He placed his hand on his throbbing heart. She here,—alone beneath this roof? Oh, heavens,—what happiness! But how? Torn from her home. Ruthlessly dragged, perhaps, from her evening devotions, by the hands of a relentless barbarian. Could she forgive him? He dashed frantically up the stairs. He opened the door. She was standing beside his couch with averted face. A strange giddiness overtook him. He sank upon his knees at the threshold. —Pardon, pardon. My angel, can you forgive me? A terrible nausea now seemed added to the fearful giddiness. His utterance grew thick and sluggish. —Speak, speak, enchantress. Forgiveness is all I ask. My Love, my Life! She did not answer. He staggered to his feet. As he rose, his eyes fell on the pan of burning charcoal. A terrible suspicion flashed across his mind. This giddiness—this nausea. The ignorance of the barbarian. This silence. Oh, merciful heavens! she was dying! He crawled toward her. He touched her. She fell forward with a lifeless sound upon the floor. He uttered a piercing shriek, and threw himself beside her. * * * * * A file of gendarmes, accompanied by the Chef Burke, found him the next morning lying lifeless upon the floor. They laughed brutally—these cruel minions of the law—and disengaged his arm from the waist of the wooden dummy which they had come to reclaim, from the mantua-maker. Emptying a few bucketfuls of water over his form, they finally succeeded in robbing him, not only of his mistress, but of that Death he had coveted without her. Ah! we live in a strange world, messieurs. NO TITLE BY W-LK-E C-LL-NS PROLOGUE The following advertisement appeared in the “Times” of the 17th of June, 1845:— WANTED.—A few young men for a light, genteel employment. Address J. W., P. O. In the same paper, of same date, in another column:— TO LET.—That commodious and elegant family mansion, No. 27 Limehouse Road, Pultneyville, will be rented low to a respectable tenant if applied for immediately, the family being about to remove to the Continent. Under the local intelligence, in another column:— MISSING.—An unknown elderly gentleman a week ago left his lodgings in the Kent Road, since which nothing has been heard of him. He left no trace of his identity except a portmanteau containing a couple of shirts marked “209, Ward.” To find the connection between the mysterious disappearance of the elderly gentleman and the anonymous communication, the relevancy of both these incidents to the letting of a commodious family mansion, and the dead secret involved in the three occurrences, is the task of the writer of this history. A slim young man with spectacles, a large hat, drab gaiters, and a notebook, sat late that night with a copy of the “Times” before him, and a pencil which he rattled nervously between his teeth in the coffee-room of the Blue Dragon. CHAPTER I MARY JONES’S NARRATIVE