He roughly seized her hand and clapped it on the key. She drew it away, leaving his there. A blinding flash of lightning illumined the place, and what looked like a missile of fire flew down the wire to the instrument, where it exploded. O'Reagan fell insensible from the powerful electrical shock. The rest did not altogether escape, and for a minute all were dazed. The first thing that they fully comprehended was that O'Reagan was getting unsteadily to his feet. He was bewildered. Staggering and reeling, he began to talk. Mary was first to perceive the import of his utterance. He was merely going on with what he had been saying, but the manner, not the matter, was astounding. He spoke with an Italian accent, and made Italian gestures. "You-a send ze mes-sage," he said; "Heath ees ze murder-are. Send-a ze mes-sage, I say." Tonio Ravelli had unwittingly resumed his Italian style of English. His plenitude of hair and whiskers was gone; and in the face, thereby uncovered, nobody could have recognized him in Detective O'Reagan but for his lapse into the foreign accent; and he said so much before discovering his blunder that his identification, as indeed Ravelli, was complete. Who, then, was the dead man? Why, he was Eph. Nothing but the fear of being himself condemned as a murderer of the maniac, as a part of the scheme of revenge against Gerald, induced Ravelli to explain. He had found Eph lying dead in the path, after both had parted from Gerald. The plot to exchange clothes with the corpse, drag it to the furnace, burn away all possibility of recognition, and thus make it seem to be his murdered self, was carried out with all the hot haste of a jealous vengeance. Ravelli was not an Italian, although very familiar with the language of Italy, and able, by a natural gift of mimicry, to hide himself from pursuit for a previous crime. Overlook had been a refuge until his passion for Mary Warriner led him to abandon his disguise. Thereupon, he had turned himself into Terence O'Reagan, a detective, whose malicious work wrought happiness for Gerald Heath and Mary Warriner. A THING THAT GLISTENED. BY FRANK R. STOCKTON. In the fall of 1888 the steamship _Sunda_, from Southampton, was running along the southern coast of Long Island, not many hours from port, when she was passed by one of the great British liners, outward bound. The tide was high, and the course of both vessels was nearer the coast than is usual--that of the _Sunda_ being inside of the other. As the two steamers passed each other there was a great waving of hats and handkerchiefs. Suddenly there was a scream from the _Sunda_. It came from Signora Rochita, the prima donna of an opera troupe, which was coming to America in that ship. "I have lost my bracelet," she cried in Italian, and then, turning to the passengers, she repeated the cry in very good English.