tune, and realized to the full his personal peril. The runaway horse had given the alarm. The drinkers at the Spaniard's Inn had started to search the Heath, and had discovered a fellow in rough costume, whose person was unknown to them, hastily quitting a spot where, beside a rifled pocketbook and a blood-stained whip, lay a dying

man.

The web of circumstantial evidence had enmeshed him. An hour ago escape would have been easy. He would have had but to

cry, "I am the son of Sir Richard Devine. Come with me to yonder house, and I will prove to you that I have but just quitted it," -to place his innocence beyond immediate question. That course of action was impossible now. Knowing Sir Richard as he did, and believing, moreover, that in his raging passion the old man had himself met and murdered the destroyer of his honour, the son of Lord Bellasis and Lady Devine saw himself in a position which would compel him either to sacrifice himself, or to purchase a chance of safety at the price of his mother's dishonour and the death of the man whom his mother had deceived. If the outcast son were brought a prisoner to

North End House, Sir Richard—now doubly oppressed of fate-would be certain to deny him; and he would be compelled, in selfdefence, to reveal a story which would at once bring his mother to open infamy, and send to the gallows the man who had been for twenty years deceived-the man to whose kindness he owed education and former fortune. He knelt, stupefied, unable to speak or

move.

"Come," cried Mogford again; "say, my lord, is this the villain ?"

Lord Bellasis rallied his failing senses, his glazing eyes stared into his son's face. with horrible eagerness; he shook his head, raised a feeble arm as though to point elsewhere, and fell back dead.

"If you didn't murder him, you robbed him," growled Mogford, " and you shall sleep at Bow-street to-night. Tom, run on to meet the patrol, and tell him to leave word at the Gate-house that I've a passenger for the coach!-Bring him on, Jack!—What's your eh ?"

name,

He repeated the rough question question twice before his prisoner answered, but at length Richard Devine raised a pale face which stern resolution had already hardened into

defiant manhood, and said, “Dawes-Rufus Dawes."

His new life had begun already: for that night one, Rufus Dawes, charged with murder and robbery, lay awake in prison, waiting for the fortune of the morrow.

Two other men waited as eagerly. One, Mr. Lionel Crofton; the other, the horseman who had appointment with the murdered Lord Bellasis under the shadow of the fir trees on Hampstead Heath. As for Sir Richard Devine, he waited for no one, for upon reaching his room he had fallen senseless in a fit of apoplexy.

N the breathless stillness of a tropical afternoon, when the air was

hot and heavy, and the sky brazen

and cloudless, the shadow of the Malabar lay solitary on the surface of the glittering

sea.

The sun who rose on the left hand every morning a blazing ball, to move slowly through the unbearable blue, until he sank fiery red in mingling glories of sky and ocean on the right hand-had just got low enough to peep beneath the awning that covered the poop deck, and awaken a young man, in an undress military uniform, who was dozing on a coil of rope.

66

Hang it!" said he, rising and stretching himself, with the weary sigh of a man who has nothing to do, "I must have been asleep" and then holding by a stay, he turned about and looked down into the waist of the ship.

Save for the man at the wheel and the guard at the quarter-railing, he was alone on the deck. A few birds flew round about the vessel, and seemed to pass under her stern windows only to appear again at her bows. A lazy albatross, with the white water flashing from his wings, rose with a dabbling sound to leeward, and in the place where he had been, glided the hideous fin of a silentlyswimming shark. The seams of the well

scrubbed deck were sticky with melted pitch and the brass plate of the compass-case sparkled in the sun like a jewel. There was no breeze, and as the clumsy ship rolled and lurched on the heaving sea, her idle sails flapped against her masts with a regularly recurring noise, and her bowsprit would seem to rise higher with the water's swell, to dip again with a jerk that made each rope tremble and tauten. On the forecastle, some half-dozen soldiers, in all varieties of undress, were playing at cards,