affair for the law-courts to deal with; and the Major had no means to enable him to indulge in the luxury of a lawsuit.

What was he to do? Nothing but what he had determined upon—to get Willis to speak out, since John Elliott would not. There was of course the possibility that Willis would refuse, as it was his intense repugnance to interfering with family squabbles which had prompted him to call for the Major’s assistance as mediator between his sister and her husband.

Major Dawkins felt indignant with John Elliott for shrinking from speaking the few words which would have put everything right. But the truth flashed upon him—perhaps the man was so blinded by his jealousy, that he really did not understand what was required of him, when asked to explain the position. Although the Major could only surmise that this was the case, the surmise was correct; but the true reason why John Elliott did not understand him was that he had no idea of his conversation with Willis having been repeated to any one. If that were so, the Major felt that it was his duty to prevent the threatened publicity by every means in his power. Apart from his consideration for the feelings of Mrs John and Nellie, there was his own plight to be taken into account. Publicity would expose him to ridicule, if not contempt, and would inevitably put an end to all hope of winning the hand of Miss Euphemia Panton. He resolved to see the Squire the moment dinner was over, and make another effort to get him to understand the real state of the unfortunate business.

* * * * *

Servants have a special instinct for discovering the ill-luck of the family they serve, and invariably they accept it in a distorted form. Then they sympathise with the master and mistress, or rejoice in their fallen state, according to the perquisites which have been allowed them or withheld from them. Hollis having heard that his master was in disgrace with the family they had come to visit, felt that his own dignity was at stake; therefore, in the housekeeper’s room and in the butler’s pantry he valiantly defended the honour of his chief. He was a little crest-fallen when he found that his master was not to join the family at dinner, for this circumstance appeared to confirm the gossip of the servants’ hall that the Major had been guilty of some grave offence, the nature of which was too dreadful to be mentioned. Hollis was equal to the occasion, and by taking the position as one of great injustice to his master, succeeded, by cautious suggestions of forthcoming revelations, in impressing the housekeeper and butler with the idea that they would reap a large reward in the future by careful attention to the Major’s present needs. The diplomacy of Hollis was used as much on his own account as on that of his master; for he managed to secure command of the dishes which were most favoured by the Major—and himself, as well as a sufficient supply of Clos de Vougeot and Heidsieck.

The Major was scarcely sufficiently appreciative of the attentions of his servant in catering for him so far as the eatables were concerned; and he sadly disappointed Hollis by taking a larger share of the wine than that gentleman had expected. For this loss, however, he contrived to compensate himself when he got downstairs again. Major Dawkins was too eager for the moment when he should be able to speak freely to the Squire to find any delight in eating; and although he took the wine, it was without any of the relish with which he usually partook of rare vintages. When Hollis had cleared the table, he rose immediately, disregarding his digestion, and paced the room. He knew that the dinner would be a more lugubrious affair than the luncheon had been, and he endeavoured to calculate exactly when it would be over.

The time having arrived, he opened his door, which was nearly opposite that of the library. To the latter he advanced quickly, knowing that the Squire frequently went thither after dinner to examine letters or to take a nap. He heard some one moving in the room, and tapped at the door. There was no answer. He tapped again, and still receiving no answer, boldly turned the handle and entered. There was no one visible. He was puzzled, for there had been unmistakable sounds of some one moving about and also of the shutting of a drawer. The window which opened on the terrace was slightly ajar, and possibly the Squire, suspecting who was his visitor, had stepped out in order to avoid him. That was both unfriendly and unjust.

The Major was angry, for he could not conceive any reason for being avoided in this manner. He looked out: no one was visible on the terrace. Then a sudden temptation seized him. He knew exactly in which drawer the Squire had placed those abominable letters. They were his own—why should he not take possession of them and destroy them? In this way the whole miserable business would be ended. Of course, he could not deny having written such letters as would be described, but they would not be forthcoming; and if it should come to the worst, his explanation of the circumstances under which they had been written would be listened to with the more patience and consideration.

The temptation was too much for him. For the sake of the family as well as for his own sake, those letters must be destroyed. He went to the drawer, pulled it open, and there before him lay the letters. He snatched them out and thrust them into the breast-pocket of his coat, with the intention of burning them when he reached his own room; but at that moment his wrists were tightly grasped and he heard the click of handcuffs fastened upon them. He was helpless and speechless. He stood staring at the smiling face of a broad-shouldered fellow who wore the costume of a gamekeeper.

‘Got you at last,’ said this gentleman quite pleasantly. ‘You have given me no end of trouble; but, there, I respect you all the more. Only, you have been coming it rather strong, and I am surprised that you didn’t take a rest, seeing that you’ve had the valuables out of half-a-dozen mansions in the county.’

‘What do you mean?’ shouted the Major furiously.

‘Nothing particular,’ replied the complacent gentleman, ‘unless you count it particular that I should want you to come along with me. I am a constable, and I have been looking out for you for some weeks past. So, you had better make no fuss about the matter, but come along quietly. It’ll be all the better for yourself.’

‘You confounded fool!’ ejaculated the Major indignantly, ‘do you take _me_ for a burglar? I am a guest in this house—I am Major Dawkins.’

‘Alias Captain Jack, alias ’Arry Smith.’

‘Call the family—they will identify me,’ the Major almost shrieked, whilst he endeavoured to free himself from his handcuffs.

‘Oh, I’ll call the family,’ answered the detective, as he lifted up a jemmy which was lying beside the Squire’s desk. ‘I suppose you don’t know what this little tool means, and I suppose you don’t know anything about this drawer which has been forced open with it?’

‘You scoundrel, to suspect me of such’——

‘There now; don’t say anything to commit yourself; I’ll call the family.’

Thereupon, the detective rang the bell.

The summons was answered by Parker the butler, who was somewhat astonished to find a stranger in the library with the Major. The latter’s face—purple with rage—and wild gesticulations, with his fettered hands, presented a spectacle so astounding that Parker could scarcely believe his eyes rested on a guest of the house.

‘Tell your master to come here and release me from this ruffian, who takes me—me, Major Dawkins—for a burglar!’

The detective smiled placidly as he addressed the butler: ‘Yes, if you please, inform Mr Elliott that he is wanted here on particular business.’

ENGLISH COUNSEL AND SOLICITORS.

BY A BARRISTER.

Some time ago, an agitation sprang up in favour of the amalgamation of the two legal professions in England, and the conduct thereafter of litigious business on lines more or less nearly approximating to the American system. The movement emanated, no doubt, from the town branch of the profession; for it is no secret that many solicitors are anxious to distinguish themselves in court by pleading their clients’ causes, in place of retaining counsel to do so for them. But, in the face of more burning questions, the agitation gradually died away.

It now seems not unlikely to be revived, as it is certain that sooner or later it must be. And an _ex cathedrâ_ utterance given by that eminently practical judge, Mr Justice Stephen, a short time ago, will tend to hasten the course of events in this matter. A case for trial before that judge was duly called on, when it was found that the plaintiff was unrepresented, his counsel being at the time engaged in another court. The plaintiff being unwilling, or at least unprepared, to conduct his own case—notwithstanding the growing tendency in favour of personally conducted cases—the judge was asked to allow the case to stand over, which he did, but not without giving a hint as to the possibility of future ‘reform.’ ‘If,’ said his lordship, ‘such an incident occurs often, it will become necessary to do away with the separation between solicitors and barristers.’ Just so. This is the way the question is regarded from the judicial point of view. When the judge is put to inconvenience, he speaks out; and if he is at all often put to inconvenience, he will act also. But inasmuch as, in most actions, each party is represented by more than one counsel—certainly no ‘distinguished’ or fashionable counsel will accept a brief without a junior—such inconvenience to a judge is of comparatively unfrequent occurrence; so that, although one of its members may occasionally be found to _speak_ in favour of amalgamation, little or no active assistance can be expected from the judicial body.

But how does the question affect other interests? Solicitors, as we have hinted, are in favour of amalgamation. It can hardly do them much harm, but must in many cases add to their professional incomes, which is of course all that, as a body, they want. Barristers are more opposed to it, but, we think, without much reason. A few, doubtless, will suffer; but the state of the advocate’s profession as a whole can hardly be worse than it is at present. There are barristers, it may be said, who earn fifteen or twenty thousand pounds a year; but they are not many—infinitely fewer in number than those who earn nothing at all—and they are probably well above the reach of competition, partly by reason of their known and exceptional ability, and partly because they have been placed by fashion on a pedestal which is too firm to crumble away, at least during their brief span of life. But the few who make such incomes may be compared to the large landowners whom Mr Henry George and his friends would rob to enrich (?) those who have no land. If all the incomes made at the Bar were added together, and their sum divided amongst all the barristers, each would have but a pittance, so overstocked is the profession. Hence, regarding barristers as forming a small community, and giving due consideration to the greatest happiness of the greatest number principle, it is pretty obvious that the Bar has really little to lose by the bringing about of amalgamation.

Now from the point of view of the public. It is clear that this largest interest must benefit by amalgamation. It would promote economy—an extremely great gain. It would practically mean the abolition of that middle-man who is so obnoxious to economists, so hurtful to the proper expression of delicate points, and so wasteful of time. It matters not to the public, as long as it is placed in direct communication with its counsel, whether that counsel be a solicitor or a barrister; but it is of great and increasing importance to the vast body of litigants that personal relations should be established between client and advocate; and this is what must sooner or later come to pass. Other advantages of the amalgamated system have been before urged here and elsewhere; they need not be again specified in detail. Technically, the probable effect of the system would be the immediate entering into partnership of counsel and solicitors; which would mean nothing to the general public except the nearer approach of counsel and the vastly increased possibility of personal interview with him. Solicitors, in fact, would for all practical purposes become barristers’ confidential clerks; they would do all the work they do now for settlement by their partner counsel; they would receive clients in chambers while their partners were engaged in court, and in the event of an unusual press of court-work, would conduct the minor cases through their trials. The aggregate advantages of such a reform are so obvious, that minor interests should not be considered in bringing it about; and we are therefore inclined to express a hope that Mr Justice Stephen’s criticism of the existing state of affairs may prove to be prophetic of the near future.

LADY FREDERICK’S DIAMONDS.

I, Arnold Blake, have had a queer up-and-down, checkered sort of life, and until I was nearing my fortieth year, was most persistently down in my luck. First, it was in Mexico that I tried my fortune, and failed. Then, tempted by an enthusiastic friend, I went to Genoa and set up there in partnership with him as a merchant. The life was a very healthy and happy one, but not what any one could call profitable, from a pecuniary point of view—in fact, quite the reverse. After a few years, finding it impossible, with both ends stretched to the uttermost, to make them meet, we gave that up; and I moved on to Nice, where I had two or three substantial friends. There, things took a turn for the better, and I gradually formed a niche for myself, in time becoming quite an authority in my own small circle. Then, acting on good advice, I started a branch bank in connection with a well-known one in London. This answered fairly well; I had just as much work as I cared to do, was able to pay my expenses, and had even begun to lay by a little hoard against the proverbial ‘rainy-day.’ Nice was a gay, bright town to live in, and I constantly met old friends, and made many pleasant new ones, who were passing through to the South, or spending two or three months there, or at Monte Carlo, for the fascinating pleasure of either losing their own money, or making a tidy little fortune out of somebody else’s pocket.

One afternoon, I was sitting in my small counting-house, writing for the English mail, when the door opened, and in came an old acquaintance, Sir Frederick O’Connor, with a parcel in his hand. ‘How d’ye do, Blake?’ said he cheerily. ‘I’ve come to you to get me out of a difficulty. These are my wife’s jewels. Why she has brought them with her, family diamonds and all, passes my understanding. I call it insane! Fact is I don’t relish the idea of waking up some fine morning to find my throat cut! I want to know if you will be so good as to keep them in your safe while we are here. Whenever Lady O’Connor wishes to dazzle her friends with them, I can easily come round and ask you for what she wants.’

Naturally, I willingly consented to find a corner for the jewels; and after I had taken an inventory of them, Sir Frederick himself placed them in an inner compartment, and I locked the door. I little thought what a dance those confounded diamonds should lead me!

A few days after this, at a large garden-party I met Lady O’Connor, young, pretty, and happy-looking. She shook hands cordially, expressed pleasure at meeting again, and asked if I thought the season would be a gay one. ‘By-the-by,’ she said, ‘it is very kind of you, Mr Blake, to take care of my valuables. Sir Frederick was quite in despair about them, until a happy thought suggested you as their protector. I am going to trouble you for some of them to-morrow. Fred will call for them; and do not be surprised if you see him bristling with bowie-knives and revolvers, for he has a fixed idea that the Nice ruffian has a keener nose for other people’s property than any other ruffian in the world.’

I answered that her lovely jewels were worthy of an escort armed to the teeth, and that I was very glad indeed to be of use to Sir Frederick and herself in any way.

The morning after this garden-party—it must have been about half-past four or five—my sleepy senses were completely scattered by my door being thrown violently open, and Roscoe, my combined valet and commissionaire, a quiet and respectful treasure, landing beside me as if shot out of a catapult. I knew at once that something very dreadful must have happened. Roscoe’s face of horror and despair would have made a valuable study for an artist.

‘Get up, sir, at once, and come down to the office. The safe has been broken open, and cleaned out, sir, quite empty!’ gasped Roscoe breathlessly, pale with excitement.

I cannot recollect what followed during the few minutes in which I hurriedly dressed, and Roscoe is far too considerate to have ever reminded me of that short scene. The first thing I _do_ remember is, finding myself in my office, clothed in a sketchy and uncomfortable manner, the victim of one of the most audacious burglaries that had taken place in Nice for a very long time. I stood gazing at my ransacked safe and rummaged drawers, and at the floor, strewn with papers, among which, here and there, I noticed a few gold pieces, which seemed as if the robbers had been interrupted or startled in some way or other. I was afraid to move from the spot on which I stood until the detective, whom I had sent Roscoe off in a _fiacre_ to fetch, should arrive, lest I might unwittingly destroy some small but important piece of evidence, which his experienced eyes would discover at a glance. In a very short time he appeared, and after a friendly word or two, commenced his investigations. He carefully examined the safe, the window, and the door. Nothing seemed to escape him. He took voluminous notes; measured a footmark which he discovered on the floor; but the footmark on further inquiry was found to be his own, which rather put him out.

I told him of the jewels which had been placed in my care so lately.

‘Your man informed me, monsieur, as we came, that you had diamonds of great value in your iron safe.’

A clammy dew broke out suddenly on my forehead, as I remembered that Lady O’Connor was counting on appearing in those same jewels at the prefecture ball that night.

‘On the strength of what your servant told me, monsieur,’ continued the detective, ‘I have already telegraphed to Marseilles, Genoa, and Turin, and have directed some of my most trustworthy men to be on the alert at the railway station and the port. I will send and let monsieur know the moment we get any trace of the stolen property.’

I made out a careful list of all I had lost, gave it to the detective, and then returned to my rooms to dress in a rather less superficial manner. The awful business of breaking the loss of the jewels to Sir Frederick and Lady O’Connor was now staring me in the face, and as I walked to their hotel I became a prey to the most paralysing nervousness I hope it will ever be my lot to endure. I was shown into a charming sitting-room, facing the sea, and though I did not look at anything round me, except the two people I had come to see, I remembered afterwards every detail of the scene.

They were at breakfast. The refreshing, sun-warmed morning air breathed softly in through the open window, scented by the mignonette, which grew thickly in boxes on the balcony outside. Lady O’Connor looked very graceful and pretty in a long loose gown of some soft Indian silk, trimmed with lace. Sir Frederick, also in comfortable unconventional garments, was reading aloud a letter, over which they were both laughing merrily as I was announced. They welcomed me warmly, looking as if early and unexpected visitors were quite a common occurrence, and between them, carried on the usual preliminary chit-chat about the lovely weather, the delight of being able to breakfast with the window open in the month of November, the view, &c., as long as the servant remained in the room, while I stood looking from one to the other, solemnly bowing my head in silent answer to their cheerful remarks. It is not necessary to relate what passed; suffice it to say that both Sir Frederick and Lady O’Connor possessed an unusual share of kindness of heart and of sympathy with other people’s misfortunes, and they endeavoured to make my unpleasant position as easy for me as possible.

Then followed a week of restless activity. I haunted the police bureau; if I was not there two or three times a day myself, I sent Roscoe to find out for me if any telegrams had arrived on the all-important subject, any clue been found to throw the smallest light upon it.

One lovely afternoon, I was walking down the Promenade des Anglais in anything but a cheerful frame of mind, indeed I do not think I ever felt so utterly depressed before. Nothing whatever had been heard of the missing jewels; and during a long consultation that morning with Aigunez the detective, he had told me that he firmly believed that the robbery was the work of one man, and that the jewels were still in Nice. I had been calling at one of the pretty villas beyond the Var, and was now making my way down the side of the Promenade next the houses, to the _Hôtel de la Mediterranée_, to talk over Aigunez’s last suggestion with Sir Frederick O’Connor. As I was passing the high solid walls of the now quite unused cemetery, I noticed that the door was ajar; and expecting to find there old Baroni the care-taker, whom I knew, I pushed open the door and entered. Nobody was there: all was silent and solitary. Here and there were untidy heaps of rubbish; tangled, overgrown bushes; and propped against the walls were two or three gravestones that had covered graves from which the remains had been removed to some family vault elsewhere. I could not help wondering how much Baroni received for the amount of care and labour he bestowed on the old English burial-ground. When my eyes, which were uncommonly sharp ones, had become accustomed to the dark shadows thrown by the walls, and the brilliant glare where the shadow-line ended, I noticed that a gravestone lying in rather a retired spot appeared, by the fresh-looking footmarks round it, to have been lately moved. I do not think that this circumstance would have roused my curiosity in the then preoccupied state of my mind, had it not been that close beside it a large branch of a neighbouring tree had been bent down and fastened firmly to the ground by means of a stone. This arrested my attention, it was so evidently intended to mark the spot. Exerting all my strength, I pushed the heavy stone sufficiently to one side to enable me to see that it concealed a small pit, recently dug, by the look of the mould round it. It was empty! I managed to replace the gravestone, and left the cemetery, carefully closing the door behind me, and glancing round to see if my actions had been observed.

I hurried on to the hotel, wondering and conjecturing as to the possible meaning of the curious little mystery I had just discovered. That small oblong pit, for what purpose could it have been prepared? My first idea was that a murder had been or was about to be committed, and in this way it was intended to get rid of the victim’s body; but the hole was certainly not large enough for a grown person. Was it possible that it was to be the unblessed, unadorned tomb of some little one, done to death by pitiless earthly guardians, who found its frail helpless life a burden to them? That was too hideous a fancy. Suddenly, the thought struck me that it might be a hiding-place for property! By Jove, the diamonds!

At that moment I reached the _Mediterranée_, and going up the broad stairs three at a time in my excitement, I knocked at the door of the O’Connors’ sitting-room. Sir Frederick was alone, smoking, with the last number of the _World_ in his hand.

‘I felt sure that you would come in this afternoon,’ he said, as he pushed his cigar case towards me, ‘so I put off going to the club.—What is the latest intelligence?’

I first told him of Aigunez’s opinion, that the jewels were still in Nice, an opinion which had now gained for me a double significance. Then I unfolded my own budget, and told him of all I had seen in the old cemetery which had been closed for so many years.

This put Sir Frederick into the wildest spirits. ‘We’ve got them now, Blake!’ he exclaimed, ‘and no mistake about it. They’ve run themselves into a nice trap. Of _course_, these are the rascals we’re after.—What do you say?—Don’t set my heart upon it, in case of disappointment. Nonsense! my dear fellow. Don’t you see they cannot get rid of diamonds like those in a hurry; and not being able to leave the town puts them in a regular fix? It is very dangerous for them to keep such valuable things about them, and now, they flatter themselves that they have found an uncommonly safe hiding-place. Why, Fate must have led you by the very nose to that door this afternoon!’

I laughed. ‘It is as well for us, perhaps, that I did not feel her fingers, or things might have turned out differently. We had better settle our plan of action for to-night, as it won’t do to let this chance slip. How fortunate there is no moon. It will be as black as Erebus inside those high walls.’

‘Our best plan,’ said Sir Frederick, ‘is, I think, to hide ourselves there as soon as it is dark. We may have a long time to wait; but then, again, we may not, and we are much less likely to be observed if we slip in early in the evening.’

‘Then I will call for you, Sir Frederick, as soon as it is dark enough,’ I answered. ‘And allow me to suggest that we do not take Aigunez into our confidence, for it will be a triumph indeed to cut out the far-famed French detective in his own line of business.’

I left the hotel with a lighter heart than I had carried about with me for some time. Though I had cautioned Sir Frederick not to be too sanguine, I was myself convinced that we should have the diamonds in our possession before morning. I went back to my rooms, wrote some letters, dined, and then tried to quiet my excited mind by pacing up and down the sitting-room, smoking my usual post-prandial cigar, till I thought it was sufficiently dark to venture forth. The church clocks were striking ten as I arrived at the _Mediterranée Hôtel_, and I found Sir Frederick performing the same restless quarter-deck constitutional on the pavement outside.

‘So glad you’ve come, Blake; I’m anxious to be off now.—What is that in your hand?’

‘A small lantern,’ I answered. ‘We shall find it useful.’

‘Got a revolver?’ inquired Sir Frederick in a solemn whisper.

‘No,’ said I, in an equally sepulchral voice; ‘fists are my weapons.’

‘Pooh!’ returned he. ‘Of what use are English fists when you have an Italian knife in your ribs?—Here we are!’

The door was exactly as I had left it. There was not a sign of anybody near us, so we went quickly through, closing it again behind us. We, stood for a minute silent and still, until our eyes had become more accustomed to the intense darkness round us; then we groped our way, with two or three stumbles against tombstones and over mounds of earth, to the spot where I fancied the marked stone must be, and in a few seconds I discovered it without doubt, by falling over it. As I was collecting myself and my scattered senses together again, after this sudden and unpleasant downfall, I heard close beside me a volley of muttered execrations from Sir Frederick, who declared, in an agitated whisper, that he was sure he had caught a ghost or something very like it. At the risk of discovery, I opened the lantern, and for one second threw the light on the object he held in his hands. It was an unusually large bat, which, disturbed by our intrusion on its own domain, must have flown or dropped on to Sir Frederick from the tree under which he was standing. He quickly shook it off; and without further adventure we concealed ourselves in some thick bushes near the grave. It would have required the eyes of a lynx to discover us, hidden as we were in the midst of a mass of evergreens, overgrown with a network of tangled creepers, and the high black wall behind. There we waited, keenly watchful. Not a leaf stirred. A perfectly dead silence lay over everything, as if the fairy of the Sleeping Beauty story of our childhood held nature bound under her spell. A mouldy, damp, earthy vapour rose from the ground at my feet, and seemed to weigh me down as if it were something solid.

The clock of Notre-Dame struck eleven. Another long weary hour went slowly by, and then the clock struck midnight. I believe I had sunk into a sort of doze, when every faculty was suddenly roused by hearing a soft movement at the door, which was very gently opened. There was a pause, as if the new-comers were listening; the door was shut, and a lantern shed its narrow streak of light over the graves at their feet. One, two, three dark forms, two of whom carried between them what seemed to be a box. Sir Frederick gently nudged me—of course _that_ contained the jewels. They came quietly to the side of the mysterious tombstone, and, setting their burden down on another one close by, they set to work, and quickly moved it to one side. I then discovered, to my surprise, that the one that held the lantern was a woman. Their faces were deep in shadow; I did not once get a glimpse of their features. All their movements were quiet and free from haste; they evidently had not the smallest notion that discovery was possible. The two men carefully laid the box in the hole prepared for it, covered it with mould, and, after replacing the stone stretched themselves, and held the lantern aloft, the better to survey their handiwork. It seemed very satisfactory to their female companion, for I distinctly heard her breathe a sigh of unmistakable relief. They left the place as quietly as they had come to it, not having, as far as we knew, spoken a word to each other the whole time.

It was our turn now. As soon as we were quite sure that we again had this dismal solitude to ourselves, we emerged from our damp hiding-place and shook ourselves into shape, for naturally we both felt very stiff and numb after our long weird vigil. I opened my lantern, and we began eagerly to undo the work we had just seen so neatly accomplished. It did not take long to remove the stone and scatter the thin layer of mould. In a few minutes we had the box—a boy’s oblong deal play-box, clamped with iron—lying on a tombstone before us.

‘Open it, Blake,’ said Sir Frederick.

‘Locked,’ I answered as I shook the lid.

‘Take my knife,’ continued the baronet, as he drew from his pocket one of the formidable weapons at which his wife had laughed.

It was a common lock, and easily forced. As I threw back the lid, Sir Frederick held up the lantern. ‘Take them out, Blake, and see if they are all there; it will be a wonderful thing if none are missing.—What on earth is that?’

‘It looks to me like a dog-collar,’ I answered, as I shook out a black Cashmere shawl in which was wrapped a silver curb chain with a small silver bell attached to it.

‘Stolen from somebody else,’ cried Sir Frederick. ‘Get on with the rest.’

‘This beats everything,’ said I, and drew forth a small pale-blue garment fashioned like a horse’s body-cloth, with a monogram in gold thread at one side. ‘It is a dog’s coat.—And what the deuce is this?’

‘A dog!’ we exclaimed simultaneously.

Carefully folded in a piece of soft linen lay the body of a small silky white, long-haired terrier—to judge by all its surroundings, a lady’s cherished pet. For a few seconds, disgust and disappointment kept us silent; then Sir Frederick broke out into a series of execrations more amusing than effective.

We had been befooled by our own enthusiasm as amateur detectives, and at first were angry, but by-and-by came to see the situation in its more grotesque aspect. After giving vent to our feelings in a burst of suppressed laughter, we put the little pet back into his play-box coffin, being careful to see that everything was just as we had found it; and quickly shovelling the mould and pushing the tombstone over it, we crept out of the old cemetery. Our feelings were very different from those with which we had entered it. We were greatly cheered, however, on reaching the hotel to find a line from Aigunez, which had come during Sir Frederick’s absence; ‘I am on the right track.’

We heard no more for two days, when the detective reappeared with a captive, a valet whom Sir Frederick had dismissed before leaving England, who, knowing the great value of the jewels which Lady O’Connor was taking with her, had thought it worth his while to follow them, and being a clever hand at that sort of work, had succeeded as we have seen.

OCCASIONAL NOTES.

THE WEST AUSTRALIAN GOLD-FIELDS.

For some years, the government of Western Australia has offered a reward of five thousand pounds for the discovery of a payable gold-field within three hundred miles of a declared port. From recent news from Perth, it would almost appear that a profitable gold-field has at last been discovered. We learn that Messrs Malet and M‘Ewen, who were sent by the government to explore the Kimberley District, in the extreme north of the colony, have returned, after an expedition which nearly proved disastrous to the explorers. They lost their horses; and having consumed all their provisions, only escaped starvation by coming unexpectedly to a settler’s hut, where they obtained assistance. The party arrived barefooted, their boots having fallen to pieces on the tramp of one hundred miles. Mr M‘Ewen nearly succumbed to the hardships of the journey. A quantity of the new gold has already found its way to England. According to advices from Derby, the port of the country—named after the present Lord Derby, and situated at the head of King’s Sound—large numbers of people, who were totally unfitted for the work, were starting for the Kimberley gold-fields. As the roads are rough, and provisions scarce and dear, with an absence of water, it goes without saying that no one need venture in search of wealth without being supplied with plenty of money and an ample supply of provisions. The country is described as closely resembling the Peak Down District in Queensland. The gold is much scattered, but the gullies are numerous. It is expected that so soon as the alluvial gold is worked out, productive reefs will be laid bare. The Kimberley District, contrary to what many have supposed, is a country about four and a half times the size of Scotland, with splendid rivers, and with millions of acres of pastoral and agricultural land. The climate has been commended by Captain Grey and other explorers as one of the finest and healthiest in the tropics. Last year, the population numbered only about one hundred white men; the blacks, who are not numerous, are tractable. Sheep, cattle, and horses thrive well, so that, whether or not the gold-fields fulfil the expectations of those who seek their fortune at the gold-fields, there is a fine country to develop. Derby, the capital of this district, at the mouth of the Fitzroy River, consisted lately of but a few huts and tents, and is the station of a government resident. Should the ‘rush’ to the gold-fields continue, doubtless all this will soon be changed.

ROYAL VETERINARY COLLEGE.

The horse fills so large a place in human affairs, that a few words descriptive of an institution devoted to its welfare must interest more or less every one. The Royal Veterinary College—situated in Great College Street, Camden Town, London, N.W.—discharges the twofold function of a hospital and a school; that is to say, it is there the sick or maimed horse—or for the matter of that, the sick or maimed sheep, ox, dog, &c.—is taken to be doctored; and it is there the young man goes for the education and diploma which are to qualify him for the vocation of a veterinary surgeon. The scope of the present series of papers, however, only justifies our considering the institution in its curative capacity. Horse-owners, then, come, in relation to the College, under two heads—subscribers and non-subscribers. If elected by the Governing Body, or General Purposes Committee, a person becomes a yearly subscriber by paying two guineas per annum; or a life subscriber either by paying twenty guineas in one sum, or sixteen guineas after making the annual payment for not less than two consecutive years—certain exceptional conditions applying to firms and companies. The privileges of a subscriber are—(1) To have the gratuitous opinion of the professors as to the treatment to be applied to any animal of his brought for the purpose to the College, but which he may desire to retain in his own keeping. (2) To have admitted into the infirmary, for medical and surgical treatment, any number of his own horses and other animals for which there may be room, at a charge only for their ‘keep.’ (3) To have in the course of any year five horses, his actually or prospective property, examined gratuitously as to soundness, either before or after purchase; and to have any further number examined at a fee of ten shillings and sixpence per head. (4) To be supplied with medicines for animals at a fixed charge. (5) To have, at a fixed rate, a chemical analysis made by the Professor of Chemistry at the College of any water, provender, oilcake, or other feeding-matter, and of the viscera of any animal suspected of being poisoned. (6) In cases of extensive or serious outbreaks of disease, to have an investigation made into its nature and causes, on payment of the fixed charges. And (7) To have a post-mortem examination of any animal, or parts of an animal, sent to the College, and receive an opinion of the probable cause of death, on payment of a fixed charge. As regards outsiders or non-subscribers, the treatment and examination of their animals by the staff of the College are subject to a higher tariff of charges. Another disability under which they labour is that their animals may not be received into the infirmary for treatment. ‘Accidents’ and other urgent cases are received into the institution at all times of the day and night, special vehicles being kept at hand for their transportation.

A singular by-law of the College is the following: ‘Credit will be given for all animals which may die in the infirmary according to the amount received for the carcase; but all diseased parts shall be considered to be the property of the College.’ Such ‘diseased parts’ are useful vehicles in the dissecting-room for conveying knowledge to the minds of the students.

A SONG OF REST.

O weary Hands! that, all the day,
Were set to labour hard and long,
Now softly fall the shadows gray,
The bells are rung for evensong.
An hour ago, the golden sun
Sank slowly down into the west;
Poor, weary Hands, your toil is done;
’Tis time for rest!—’tis time for rest!

O weary Feet! that many a mile
Have trudged along a stony way,
At last ye reach the trysting stile;
No longer fear to go astray.
The gently bending, rustling trees
Rock the young birds within the nest,
And softly sings the quiet breeze:
‘’Tis time for rest!—’tis time for rest!’

O weary Eyes! from which the tears
Fell many a time like thunder-rain—
O weary Heart! that through the years
Beat with such bitter, restless pain,
To-night forget the stormy strife,
And know, what Heaven shall send is best;
Lay down the tangled web of life;
’Tis time for rest!—’tis time for rest!

FLORENCE TYLEE.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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