curtain bulging out in the room from the sudden draught of the opening door. I asked what was the matter and upon getting no answer, stood there undecided until I heard a gasping sound upon the bed. I had lighted the light and saw by it that a man fully dressed lay huddled in a peculiar position. I went and leaned over him and was horrified to see a dark stain upon his clothing and the sheets. As I bent closer to try and loosen his collar and raise his head, my hand encountered the handle of a knife. Imagine my horror when I recognised my knife, the one which you gave me and I had pawned in a distant town and had never been able to redeem.

"As I stood there, others came in and to them I seemed the murderer caught red-handed. Yes, literally so, for in trying to help the man my hands had been stained in his blood. The knife with my name was the strongest proof they could have against me, for of course they found my identity through the hotel register. So here I am, and all I hope for is a speedy trial and a chance to prove myself innocent. My friends have stood by me, as far as they can; I have good lawyers on the case, and of course a clear conscience, which prevents my really taking anything very much to heart.

"Now that I think of it, you may very materially

help me, with a most valuable piece of evidence. Dearest, have you my letter, written in the winter, with the story of my railroad misfortune and the part my knife played in it? Of course I can give only my version of it here, with no scrap of corroborative proof, as I lost the pawn ticket that same day. The letter to you, dated, as it was, from that town, would help me materially. Of course, Sweetheart, I remember our agreement, that it would be wiser for you to burn all my letters, lest others should pry into our secrets, but I have a lingering hope that in this case some Providential impulse may have prompted you to keep the letter. If you have it, mail it to me at once and it will be of untold value in backing up my story. Now, Dearest, this long letter must come to a close. The light is so bad in this cell that I have found it no easy matter to write legibly, and I fear this pencil will smudge. I am not allowed pen or ink. Just as soon as the trial is over, I will cable you news.

"Absolutely yours,

"JACK."

Silence reigned in the study as Muriel read that signature, and the sheets dropped to her lap. Then came the one question that stood out clear

answer.

and insistent from those pages, clamouring for an Her father voiced it gently, though somewhat breathlessly, "My child, have you got that letter?" Dull, hopeless despair was in her face and in the accents of her voice as she answered, "No, Father! Oh! Father, what can I do? I burned it!" Then, for the first time, Muriel gave way to a wild paroxysm of grief, and it was hours before she could sum up courage enough to leave the sanctuary of her father's study and join the unsuspecting members of the household, to whom it was elaborately explained that Muriel had overdone herself and had a blinding headache, which, for the matter of that, was perfectly true.

CHAPTER VI

AN OBSTINATE CLIENT

AWN crept slowly in at the small barred

DAWN

window of a cell in the miserable county jail. From the semblance of a black hole in the wall, it became a grey cave, the corners of which still lay in gloom and shadow. In the outer world, heavy mist condensed to rain, and the drop, drop, drop of water from the roof made melancholy music. As the patch of grey light grew wider and the shadows receded farther into the corners of the bare room, its wretched ugliness and squalor were more clearly revealed. Big patches of dampness stained the walls, here and there oozing drops of moisture gathered and trickled down, to form in little pools on the floor.

A tiny grey mouse detached itself from the greyness of the shadows and glided noiselessly into the zone of light, raising an alert head to sniff the air. It stood a moment with sensitive feelers a-quiver and bright black eyes intensely watchful for

danger; then it glided across to another sheltering corner, and its tiny feet could be heard rustling some paper that lay piled in shadow as yet untouched by the approaching dawn.

A fat and cruel spider slipped from the windowcasing and commenced to spin an intricate trap across the bars, stirred to early rising, perhaps, by the angry buzz of a big fly that had awaked to find itself within a stone-walled cell, against the ceiling of which it bumped in wrathful dashes for liberty. Stealthily but steadily the fingers of light reached out into the shadows, touching here a table, there a chair, and yet farther the heavy iron door, revealing locks, bolts, and bars formidable enough to remind one of the Bastile and altogether out of proportion with the size of the miserable cell and the dilapidated condition of the walls.

One corner of the room seemed to remain longer in darkness than the rest. Was the sunlight, that came with its gentle touch to wake a happy world to renewed life and activity, pitiful to the sleeper who lay in those shadows, wrapt so safely and sweetly in the mantle of Orpheus that life's cruel realities were for a time held at bay, while in bright dreamland his feet wandered on flowery paths amid joyous scenes of unreality?

Alas, the dawn, like the tide, must rise to its