At exactly two o’clock on the seventeenth, Rupert Sedilia, who had just returned from India, was thoughtfully descending the hill toward Sloperton manor. “If I can prove that my aunt, Lady Selina, was married before my father died, I can establish my claim to Sloperton Grange,” he uttered, half aloud. He paused, for a sudden trembling of the earth beneath his feet, and a terrific explosion, as of a park of artillery, arrested his progress. At the same moment he beheld a dense cloud of smoke envelop the churchyard of Sloperton, and the western tower of the Grange seemed to be lifted bodily from its foundation. The air seemed filled with falling fragments, and two dark objects struck the earth close at his feet. Rupert picked them up. One seemed to be a heavy volume bound in brass. A cry burst from, his lips. “The Parish Records.” He opened the volume hastily. It contained the marriage of Lady Selina to “Burke the Slogger.” The second object proved to be a piece of parchment. He tore it open with trembling fingers. It was the missing will of Sir James Sedilia! CHAPTER IX When the bells again rang on the new parish church of Sloperton it was for the marriage of Sir Rupert Sedilia and his cousin, the only remaining members of the family. Five more ghosts were added to the supernatural population of Sloperton Grange. Perhaps this was the reason why Sir Rupert sold the property shortly afterward, and that for many years a dark shadow seemed to hang over the ruins of Sloperton Grange. THE NINETY-NINE GUARDSMEN BY AL-X-D-R D-M-S CHAPTER I SHOWING THE QUALITY OF THE CUSTOMERS OF THE INNKEEPER OF PROVINS Twenty years after, the gigantic innkeeper of Provins stood looking at a cloud of dust on the highway. This cloud of dust betokened the approach of a traveler. Travelers had been rare that season on the highway between Paris and Provins. The heart of the innkeeper rejoiced. Turning to Dame Perigord, his wife, he said, stroking his white apron,— “St. Denis! make haste and spread the cloth. Add a bottle of Charlevoix to the table. This traveler, who rides so fast, by his pace must be a monseigneur.” Truly the traveler, clad in the uniform of a musketeer, as he drew up to the door of the hostelry, did not seem to have spared his horse. Throwing his reins to the landlord, he leaped lightly to the ground. He was a young man of four and twenty, and spoke with a slight Gascon accent. “I am hungry, morbleu! I wish to dine!” The gigantic innkeeper bowed and led the way to a neat apartment, where a table stood covered with tempting viands. The musketeer at once set to work. Fowls, fish, and pates disappeared before him. Perigord sighed as he witnessed the devastations. Only once the stranger paused. “Wine!” Perigord brought wine. The stranger drank a dozen bottles. Finally he rose to depart. Turning to the expectant landlord, he said,— “Charge it.” “To whom, your highness?” said Perigord anxiously. “To his Eminence!”