Then suddenly a grisly notion seized me, and all the afternoon I occupied myself procuring from a tree a slab of wood, upon which to carve my name and age. With what care I chose the inscription! With what labour I worked upon it! When it was completed to my satisfaction, it read as follows—

THE MORTAL REMAINS
OF
JOHN RAMSAY,
MARINER,
Who, dying by his own hand,
Bluffed Starvation, and became the Victim of Despair!

The sun was now only half a hand above the horizon, staring me in the face, a great globe of mocking fire. I had long since chosen the spot for my death, and thither I proceeded, sticking my tombstone in the ground beside the place where in all probability my corpse would fall.

When all my arrangements were made, I fell to sharpening my knife upon a stone, pausing now and again to watch the sun. His lower edge was hardly an eighth of an inch above the sea-line, and as he sank beneath it, I determined to have done with this weary world, and to endeavour to find in another the peace which was denied me here.

For the second time since my arrival on the island, my whole life passed in review before my eyes;—I saw the dame's school at Plymouth, Sir Benjamin, and the East India Avenue, Maud, and my dear dead mother. The bright side of my life seemed suddenly to end here, and a darker procession commenced to stalk across the stage. My early sea life, my quarrel with Maud, the gold-fields, my illness, Broken Hill, and, lastly, Veneda's death. The beach seemed peopled with phantoms, and it was as if they were all imploring me with outstretched arms to stay my wicked hand. But I would not heed them. The sun was now more than half sunk beneath the sea, and I drew back my arm to point the sacrificial knife.

At that instant a tiny object moving on the beach, fifty yards or so from where I stood, caught my eye. I paused to wonder what it might be, and that little act of curiosity saved my life. In that moment I abandoned the idea of self-destruction, and the next I was staggering towards the thing, whatever it might be.

It was a turtle making for the sea!

Before he could escape me I had turned him on his back, and plunged the knife into his breast; then working it round, in less time almost than it takes to tell, I had portions of the flesh cut out, and was ravenously devouring them. Oh, the delight of that meal!

When I had eaten as much as I wanted, I carried what remained to a place of safety, and afterwards knelt upon the beach to thank God earnestly for sparing my life to me. But for that tiny beast's intervention I should have been a dead man. Then with a heart considerably lighter I rose to my feet, and determined to see if by any chance I could discover another of the animals.

My luck had turned, for on the other side of the island I was fortunate enough to obtain another and even larger one. Carrying him back to my camp, I despatched him at once to make sure, and then hid his flesh. I can assure you that it was with a happier and more contented heart that I fell asleep that night.

Next morning I breakfasted on the turtle, and when I had finished, started up the hill to look for ships. As usual, none were to be seen. Having convinced myself of this melancholy fact, I returned to the shore, and, for something to do, set myself to destroy the head-board I had manufactured the day before, and to begin another to perpetuate Veneda's memory. In this manner I occupied myself all that day. When it was finished, I set off to view the grave for the first time since I had laid him in it.

It had already begun to look unkempt and straggling, so quickly do things grow in these latitudes. When I had tidied it as well as I could, I dug a hole at the head and erected the board. It is not much to look at, but at least it will serve its purpose, so that whosoever visits the spot in the future will be able to read the name of the man who lies beneath it.

This work accomplished, I started back along the shore to my camp for dinner. Turning the point, I happened to look out to sea. I stopped suddenly in my walk. I almost dropped under the shock! A sail was in sight, and heading towards the island!

For a moment I remained rooted where I stood; my excitement chained me hand and foot. Would she see me, or would she pass me by? The latter thought was agony. How could I attract her attention? I had no means to raise a flare, so I must hit upon some other scheme. Rushing swiftly across the sands into the thicket, I cut a long pole, and to this fastened my jacket. Then running with all my speed along the beach towards a piece of elevated ground, I ascended it, and wildly began to wave my signal.

Closer and closer she approached the island, and, as she came, I made out that she was not one of the small trading boats I had at first imagined her, but a steam-yacht, and a large one at that. When she was about two miles distant she ran a flag up to her peak. I could not of course at that distance make out what it was, but I understood that it was an answer to my signal, and waved my flag the more frantically, running down to the water's edge to do so. Then I saw that a boat was being lowered.

As soon as she was clear she started for the shore, and when I saw her coming I fell upon my knees, and sobbed as if my heart would break. After what seemed an eternity they grounded her, and I waded out to meet them. A gentlemanly-looking young fellow sat in the stern-sheets. He stared at me rather hard (and well he might, for I must have cut a strange figure), and said—

"I've been sent to see what's the matter. Can we help you?"

"Take me away," I cried, "take me away. I'm dying!"

I really thought I was. My senses were leaving me. I tottered, clutched at the gunwale of the boat, and remember no more!

CHAPTER V.

Then, in a flash, the remembrance of my rescue by the yacht came back to me, and I had just recalled the circumstance of my wading out to her boat, when the door opened and two men entered. The first was a dignified, grey-haired man, possessed of a handsome, aristocratic face; the second was rather smaller, with a bright, rosy little countenance, eyes that bespoke him a humourist, and a general air that said as plainly as words could have done that he was an Irishman. There was still a third behind them, the steward, whose cabin I was then occupying; but he, either from motives of delicacy, or because he imagined the cabin to be already sufficiently crowded, remained in the alley-way. The Irishman opened the conversation.

"Sir Richard," he began, as soon as he saw that I was awake, "you've lost your money, he's himself again. Now, my man, how are you, eh?"

I answered that I felt almost well, but that I would be grateful if he would inform me what boat I was on, and to whom I was indebted for my rescue. Perhaps something in my voice told him that I was not an ordinary foremast hand, for he immediately adopted a different tone, and after feeling my pulse, said—

"You're undoubtedly much stronger than when you were talking nonsense about Albinos, and digging up dead men, yesterday. Where are you? Why, on board the Esmeralda, Sir Richard Tremorden's yacht, to whom you are indebted for the civility of saving your life. Let me introduce you to Sir Richard."

I turned to Sir Richard and tried to thank him, but he would not hear of it.

"Not at all, Mr.——" Here he paused for me to give him my name.

"Ramsay," I said.

"Not at all, Mr. Ramsay. I am very thankful that I was in a position to do so. It was quite by chance that we sighted the island, as our real course lay a good deal to the eastward. Forgive my curiosity, but you must remember you're a mystery, and we're all suffering from an attack of impatience to know how you got there."

I was going to begin my story, but Dr. Sullivan—for such I afterwards discovered the little medico's name to be—would not permit it.

"No, no, Sir Richard, not just now. I must really exercise a doctor's authority, and forbid you to worry him with any questions until he's stronger; besides, ye're doing the ladies, God bless 'em, an injustice, by trespassing on their rights. They'll be wanting to cross-examine Mr. Ramsay for themselves."

"As you please, doctor," Sir Richard said, with a laugh. "You're in command down here, of course. Williams!"

The man in the alley-way answered, "Yes, Sir Richard?"

"Mind you take good care that Mr. Ramsay has everything he wants." Then turning to me, "Now, I must return to the deck to tell the ladies how you are. I hope, when you feel stronger, you'll give us the pleasure of your company."

Shaking me by the hand, he bade me good-bye, and went out, leaving me to the doctor, who thereupon began his medical examination, interspersing it with many good-natured sallies. From him I learnt that Sir Richard Tremorden was returning from a yachting trip to Japan, viâ Borneo and Java, to Singapore. The yacht was full of his friends, and it was only just by chance that he, the doctor, had been able to make one of the party. Furthermore, it was Lady Tremorden who first caught sight of my signal, and it was a strange coincidence that she it was who had proposed leaving their course to take a look at the island.

While we were talking, the steward brought me a large cup of beef-tea, and after he had helped me to sit up to it, the kindly little medico withdrew, having elicited all the information he could, concerning myself and my profession, for the information of the ladies on deck. When I was alone, I found myself face to face with a situation I had not before contemplated. How was I to account for my presence on the island without introducing the subject of our escape from Batavia? I thought and thought, but without telling a downright untruth I could see no way out of it. At last, after a deal of earnest consideration, I determined, if asked, to say that, having nothing to do for a while, I had accompanied a Malay on a sailing-trip. We touched at the island, and while I was ashore he cleared out and left me. This was the only course I could see. I had my own reasons for saying nothing about Veneda.

After lunch, dressed in a white duck suit of Sir Richard's, and having removed from my face the fortnight's beard that covered it, I went on deck, and was presented in proper form to the ladies, who, you may be sure, were all on the qui vive to hear my story. This, as soon as I could, I told them, and I must own that I blushed to hear their vigorous denunciations of the treacherous Malay. Lady Tremorden was particularly gracious, and to her I hastened to express my deep debt of gratitude.

When I look back upon the strange experiences of that year, I always think of that short voyage on board the Esmeralda as one of the few parts of it I should care to undergo again. I said as much to Sir Richard the other day, when I met him in London at a certain club of which we are both members. He laughed and answered—

"You were as good as a tonic to us, we had had no sensation since one of the hands fell overboard in Nagasaki."

Early next morning we reached Singapore, where I was to bid my kind friends "farewell." Before I left the yacht, Sir Richard invited me to his cabin, and in a real spirit of friendliness asked me how I stood with regard to money, offering to become my banker if I should require anything to help me along. But as I still possessed a fair amount of the Albino's loan, this kind offer I was able to decline, though of course I was none the less grateful to the generous thought which prompted it.

By nightfall the yacht had coaled, and proceeded on her way to Saigon, and, nothing else offering, I had signed myself on the Turkish Pacha, to work my way home before the mast.

She was a powerful old Ocean Tramp, homeward bound from Hong Kong. Strangely enough, to show how small the world is, it happened that her second officer was none other than young Belton, who was third mate of the Beretania when I was chief officer. I suppose I must have looked very much the same as the other fo'c'sle hands, for though we were often thrown together, we were off the South Foreland before he recognized me. Then, up to a certain point, and with numberless reservations that quite altered the face of it, I told him my story. I don't suppose he believed it for an instant; doubtless he thought me a wonderful liar, and put it all down as the result of a liking for strong waters. But I must do him the justice to admit, that when we were paid off he proffered me a loan, my non-acceptance of which must have puzzled him considerably.

The time was now coming for me to ascertain what truth there was in the story Veneda had told me of his fortune. But as I had passed my word to him not to open the locket within a month of my arrival in London, I had to look about me for a place to stay in until that time should expire. Having sufficient money to keep me for at least six weeks in comparative comfort, I resolved to put up at a quiet place I knew of, near the East India Docks, until the end of that period, and then to open the locket and try my success.

Somehow or other, though I had been assured by Veneda of its worth, though I wore it round my neck as a tangible proof of its reality, and had been warned of the attempts that would in all probability be made to obtain possession of it, I was not altogether a believer in the likelihood of its doing very much for me. I had been devoid of luck so long that I began to believe no more could ever come my way. So, all things considered, I should not have been overwhelmed with astonishment, had I on opening it discovered the information it contained to be entirely valueless.

I cannot tell you how strange it seemed to me to be back again in London after so long an absence, and how bitterly I felt the loss of the poor old mother's kindly welcome. As to Maud, my gentle Maud, of whom I had been thinking more than was good for me of late, was it any use to think of her? Had I forfeited all right to her regard? So constantly was she in my mind that I remember one night, under cover of darkness, stealing down to Holland Park just to take one glimpse at the old place where she had lived, and where once I had been so happy.

It was a wet, miserable evening; a piercing wind shrieked along the dismal streets and moaned round the corners, chilling to the marrow the bones of one accustomed to the warmth and brightness of those sunny Southern seas. Leaving my omnibus in the Uxbridge Road, I walked up a side street to the house. There it stood, solid and respectable as I remembered it. No changes had been made in its exterior, everything was exactly as when I saw it last, even to the peculiar scrimpiness about the piece of privet hedge beside the gate. A light was burning in an up-stair window, but otherwise the house was dark and silent as the grave. I stood and looked, the tears rising in my eyes as I did so; then, heaving a sigh for the sake of "auld lang syne," and all that might have been, I turned and went sorrowfully away.

And now I am brought to the relation of an incident which was to have a great and awful bearing on my future. One wet morning, I had just alighted from a 'bus in Oxford Street, a little below the Holborn Restaurant, and was half-way across the street, when a hansom whisked past me, so close that the horse's nose brushed my sleeve. The driver called to me to stand clear, and, expecting an accident, the fare threw open the apron and half stepped out. To my amazement he was none other than the Albino. There could be no mistake about it; I knew him in an instant. My astonishment was so great that I stopped in the middle of the road, and once more came near being run over.

On recovering myself my first impulse was to hail a hansom and make after him, but on second thoughts I saw the folly of such a proceeding. My one endeavour must rather be to keep out of his way. Whether he recognized me or not I could not of course tell, but we were so close to one another that it was most unlikely that he could have failed to do so. But then, I told myself, even if he did, what could it matter? He would never suspect me of being the possessor of the locket, for how should he know that I had escaped with Veneda from Batavia? Still, until I knew whether the secret the locket contained was of any value, it would be folly to run the risk of losing it. How well I guarded it the sequel will show.

Having little if any money to spend in what is called "knocking about town," I did not go out very much of an evening. When I did, my chief amusement was the theatre, to which I treated myself on an average about twice a week. After the performance it was my custom on the way home to drop into a small hostelry called the "Rose and Crown" for a night-cap. One evening (I had been to the Lyceum, I think) I went in and called for my usual refreshment. The bar was crowded, and among the visitors was a man who seemed to take a particular interest in myself. He came up to me and invited me to take a glass with him. Upon my offering some excuse he tried by every means in his power to ingratiate himself with me. But I did not like his look, and resolved, if I saw anything more of him there, to transfer my patronage from the "Rose and Crown" elsewhere.

A few nights later I was annoyed at finding him there again, this time evidently awaiting my coming. As soon as I entered he advanced upon me, and asked why I had refused to drink with him on the previous occasion, demanding if I had any objection to his company? It would have been the easiest thing in the world for me to have knocked him down, but I did not want to make a row, so I resolved if possible not to lose my temper with him. As soon as he found I was prepared to listen to what he had to say, he entered upon a long rambling statement as to what he would have done had I insulted him again, winding up by inserting his hand inside my collar, and at the same time tugging violently at the chain which held the locket round my neck. I was so surprised by his impudence that for a second or two I let him pull, then, divining his intention, I immediately knocked him down.

His fall raised a hubbub, but as soon as I could I explained matters to the landlord, who, knowing me for a regular customer, was the more disposed to overlook such a trifling indiscretion as knocking a stranger down in his bar. When I left the house I hastened home, reflecting with considerable gratitude (seeing the aspect affairs were beginning to assume) that another ten days would give me the right to open the locket and decide its secret.

That the man was an emissary of the Albino's, employed to find out if by any chance I had the locket, I did not for a moment doubt. The whole thing was as clear as daylight. Macklin had discovered Veneda's whereabouts, and our escape together. Of course he could not know anything of the other's death, but meeting me in London he must have thought it worth his while to make sure that I was not the possessor of what he was so anxious to obtain. Now the man would be able to inform him definitely that I had got it, and things would be pretty certain to come to a crisis. I resolved to be more careful than ever.

On the Saturday following the events just described, I was not very well, a feeling of intense depression had seized me, and in order to try and raise my spirits I went to the Empire Music Hall. While mixed up in the crowd leaving it I felt my arm clutched. Imagine my amazement on turning at finding myself confronted by no less a person than Juanita! She was dressed entirely in black, and though thinner than when we had parted, still looked surpassingly beautiful. Without a word she slipped her arm through mine and drew me from the building. When we reached the street, she said—

"My Jack, how I have longed for this day! Oh, the joy of seeing you again!"

I was about to venture some remonstrance, but she would not hear me until we had left the square, and were pacing down a side street.

"What joy this is for me!" she said, as we walked along. "Never did I think on that dreadful morning in Batavia that we two would meet again."

"It isn't your fault that we have," I said bitterly, remembering her treachery. "It wasn't your fault that your evidence didn't bring me to the gallows."

"Oh, Jack, you would not be so cruel as to blame me for that?" she cried. "I could not help myself. If I had not given the evidence I did, I should not have left Batavia alive."

"What do you mean?" I asked, astonished.

"Macklin," she hissed, and her eyes glowed with a sudden fury as her lips dwelt upon his name. "I was his slave, body and soul. I dared not do anything but his will. Oh, Jack, forgive me, forgive me, for I have been so unhappy."

But though she pleaded in this fashion, I was not to be hoodwinked. I had tasted her treachery before, how was I to know that she was not fooling me now? I told her as much, whereupon she withdrew her arm from mine, and made as if she would leave me. Her voice, when she spoke, had a certain pride in it, which I could not understand.

"Say no more; it was foolish of me to have stopped you. I thought, when I saw your face, there might be some little pity for my loneliness. I was mistaken. Good-bye Jack, good-bye."

She held out her little hand to me as though she would leave me there and then, and looking into her eyes—we were just beneath a gas-lamp—I saw that she was crying.

Now, never in my life have I been able to stand the sight of a woman's tears. Crocodile tears though they often are, they have an effect on me which is more than peculiar. I began at once to reproach myself for having been so blunt with her, and was more and more inclined to place credence in her assertion that she was only led to act as she had done by the influence of the Albino.

"Forgive me, Juanita," I said. "I spoke roughly to you, but it was only natural under the circumstances. I believe what you say, and regret that I should have given you additional pain. Where are you staying now?"

She gave me her address and I asked if she would allow me to take her home. She consented, and as it was too far to walk, I called a hansom. Placing her in it, I seated myself beside her, and we rattled off. As we went her spirits began to revive. She recalled our voyage in the schooner, our love-making in Thursday Island, and many other little circumstances connected with our mutual past.

At length, after passing down a long overgrown thoroughfare, the cab pulled up before a house. She got out and opened the front door while I paid the cabman. Then we went up-stairs together to her sitting-room. Once there, her light-hearted manner left her altogether.

"Jack," she began sadly, "I know it is all over between us, but can you find it in your heart to say you forgive me?"

"Quite, Juanita. Badly as you have treated me, I forgive you everything."

"And you believe, Jack, that whatever I may have done, I loved you once?"

"Yes, I honestly believe that you did love me. But, Juanita, will you let me ask you one question?"

"A hundred if you like, Jack; for this will be our last meeting. After to-night we shall never see each other again."

"What do you mean?"

"That I am going away,—never mind where,—away from England. Now, what is it you wish to ask me?"

"First, why did you want that money?"

"Oh, Jack, that is a long story, and a sad one. But I will tell you. Once I was poor,—oh, so poor! And to keep myself from starving I sold my honour. A little son was born to me—born in sin and shame. I loved him more than all the world, but knowing what I was, I dared not imperil his immortal soul by letting him remain with me. So I gave him into the keeping of the Good Sisters. But when I did so, I bound myself by a great oath. In bringing him into the world I had done him a wrong which I could never repay. Poverty had compelled me to it, so I swore that I would never rest until I had collected a certain sum of money, by any means, good or bad, to be his property when he should become a man; so that he should never experience the miserable want which wrought his mother's ruin. This I set myself solemnly to accomplish. For a long time I could hear of nothing. Then I joined a certain Society and learnt the game Veneda and the Albino were playing. By chance I discovered Veneda's secret, and I threw my lot in with him, determining to steal the locket which contained the paper, and by that means obtain the money. How I fought for it, how he deceived me, and how the Albino tracked us down, you know. There is one thing, perhaps, of which you are not aware."

"What is that?"

"That your presence in London with the locket is known to him. That he is aware of your escape with Veneda, your journey to the island, your voyage to Singapore in Sir Richard Tremorden's yacht, and your arrival in England by the Turkish Pacha."

"Good heavens!" I cried, astounded. "How on earth did he learn all that?"

"How does he get to know of anything? He is the most wonderful man under the sun, I think, and certainly the wickedest. His agents in Batavia found out your escape from a cab-driver and a boatman. Lady Tremorden described your rescue in a letter she contributes to a ladies' newspaper. And he was in the docks when the Turkish Pacha arrived from Singapore."

I was so overcome with astonishment that I could not reply. She continued—

"Jack, you don't know what escapes you've had. One night you crossed the river to a house on the Surrey side, didn't you?"

I nodded. I remembered the occasion perfectly. I went over to spend the evening with an acquaintance, but not feeling well, left early.

"Well, that night, by his orders, three men waited two hours for you on Westminster Bridge. Somehow they must have missed you. Had they caught you, you would most certainly have lost the locket, and probably your life. One night you went to supper on board the Prince of Tartary, lying off Blackwall?"

I nodded again.

"Those three men followed you. You slept on board, or they would have had that locket and thrown your body into the stream."

"But, Juanita, this is simply murder."

"Jack, you may not believe what I am going to tell you, but it is nevertheless true. I have quarrelled hopelessly with Macklin, and I'm hiding from his anger now."

"Why did you quarrel with him, Juanita?"

"Because he wanted me to help him in another scheme to murder you. I refused, and he attempted my life. He is hunting for me everywhere, thinking I shall communicate with you."

"But, Juanita, if you still want that money for your child, and you didn't spare me before, why do you do so now?"

Big tears rose in her eyes, and her voice trembled as she replied—

"Jack, my child is dead. And think, he died on the day that I betrayed you in Batavia. It was the judgment of heaven on my sin. Had he lived, I should have betrayed you again. But now that I know he is dead, I will not side with that man against you. But you must be careful. If you have the precious paper, why don't you go to the place, and get the money at once?"

"Because I can't. I have sworn not to open the locket until I have been a month in England. The time expires in three days, then I shall do so. But, Juanita, you must leave London at once, you are not safe here. Go into the country, and in a week I will send you money enough to enable you to get out of England. You must let me help you in return for what you've done for me."

"Ah! you don't know," she answered sadly. "Now my little one is gone, my life seems over; I am tired of the battle. I would rather die ... Jack, if possible I should like to give my life to save yours, to show what the worth of my love really is. Perhaps you would sometimes think kindly of me then."

"I shall never think otherwise. Believe me, there is only kindness in my heart towards you."

"Yes! Only kindness. Your love is dead. Jack, some day you will marry a good woman. Don't let her believe me to have been altogether bad."

"Don't you know me better than that, Juanita?"

"But now that the Albino——"

"Well?"

We both sprang to our feet, and turned in the direction of the voice. The Albino stood before us smiling sweetly!

"And what of the Albino, my dear Juanita? You see, he appears to answer for himself. But there, don't let's talk of him. This is indeed a pleasant surprise. Quite like old times, I declare. John Ramsay, how d'you do?"

"You little devil!" I cried. "How did you get in here?"

"By the front door, my dear boy,—how else? The door has not been built yet that could keep John Macklin out. But you don't seem pleased to see me."

"I should be delighted if I thought I should never set eyes on you again. I've come to the bottom of a good many of your tricks, and I've a good mind to wring your neck, you murderous little reptile."

"That's nonsense, arrant nonsense. But let's get to business. Look here, John Ramsay, you're very smart, but I'm smarter. I want that locket Veneda gave you. I must have it sooner or later, so you may as well hand it over now. Give it to me, and I'll give you a cheque for a thousand pounds. Could anything be fairer?"

"I wouldn't give it you for two hundred times that amount."

"You're a fool, a madman! You're bringing about your own ruin. You've got it on you now—give it to me, or I swear you don't leave this house alive. You can't escape; I've got men in the street, and I'm armed, so hand it over."

My temper, never too good at the best of times, here deserted me altogether. Picking up the poker, I made a dash at him. Quick as lightning he whipped a revolver from his pocket and covered me. Seeing him about to pull the trigger, I came to a halt. Before I knew what had happened, Juanita had thrown herself between us. He fired. Juanita gave a little cry and fell at my feet. Mad with rage, I sprang over her body towards him. He fired again. I felt a stab as if a red-hot knitting-needle had been run through me, and became unconscious.

When my senses came back to me, I was in the Charing Cross Hospital, more dead than alive. The bullet which had brought me down had been extracted, and the police were anxiously waiting to examine me as to the reason of it all. One thing was very certain; the Albino had achieved his purpose, for the precious locket, the cause of all the trouble, was gone.

CHAPTER VI.

Any further wonderment was put a stop to by the entrance of the ladies themselves, escorted by the house surgeon. Can you guess who they were? One was a lady I had never seen before, a chaperon, I suppose. The other was—but there, I must leave you to imagine who alone would have sufficient pity to forget the past, and to come and comfort the sick and sorrowful? It was Maud! The Maud I had treated so shamefully, to whom I had done so great a wrong. I could hardly believe my eyes! With that exquisite grace that always characterized her movements, she floated up the long bare ward to where I lay, bringing with her sunshine and happiness unspeakable.

"Jack, Jack," she began, taking my great brown paw between her dainty hands, "welcome home, ten thousand welcomes home!"

Though the words she uttered were nothing more than ordinary, there was something in the way she said them that invested them with a charm no other woman could have given them.

"How did you know I was here?" I asked, when the first embarrassment was over, and she had taken a chair by my side.

"Papa saw it in the paper," she said, "and we immediately made inquiries."

"And you were forgiving enough to come and see me. Oh, Maud, how little I deserve it!"

"Hush, you mustn't talk like that. Of course I could not let you lie here without coming to you. Some people might be shocked at the idea of a young lady visiting a gentleman in a hospital. But I do what I think right myself. Now, the doctor tells me you are better, and will soon be able to come out. Directly you are ready, you must come to us."

"Come to you, Maud? Your father would never allow that."

"Papa wishes it as much as I do, so be quick and get well. I have such a lot to tell you, and messages to give you, Jack, from your poor dear mother. I was with her till the last."

"I guessed you would be. Poor mother!"

We were both silent for a minute, then I said—

"Maud, can you tell me one thing? How is the woman who was found in the room with me?"

"Dead, Jack. She died while the police were examining her this morning."

The shock was almost too much for me. It was some time before I could realize it.

"Dead? Oh, poor Juanita! Then her wish was gratified after all. She gave her life for mine. Maud, there is the end of a tragedy. Poor Juanita!"

"Don't think of it for the present, Jack. Wait till you are stronger. I must go soon, or the doctor will say I'm keeping you from getting well."

"Nonsense, your presence will do me more good than all his drugs put together. Forgive me one question."

"A hundred. What is this one?"

"Maud," I asked, almost afraid, "you are not married?"

She shook her head a little sadly, I thought. Oh, if I could only find the pluck to put another! I would try, at any rate.

"Maud, have you only come here in pity, or do you—do you——"

She must have divined what I meant, perhaps she read it in my eyes, for a great blush spread over her face, as she bent towards me and whispered—

"How cruel of you, Jack, to make me say it! I am here because I love you,—because I love you!"

My emotion was so great that I could not speak. My eyes overflowed with tears; I could feel them coursing down my cheeks. The doctor and nurse had taken the chaperon to the other end of the ward, and as I had a screen round my bed, we were quite alone. At last I found my voice.

"Maud," I faltered, "I am not worthy of you, my dear, I am not worthy. You do not know what my life has been."

What she said in reply has no business here but I know that it acted on me like a magic potion. When she went away, I only let her go on the strict understanding that she should come again as soon as she could spare the time. After the door had closed on her it was as though all the sunshine had gone out of the ward; but she had left behind in my heart a greater happiness than I had ever known before, one that can never leave me again as long as I live to feel it.

A little later the doctor came to examine me. He was struck by the improvement in my condition.

"Why, man, what on earth have you been doing to yourself?" he asked. "You're a hundred per cent. better than you were when I saw you last."

"Happiness, doctor," I answered. "I have had some news which has done me more good than anything your science could prescribe for me."

"It looks like it," he said, and went on to the next bed laughing.

But though my heart was full of joy because I knew that Maud still loved me, it was not unmixed with a feeling of sorrow. In the first place, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was not worthy of my darling's love; and in the second, how was I, a pauper, to ask her to be my wife? My fortune, if it had ever been a fortune, had been stolen from me, and even if I returned to my old profession, the sea, I should stand but a poor chance of ever making enough to justify me in asking Sir Benjamin for her hand. Consideration of these things was, however, postponed for the present by the arrival of the police and a magistrate, to take my deposition for use at the inquest on poor Juanita's body. She, brave soul, had sacrificed herself for me, and it should go hard if any exertion on my part should be wanting to bring her murderer to justice. In the evening I had the satisfaction of hearing that a verdict of wilful murder had been returned against John Macklin, and that a warrant was already out for his arrest.

By special favour, Maud was permitted to see me every other day, until I was in a condition to be moved. When that happy moment arrived, she herself came to escort me. The carriage was at the great hospital door, and in it we set out for Holland Park.

When we reached the house, who should open the door but Sir Benjamin himself! His welcome could not have been more cordial had I been his own son returning after an absence of many years. On his arm I entered the house, tenderly watched by Maud. We passed into the drawing-room, and I was soon seated in a comfortable chair before the fire.

"Sit yourself down, my dear boy," Sir Benjamin said, "and you'll just take a glass of wine and a biscuit before you do another thing. I prescribe it myself, and surely I ought to know. Hum, ha! Maud, my dear, God bless you."

I never remember having seen Sir Benjamin so much affected before. Tears stood in his eyes, and his hand trembled so violently that it was as much as he could do to pour out the wine for me. Dear old man, I had always misjudged his affection for myself, though why he should have felt any was a thing which, personally, I could never understand.

It was not till after lunch that I got an opportunity of a private conversation with him. Then, as I had made up my mind I would, I told him my whole story, from the time of my leaving England on my last voyage, up to the present moment. As my yarn progressed, I was alarmed at the change in his face. From its usual rosy hue its colour passed to an extraordinary pallor, and when I reached the account of my scene with Juanita, and my attempted assassination, with the robbery of the locket, I thought he would have fainted. He gasped—

"You say that Marmaduke, my nephew, gave you that locket containing the piece of paper?"

"Yes, and bound me by a promise that I would not open it till I had been a month in London."

"Then, John, God forgive me, I have done you an awful injury. I have, unconsciously it is true, robbed you of £200,000!"

"What!" I cried, in my turn astonished by his words. "What had you to do with that affair?"

"I was the custodian of it; my nephew sent it home to me from Chili to keep for him, with the proviso that if ever he should send a messenger for it, bearing a certain piece of paper, I should give him whatever amount, even up to the entire sum, he should ask of me."

"And that messenger?"

"Came the same day that we heard of your accident, and brought the scrap of paper; he said my nephew was in great danger, and wanted his money immediately; he took away my cheque for £200,000 and accumulated interest, and, as I have found out by inquiry, cashed it the same morning. By this time he has probably left the country!"

"What was he like, this messenger?"

"Well, he was the most extraordinary little man I ever set eyes on. He was a deformed Albino."

"The Albino! Then you've seen the murderer—the man who killed Juanita, and attempted to do the same for me."

"Good heavens! What's to be done now?"

"Nothing that I can see. The police are searching high and low for him. We can't recover the money, for we haven't the vestige of a right to it. You must remember it was to be the property of whosoever brought you the paper. The Albino brought it, and he has got it. We must grin and bear our loss. You are not a bit to blame, Sir Benjamin."

I saw that he felt he had injured me, and to try and drive the subject from his mind, I spoke to him of my views regarding Maud. In a second he was another man.

"Jack, my boy, God bless you for that idea! My carelessness, though certainly I did not know any better, has deprived you of great wealth; now I can make up for it. You love Maud. Maud has never wavered in her affection for you. I'm not going to ask what your life has been since you left us, because I trust to your honour not to ask me for my girl if there's anything against it. On the point of money we'll split the difference, and on your wedding-day I'll make you a present of a cheque for £100,000. Will that suit you?"

"No, Sir Benjamin, I cannot let you do it. If when I'm strong enough you'll help me to some appointment which will enable me to support Maud in a proper manner, I should be just as grateful. But I can't take your money in compensation for what was not your fault."

"It shan't be in compensation then, it shall be as a free gift. See, here is Maud; if you want to talk about it, let it be to her. I must go into town, and find out if the police have discovered anything regarding that Albino."

With this excuse the old gentleman hobbled out of the room, and I was left alone with Maud. When I told her of her father's generosity she became very silent, and her dear eyes filled with tears, but you may be sure they were not tears of sorrow.

"There's one thing I want to tell you, Jack," she said. "I asked papa to undertake on your behalf the funeral of that poor woman. He did so, and now she has a quiet resting-place in Wendthrop churchyard, under the great yew-tree near the lych-gate. I knew you would like to think she had been given a proper burial. Some day we will go together, and see the grave of the woman who sacrificed her life in such a noble way. We must never forget her nobility, Jack."

"No, dear, pray God we never may! Poor Juanita, her troubled life is over! Surely all her sins have been atoned for by her last act of self-sacrifice!"

And so it came to pass, a month or two later, when summer was on the land, that we twain, as man and wife, went down together to the little village, in the churchyard of which Juanita takes her last long sleep. It was evening, the after-glow of sunset was still upon the sky, and bats were flitting hither and thither among the tombs. In the dip below the churchyard the dear old river ran its silent course towards the sea; a faint chattering sounded from the rooks in the elms above us, and across the meadows came the gentle tinkling of cattle-bells. We passed through God's acre to the old yew-tree, beneath whose ample shade a grave was just beginning to show signs of the care that had been bestowed upon it.

Hand in hand we stood beside it, thinking of the woman whose body lay beneath us. In my thoughts I was far away from England. Thursday Island rose before my eyes; the bay dotted with shipping, clouds upon the hill-tops, the noise of the surf upon the beach, the rustling of palm-trees, and Juanita's laughter ringing from the Orient Hotel.

Before we came away we made a resolve that once every year, as long as we two should live, we would repeat the visit. The grave will be our constant care. For in that way alone can we show our gratitude to the woman whose resting-place it is.

But to return to a more cheerful topic. My long story is fast drawing to a close, and, as I don't doubt, you will say it is about time. But there are two more circumstances of importance to be recorded before I can with satisfaction call a halt.

The first is the matter of my marriage. But when I tell you that it only happened a couple of months ago, you will see that I am hardly in a position yet to describe it with the care such an important event demands. Suffice it then that it took place at the parish church without any ostentation or fuss. I'm not going to tell you how Maud looked in her wedding-dress, because I was far too nervous to find that out for myself. A tiny cousin acted as her bridesmaid, and an old sea friend was good enough to officiate as my best man.

After the ceremony, which took place in the afternoon, we drove back to the house, where Maud held a little reception; and here occurred the second event to which I desire to draw your attention.

Among the guests who came to offer their congratulations were two people whom I had seen before under very different circumstances. That they had not recognized my connection with that affair was evident. So waiting my opportunity, I took Maud on my arm, and bidding her listen, approached the lady, saying politely—

"I think we have met before!"

She stared in blank surprise, grew very confused, and at last replied—

"I'm afraid you must be mistaken, Mr. Ramsay; I don't think I have ever had the pleasure of seeing you before!"

"And yet I think I carried you in my arms once, and for a considerable distance!"

"You, Mr. Ramsay? Surely you must be mistaken! Pray tell me when."

"In Australia. You were staying at the Federation Hotel the night it caught fire. A fireman carried you down a ladder in his arms!"

"Good gracious! You were not that fireman?"

"I was, though please say nothing about it. If you do, I shall be sorry I recalled the circumstance to your memory."

"But you saved my life. Oh, where is my husband? I must tell him. Maud, do you hear what Mr. Ramsay says?"

"Yes, I have heard about it before, and I am very proud of him," said Maud; and that little sentence was more than sufficient praise for me.

Next moment Major Welbourne—for he was Major now—was overwhelming me with protestations of gratitude, and I was bitterly regretting having said anything about the matter. But for all that it was a strange coincidence, wasn't it?

As soon as the reception was over, we bade Sir Benjamin good-bye, and started for Southsea, en route to the Isle of Wight, where, as the guests of Mr. Sanctuary, Maud's cousin, we proposed to spend our honeymoon.

It is under his hospitable roof that this account of my strange adventures has been written, and now comes to a conclusion.

I am loth to say "farewell," but what more can I tell you? Only the other day I discovered that Bradshaw the banker, whose embezzlement was the primary cause of all the trouble, had the misfortune to be extradited soon after the loss of his money, and now occupies a cell in one of her Majesty's criminal lunatic asylums. Of the ill-fated pair who left Valparaiso in the schooner Island Queen, Veneda lies buried on an island off the Sumatra coast, Juanita in an English churchyard. So far nothing has been heard of the Albino. Despite his extraordinary personality, which, one would be tempted to believe, would render it the more difficult for him to escape, he has succeeded in completely baffling the police. Whether I shall ever hear of him again is a matter outside my power to tell, but that he will some day overreach himself, and suffer the penalty of his crimes, I am as certain as that I am one of the happiest of men to-day. And nothing can be more certain than that!

And with the assurance of that fact I bring my story to a close. My only hope is that I may be permitted to be the husband to Maud that she deserves; and my only regret is that I cannot prove myself better worthy of her love. Surely a life devoted to achieving both these ends cannot be altogether spent in vain!

THE END.

LIST OF NEW BOOKS

By MAURICE THOMPSON.

A Banker of Bankersville. 12mo, 323 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.

A thoroughly American story of stirring events in a Western "boom" city. For a vivid pen picture of real life and romance in a hustling little Western metropolis, with sufficient love and humor to make the book interesting, we would commend "A Banker of Bankersville."

By F. FRANKFORT MOORE.

I Forbid the Banns. The story of a comedy which was played seriously. 12mo, 404 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.

The hero and heroine meet on a vessel returning to England from Australia and learn to love each other. The girl is rich and beautiful, and does not believe in the rite of marriage. After much thinking, the man agrees to take her to his home without a marriage ceremony. The consequences of the departure from custom makes an interesting and instructive story.

By W. E. NORRIS.

His Grace. 12mo, 278 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.

"Mr. Norris has never written a better novel than this, which deals with English life and its remedy for debts—marriage to a rich wife—though His Grace, being obstinate, weds a poor girl. The characters are all distinctly drawn, and the plot is well proportioned and its movement easy"—Boston Literary World.

By ALEXANDRE DUMAS.

D'Artagnan, the King Maker. Illustrated. 12mo, 308 pages. Cloth binding. $1.00

An old Dumas story, but quite new to the American public. The history surrounding this peculiar state of affairs is too long to repeat here; but it is an absolute fact that no translation of "The Kingmaker" has ever before appeared in English. The plot of the story hinges upon the mission of D'Artagnan, the Kingmaker, who is dispatched to Portugal, then in the grip of Spain. He discovers Portugal a slumbering volcano, and in a little while he is trying the temper of his blade right and left. D'Artagnan, the dauntless, temporarily changes places with Don Juan, the somewhat timid aspirant to the throne; and after a hundred well-fought fights and a display of heroism that dazzled the populace, he has the satisfaction of hearing Don Juan proclaimed King of Portugal. It is a thrilling story, in which the clash of arms blends with the soft tones of lovely women, and the amorous speeches of the susceptible D'Artagnan. The book is splendidly illustrated by Charles Grunwald.

By OUIDA (Louise de la Ramé).

Santa Barbara. 12mo, 303 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.

In this collection of the gems of Ouida's storiettes, the author takes the reader to the fog-bound shores of the Adriatic, along enchanting wharves and quays, through gorgeous palaces and cathedrals, and introduces the most charming characters in fiction.

The Tower of Taddeo. 12mo, 313 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.

This is a pathetic story of an old bookseller who, having no idea of money, gathers treasures of old books, which, with the extravagance of an ungrateful son, ruins him. He has a daughter who lives, loves and cares for him, who becomes betrothed to a poor artist. It is a story of simple trusting ignorance on the one hand and grasping dishonesty on the other.

By J. MACLAREN COBBAN.

A Soldier and a Gentleman. 12mo, 211 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.

The hero is a manly youth, who has seen service in the English army, and who, upon his return to a civilian's life, finds himself rather out of his element and extremely hard up. For a consideration, he agrees to represent another person, and in this compromising position makes love to a pretty, and, at the same time, wealthy young woman. How he proves himself to be a Soldier and a Gentleman must be left to the reader to discover.

By EDWARD W. TOWNSEND.

A Daughter of the Tenements. 12mo, 301 pages. Cloth binding. 50c.

This work is the master product of the author of "Chimmie Fadden." In "Chimmie Fadden," we laugh at the humor of East-side life. In "A Daughter of the Tenements," we have the real pathos and tragedy of life in the tenements of New York, written by one who knows the people and their ways and hearts, and how to write it all—as no one has ever known and written of that district before.

By BILLY BURGUNDY.

Toothsome Tales Told in Slang. Illustrated. 16mo, 120 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.

Here are vivid pages from the everyday lives of fascinating women before and behind the foot-lights. The yarns are dainty, sometimes humorously pathetic, sometimes uproariously funny, but always delightful. "One begins the book with a smile, and puts it away with a number one size laugh, and a feeling that it has been worth while to cultivate the acquaintance of Billy Burgundy's slang of the Rialto."

Works by Henry Harland

Mrs. Peixada. 12mo, 317 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.

The hero, a young lawyer whose first case is the tracking of Mrs. Peixada, a charming woman of about twenty-three summers, accused of shooting her husband. The plot is as peculiar as that of "As It Was Written." The denouement is a thorough surprise.

Mademoiselle Miss, and other stories. 12mo, 192 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.

The title-story of the present volume, as well as those which follow it, shows the same clear insight into character, the same strength and delicacy of description, and the same faculty of individualizing the personages of the narrative, as are manifest in Mr. Harland's previous work.

Mea Culpa—A Woman's Last Word. 12mo, 347 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.

To save her father, a woman marries a European prince. It is a loveless marriage and the life is a bitter one. A former lover appears; there is a duel; the prince dies. Then, instead of marriage bells, there is the sadness of farewell. The lover feels himself a murderer and takes his own life in an agony of despair.

The Yoke of the Thorah. 12mo, 320 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.

Two lovers were to be married in the spring. That one was a Jew and the other a Christian didn't seem to matter. But the God of Israel intervenes through a venerable rabbi, and a struggle begins between hope and doubt. The story is taken up with the attempts of the lovers to come together and the plans of the elders to keep them separate.

As it Was Written—A Jewish Musician's Story. 12mo, 252 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.

"As It Was Written" is the confession of a man who, under peculiar circumstances, murders the woman he loves and then gives himself up to the punishment that the terrible crime demands.

Grandison Mather—An account of the fortunes of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Gardner. 12mo, 338 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.

The opening chapter gives a sunny picture of Tom's vacation in Paris, after finishing his college course, and his courtship of "Mrs. Tom." After many experiences Tom writes a successful novel and makes some money. The story is a simple everyday one throughout and is charmingly told. It is full of graphic pictures of New York life.

A Latin-Quarter Courtship, and other stories. 12mo, 269 pages. Cloth binding. 75c.

The first story covers 190 pages, and is a charmingly told tale of life and love in Paris, in which the actors are an American woman doctor, her friend a young French girl, and an American author. The two latter, of course, fall in love with each other.

Works by Amédée Achard

This author is not as familiar to American and English readers as the merit of his work would warrant, but it is a positive pleasure to exploit the writings of one so well equipped for a foremost position in the school of which Alexandre Dumas, Theophile Gautier and Stanley J. Weyman are the accepted standards. Mons. Achard's works are popular favorites with the French people, and the excellent translations of his best novels which we are presenting to the public in moderate-priced editions cannot fail to please and satisfy all lovers of "The Three Musketeers," and works of like tenor.

Belle Rose—A Romance of the Cloak and Sword. Translated by William Hale, with a biography of the author. Five full-page illustrations. 12mo, 368 pages. Cloth binding. $1.25

"Belle-Rose" is a romance in which the hero undertakes and conquers all manner of difficulties for the love of a woman. The author throws the glamour of love and war over all, introducing such celebrated characters in history as to give it an air of reality.

The Dragoons of La Guerche—A Sequel to "The Huguenot's Love." Translated by Richard Duffy. Five full-page illustrations. 12mo, 358 pages. Cloth binding. $1.25

Although "The Huguenot's Love" is so complete and fascinating a story in itself, the sequel is bound to prove a still greater satisfaction to the reader. In "The Dragoons of La Guerche" we find the two heroes of the former tale riding at the head of their band of cavalry through the most hostile territory of Europe in the quest of the two fair women they loved.

The Sword of a Gascon. Translated by William Hale. Five full-page illustrations. 12mo, 289 pages. Cloth binding. $1.25

This story of the reign of Louis XIV. is a typical "romance of the cloak and sword." The Gascon hero is bold and daring, like all those of his race. He is an accomplished swordsman, a gallant cavalier, who pays court to an inn-keeper's daughter or the niece of a cardinal with equal grace and equal success.

The Huguenot's Love. Translated by Richard Duffy. Five full-page illustrations. 12mo, 333 pages. Cloth binding. $1.25

In this volume the gifted author gives a splendid picture of the religious strife which paralyzed all Europe in the middle of the seventeenth century. The two main characters are in religion enemies, but personally the dearest of friends. They are valiant Frenchmen, who under the standard of Gustavus Adolphus, engaged in the immortal Thirty Years' War. Their sweethearts follow them in their expedition and incur some marvelous adventures.

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Price, per volume, Fifty Cents