Devlin the Barber. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

confessed it to me last Tuesday night as she walked home from Baker Street."

      "You were in the habit of meeting her, then?"

      "Yes. I beg you to believe, sir, there was nothing wrong in it. I loved and honoured her sincerely. I wanted then to accompany her home and ask her parents' permission to pay my addresses to her openly: but she said no, and that she would speak to them first herself. It was arranged so. She was to tell them to-night, and I was to call and see her father and mother to-morrow. And now-and now-" Again he paused, overpowered by grief. Presently he spoke again. "See here, sir."

      He detached a locket from his chain, and opening it, showed me the sweet and beautiful face of Lizzie Melladew.

      "It was taken for me," he said, "on Wednesday morning. She obtained permission from her employers for an hour's absence, and we went together to get it taken. The photographer hurried the picture on for me, I was so anxious for it. I had my picture taken for her, and put into a locket, which I was to give her to-morrow with this ring in the presence of her parents." He produced both the locket and the ring. The locket was a handsome gold ornament, set with pearls; the ring was a half-hoop, set with diamonds. The gifts were such as only a man in a good position could afford to give. "I shall never be happy again," he said mournfully, as he replaced the locket on his chain, after gazing on the beautiful face with eyes of pitiful love.

      "Were you in the habit of writing to her?" I asked.

      "No, sir. No letters passed between us; there was no need to write, I saw her so often-four or five times a week. 'When father and mother know everything,' she said on Tuesday night, 'you shall write to me every day.' I promised that I would."

      "I am not sorry you confided in me," I said, completely won over by the young man's ingenuousness and undoubted sincerity; "but I can offer you no words of comfort. You will have to make this known to others."

      "I shall do what is right, sir. It is not in your power, nor in any man's, to give me any comfort or consolation. The happiness of my life is destroyed-but there is still one thing left me, and I will not rest till it is accomplished. As God is my judge, I will not!" He did not give me time to ask his meaning, but continued: "You can do me the greatest favour, sir."

      "What is it?"

      "I must see Mary-her sister, sir. Can you send round to the house, and ask her to come and see me here? She will come when she gets my message. Will you do this for me, sir?"

      "Yes," I replied, "there is no harm in it."

      I called my wife, and bade her go to Mr. Melladew's house, and contrive to see Mary Melladew privately, and give her the young man's message. During my wife's absence George Carton and I exchanged but few words. He sat for the chief part of the time with his head resting on his hand, and I was busy thinking whether the information he had imparted to me would be likely to afford a clue to the discovery of the murderer. My wife returned with consternation depicted on her face.

      "Mary is not at home," she said.

      "Where has she gone?" cried George Carton, starting up.

      To my astonishment my wife replied, "They are in the greatest trouble about her. She has not been home all the day."

      "Have they not seen anything of her?" I asked, also rising to my feet.

      "No," said my wife, "they have seen nothing whatever of her."

      "Is it possible," I exclaimed, "that she can be still at her place of business, in ignorance of what has taken place?"

      "No," cried George Carton, in great excitement, "she is not there. I have been to inquire. She went out last night, and never returned. Great God! What can be the meaning of it?"

      I strove in vain to calm him. He paced the room with flashing eyes, muttering to himself words so wild that I could not arrive at the least understanding of them.

      "Gone! Gone!" he cried at last. "But where, where? I will not sleep, I will not rest, till I find her! Neither will I rest till I discover the murderer of my darling girl! And when I discover him, when he stands before me, as there is a living God, I will kill him with my own hands!"

      His passion was so intense that I feared he would there and then commit some act of violence, and I made an endeavour to restrain and calm him by throwing my arms around him; but he broke from me with a torrent of frantic words, and rushed out of the house.

      Here was another mystery, added to the tragedy of the last few hours. What was to be the outcome of it? From what quarter was light to come?

      CHAPTER IV

MR. RICHARD PORTLAND MAKES A SINGULAR PROPOSITION TO ME

      In the evening I received another visitor, in the person of Mr. Richard Portland, Mr. Melladew's brother-in-law. A shrewd, hard-headed man, but much cast down at present. It was clear to me, after a little conversation with him, that his nieces, Mary and the hapless Lizzie, had been the great inducement of his coming home to England, and I learnt from him that there was no doubt about the news of Mary Melladew's mysterious disappearance.

      Mr. Portland was a thoroughly practical man, even in matters of sentiment. It was sentiment truly that had brought him home, but his expectations had been blasted by the news of the tragedy which had greeted him on his arrival. He was deeply moved by the affliction which had fallen upon his sister's family; his indignation was aroused against the monster who had brought this fearful blow upon them; and, in addition, he was bitterly angry at being deprived of the society of two lovely, interesting girls, in whose hearts he had naturally hoped to find a place.

      "My brother is fit for nothing," he said. "He is prostrate, and cannot be roused to action. He moans and moans, and clasps his head. My sister is no better; she goes out of one fainting fit into another."

      "What can they do?" I asked. "What would you have them do?"

      "Not sit idly down," he replied curtly. "That is not the way to discover the murderer; and discovered he must and shall be, if it costs me my fortune."

      "There have been murders," I remarked, "in the very heart of London, and though years have passed, the murderers still walk the streets undetected."

      "It is incredible," he said.

      "It is true," was my rejoinder.

      "But surely," he urged, "this will not be classed among them?"

      "I trust not."

      "Money will do much."

      "Much, but not everything. You have been many years in Australia. Have not such crimes been committed even there without the perpetrators being brought to justice?"

      "Yes," he replied, "but Australia and London are not to be spoken of in the same breath. There, a man may succeed in making himself lost in wild and vast tracts of country. He can walk for days without meeting a living soul. Here he is surrounded by his fellow-creatures."

      "Your argument," I said, "tells against yourself. Here, in the crush and turmoil of millions, each atom with its own individual and overwhelming cares and anxieties, the murderer is comparatively safe. No one notices him. Why should they, in such a seething crowd? In the bush he is the central figure; he walks along with a hang-dog look; he must halt at certain places for food, and his guilty manner draws attention upon him. In that lies his danger. But this is profitless argument. For my part, I see no reason why the murderer of your unfortunate niece should not be discovered."

      "Sensibly said. It must be a man who committed the deed."

      "That has to be proved," I remarked.

      "Surely you don't believe it was a woman?" exclaimed Mr. Portland.

      "Such things have been. In these cases of mystery it is always an error to rush at a conclusion and to set to work upon it, to the exclusion of all others. It is as great an error to reject a theory because of its improbability. My dear sir, nothing is improbable in this city of ours; I am almost tempted to say that nothing is impossible. The columns of our newspapers teem with romance which once upon a time would have been regarded as fables."

      Mr. Portland looked at me thoughtfully as he said, "You are doubtless right. It needs such a