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Cosmopolitan/'Gentleman Joe' Returns

FTER her narrow escape from assassination by Legrand, Dominica gave up her apartment, telling the concierge that she was going to America, then took another, next door to a local bureau de police in Montmartre. She really valued her young life and thought she might keep it longer if she were to disappear for a while. The prefect tried to enlist her services for the Bureau de Sûreté, but Dominica would not consider this.

“No, Monsieur le Préfet,” said she; “the soup is quite hot enough already. I was glad to help you locate Legrand, though I nearly lost my life doing so, and the game is not finished yet. Legrand is a renegade and a bête sauvage. But I do not wish to betray my old associates. As a matter of fact, all that I know at this moment is known to the police. All that I wish, now, is to keep out of sight for a while, in the hope that Legrand may be killed.”

“Or captured,” said the prefect.

“He will never be taken alive,” said Dominica.

The prefect nodded.

“Yes,” he admitted; “that would mean the guillotine. There was Vibert, one of our best men, whom he knifed in the Parc Monceau, and two other murders. He could scarcely escape. Do you think that he is in Paris?”

“I am sure of it, monsieur,” replied Dominica. “He must know that there is a strong cordon drawn around the city. Besides, he will now wish more than ever to settle his account with me.”

The prefect regarded her thoughtfully. He was thinking that the responsibility of protecting this charming young outlaw from as ruthless and cunning a desperado as Legrand was a problem which would tax all of his resources. There were some very complicated features attached to the case. Legrand must be well supplied with money as the result of several big coups which he had recently brought off. Having been for a number of years an agent du Service de Sûreté, he was fully acquainted with the personnel of the brigade and familiar with its methods.

The prefect would have liked to advise Dominica to leave the country—to return to America. But to do so would be an admission of his own lack of confidence in his ability to protect her. And protect her he was bound to do, not only on general principles but because. she had rendered the law a distinct service in establishing the identity of the criminal who had been for some months terrifying Paris. More than this, she had discovered the presence of Legrand at the Baron von Hertzfeld's—and narrowly escaped losing her life as the result.

Suspecting the fearlessness of her character, the prefect doubted that she would remain long under cover, and she was really, he reflected, a most unfortunately conspicuous type. Her superb figure, which combined the grace and lightness of youth with the sweeping curves of maturity, was one difficult to mask. This, with the face of a naughty nymph, richly colored, with vivid blue eyes of startling intensity and her wonderful chevelure of lustrous Venetian red, made Dominica's physical personality one by no means difficult to eliminate.

“You will have to be very careful for the next few weeks, mademoiselle,” said the prefect gravely. “You had better keep pretty close to your apartment until you hear from me. What are your means of support?”

“I am well supplied with money, monsieur,” replied Dominica. “The Barons von Hertzfeld and Rosenthal were very generous. I have quite enough to provide for my modest wants for the next year.”

“Good!” said the prefect. “Well, be careful, my child, and run no unnecessary risks, and we shall hope shortly to remove the source of danger.”

For the next few weeks Dominica acted on this advice and kept close to her little apartment. She bought an alert Airedale terrier, and she had her door fitted with special locks. When she went abroad, it was in the daytime, thickly veiled, and the prevailing style in long capes effectually disguised her exquisite figure. Also, she carried an automatic pistol in her muff.

But alas for Dominica's boasted economy! Also, for her caution. At first, she did not greatly object to her retirement; but at the end of six weeks she began to grow very bored. She would have welcomed even the society of Braga, whom she cordially disliked. But she dared not send for him, because she was afraid that Legrand, knowing of her quasi-partnership with the Argentine “fence,” might be having him shadowed with the idea of discovering her location.

As her courage returned, Dominica's caution began to wane. It was glorious late-autumn weather, and Paris was gay and alluring. Dominica loved the races, not only for the spectacle but because she was a born gambler and liked to place a few hundred francs on some horse which took her fancy. Dominica knew nothing about horses, and in making her bets was influenced by the way in which her choice appealed to her as an individual. On one or two occasions in the past she had gathered in some long odds by picking a horse because of its earnest, eager expression and the promise of high endeavor in its velvety eyes, Dominica preferring such a champion of her fortunes to a sulky-looking favorite or some big fighting devil with the limbs and temper of a Pegasus. She had always met with fair success.

Wherefore, on a bright Sunday in early November, she decided to go to Auteuil, come what might of it. So she put a thousand francs in her bag and departed for the steeplechase. She returned about dusk without enough to pay for her taxi and had to go to her apartment to get the money.

Dominica was nettled. She went again the following Thursday, when the crowd was not so great, and with a similar result. This thing continued for the rest of the racing season, and Christmas found her desperately near the end of her resources. The money which she had counted upon supporting her in comfort for the next year had gone to swell the coffers of the Paris Mutuelles (with five per cent. deducted for public charities).

Dominica found herself face to face with a somewhat serious situation. Since the beginning of her criminal career, when she had made her début under the guidance of that able cracksman, “Gentleman Joe,” she had never found herself in actual financial difficulty, as, even in the interludes of her unlawful activities, she had always been able to provide for herself through certain honest occupations, the technique of which she had quite at her command. She was a trained lady's-maid and expert manicure, a teacher of languages, four of which she had quite at her command, and, when the worst came to the worst, she could always get a singing engagement in some café chantant, her voice being sweet and sympathetic, and her physical beauty quite enough to insure success, even with far less vocal ability than that with which she was endowed.

But the sinister shadow of Legrand looming athwart these possible occupations rendered them out of the question, and, for the first time in her life, Dominica found herself perplexed as to a means of support.

It had been very seldom that she had been led to commit any overt, felonious act. She had usually been able so to contrive that, in the event of success, she might reap her due harvest, and, in failure, nothing more than suspicion. Several times in her criminal career as the domestic inmate of some rich house, she had located the loot and outlined the mode of attack. It had been a job of this sort which had resulted in her leaving America and in the incarceration of her criminal educator, “Gentleman Joe,” whose term of imprisonment, she reflected, should shortly expire. Dominica had several thousand francs deposited to his credit in a French bank, and this sum she would no more have touched than she would have stolen votive offerings to a Madonna.

And when driven to a choice between posing and stealing, Dominica preferred to steal. It cost her less self-respect.

“I've got to turn a trick pretty soon,” said she to herself, “or take a chance on getting croguée by Legrand. Plague take the police! Why can't they do something?”

But as the days passed and the police seemed still unable to do anything, Dominica's money and patience came nearly to an end. She decided that Legrand must have left Paris and was very likely living quietly in Lyons or Marseilles or Nice. At any rate, she did not purpose to starve on the off-chance of his being in Paris, so she went out freely and moved about with one blue eye always alert for a profitable theft. She was like a pretty little vixen, with soft and lovely fur, trotting patiently around a big farm, wary of the dog and waiting to profit by the indiscretion of some silly hen. The chances are that the moral sense of the two was on precisely the same par. The fox had probably never offended its code of vulpine ethics any more than Dominica had ever transgressed the boundaries of her feline ones. Both felt themselves quite justified in plundering a silly hen from a prosperous farmer—on the hen's account, because it was silly, and on the farmer's, because he was prosperous. The fox and Dominica, being neither prosperous nor silly, were mere social levelers.

Dominica's silly hen was sent her in what seemed a providential way. She went out one afternoon with no definite objective, her first idea being to call at Braga's office on the faint chance of collecting a couple of thousand francs which the Argentino had owed her for more than a year. But turning the matter in her mind, she decided that it would be scarcely worth the risk. Braga had always some pretext for postponing such obligations—with Dominica. He never said, “No.” He said: “Of course; certainly, my dear Nica. I haven't got it at this moment, but call to-morrow or the next day.” There is nothing more difficult than this everlasting “mañana,” especially for a person constituted like Dominica. In her scheme of life there were no “to-morrows.” She lived for the present, and to some extent in the past, but never in the future.

Wherefore, dismissing Braga from her mind as a bad bet, she took a taxi to the Etoile. It was too late to walk on the Avenue du Bois, and the Champs Elysées is not very interesting at the tea-hour, so Dominica turned down the Avenue Kléber with the vague idea that there might be some matinée concert at the Trocadéro. There was nothing, however, so she strolled down the hill as far as the Musée Guimet and turned up the Rue Boissière. Glancing at the handsome apartments as she passed she was struck by the number seven.

“Seven, Rue Boissière,” mused Dominica reminiscently. Immediately she remembered that during her service as lady's-maid to a Mrs. Mumford, in New York, she had been given frequently letters to post addressed to a Mrs. Ryan, 7 Rue Boissière, Paris. She knew that Mrs. Mumford had been a schoolmate and intimate friend of Mrs. Ryan. Dominica was thinking of the coincidence when, on turning the corner of the Avenue Kléber, she came upon a house in which there was apparently being held a fashionable reception. There was an awning stretched to the curb; guests were arriving in a steady stream, and big limousines were filling the street.

The gaiety and glitter drew Dominica as a moth is drawn by a flame. Her resolution was quickly taken. She decided to go to the party, knowing, from her experience, that, in such a crush, her chic appearance would give her an unquestioned entrée. If it were a card affair, she had only to regret her negligence.

As she entered, the maître d'hôtel bowed. Dominica, observing that a party of ladies preceding her fumbled in their bags for cards, did the same.

“Oh, madame, don't put yourself to the trouble,” said the nice old maître d'hôtel, and Dominica went in. She knew that the practised eye of the old domestic had assayed her Rue-de-la-Paix costume. Dominica found herself in the midst of a stylish, chattering crowd, and, from fragments of the conversation, gathered that the affair was an illustrated lecture on “The Evolution of Dress,” given for the benefit of Les Enfants Tuberculoses.

The house was a fine old Renaissance building with spacious salons, which were at this moment crowded with the small gilt chairs rented for such occasions. At the far end of the second salon, which communicated with that in front, there had been arranged a small stage, backed by heavy curtains of black velvet, and from the rear an acetylene light was making a buzzing noise and emitting a garlicky odor.

Dominica had arrived rather late. Casting her eyes about, she discovered a vacant place two seats from the side opposite the door. Rather surprised to find it unoccupied, she quickly discovered the reason. She recognized in the person of the beautifully gowned woman beside the empty chair a celebrated actress famed less for her histrionic talent than for her ability to charm. She also observed that this guest was wearing a tight necklace of enormous pearls, and a long rope of the same jewels smaller and matched.

Dominica, in her figured veil and stylish gown, slipped into the vacant seat a good deal as a Persian cat might coil itself on a silken cushion beside the canary-cage. Her neighbor gave her a brief glance and resumed her conversation with some one beside her.

Dominica's mind was working swiftly. She anticipated the probable procedure of the causerie. An attendant offered her a slip which outlined the nature of the conférence. Glancing at it, she saw that the lecturer was a Miss Dorothy Millar.

Dominica was scarcely seated when Miss Millar, exquisitely gowned, appeared on the little stage and proceeded to explain the object of her lecture. She traced through successive cycles the styles which she was to illustrate with living models. Dominica, though fond of clothes, was far less interested in Miss Millar's thesis than in the propinquity of her neighbor's pearls. Before she had listened five minutes to the speaker's dulcet treble, she had the situation quite thoroughly worked out. Thought Dominica to herself: “When this silly woman finishes her introduction, the lights will be turned off for a moment to get the first model under the spot-light. That will be my chance!”

She began to cough. Miss Millar looked politely annoyed. Dominica coughed more violently. Miss Millar's smooth forehead showed a slight vertical line, and she waited for the paroxysm to cease. Dominica kept on coughing. A woman behind her offered her bonbonnière, and Dominica took a cough-lozenge with a word of thanks. She controlled herself, and Miss Millar proceeded. She had not got far when Dominica began to cough again. Also, she reached in her muff for her reticule and secured a pair of sharp little scissors.

The dangers of the attempt were considerable. The pearls were heavy, and it was very possible that their wearer might notice the lacking weight. Those seated behind were in a position to observe Dominica's maneuvers. The string cut, the pearls might fall and scatter.

But Dominica was deft and daring. With her little scissors on her thumb, she bided her time. The lights were suddenly turned off and, in the brief moment of darkness which followed, she leaned against her neighbor as though to see better between the people in front. Then the limelight buzzed and sent a clear beam on the little stage to illuminate a lovely figure in a Grecian tunic. All eyes were directed on this charming tableau, and, in that moment, Dominica's hand slid up behind her neighbor. The rope of pearls slipped over the ample bosom, then into the lap of their wearer, who, intent upon the spectacle, never noticed the mishap. Dominica, stifling her cough, gathered them into her muff. Miss Millar was explaining the subtleties of the tunic, but this did not interest Dominica. She was thinking of the pearls in her muff and how best to get away with them.

She was seized with another violent paroxysm of coughing. Miss Millar hesitated, then waited. Women turned to look resentfully at Dominica, who rose and, drawing down her veil, placed her handkerchief against her mouth and, with a smothered word of apology, slipped out of her seat and toward the door. At the footman's polite inquiry whether he should call her car or a taxi, she merely shook her head and answered chokingly,

“I have only to go two steps.”

Dominica walked rapidly down the street and turned the corner. She did not believe that her theft would be undiscovered for more than a few moments, as the pearls were heavy.

Half-way down the next block she had the consciousness of being followed. In order to look back without appearing to do so, she dropped her handkerchief, and as she turned to pick it up, gave a swift glance behind. The figure she saw was that of Legrand!

Dominica recognized him instantly. He was dressed in the height of fashion and, with his blond, square-cut beard and drooping mustache, might have passed for a Scandinavian nobleman. He wore a monocle, and sauntered along with a leisurely air. Dominica's heart seemed glued against her ribs. A panic seized her. She did not know whether his being there was mere coincidence or whether he had located and followed her. She forgot her pearls, forgot the automatic pistol which she always carried in her muff. Her one frenzied impulse was to escape.

As she cast her frightened eyes about, they rested on the number seven above an imposing portal. Dominica did not hesitate. She pushed the bell and the door swung open. Dominica stepped inside and closed it behind her. The loge of the concierge was open and, with no clear idea of her next move, Dominica asked for Madame Ryan.

“Au troisème, madame,” replied the concierge. “I will send madame up in the lift.”

“Thank you,” said Dominica; “but I prefer to walk up the stairs.”

She started up the broad stairway. All she wanted was to gain time, and she had not the slightest intention of calling on Mrs. Ryan. But, on her way up, she reflected that this would not be a bad thing to do, and she framed a plausible object in her mind.

At that moment, Dominica heartily wished her stolen pearls back on the neck of their owner, as, in that case, she would have gone into the concierge's loge and telephoned to the nearest bureau de police that Legrand was at that moment passing the house and might be captured if prompt measures were taken. But, for obvious reasons, she did not care to have the police know that she herself was in that particular neighborhood. The loss of the pearls might be reported at any moment and Dominica identified as the woman who had left the house of the Countess de Rosoy at the beginning of the lecture. Dominica decided that it would be better to wait until a little later and then to inform the prefect that, while riding through the Bois, she had seen Legrand, describing his appearance. She could give the time as precisely that at which she had left the Countess de Rosoy's, and, in the event of Legrand's being captured, this would go some way toward establishing an alibi in the case of her being associated with the theft of the pearls.

For the moment, however, it was necessary for her to have some pretext for her call on Mrs. Ryan, and Dominica's quick wit immediately supplied one. Arriving before the door of the luxurious apartment, she whipped off her veil (for this black-figured affair was too easy a mark of identification) and rang. Her finger had not left the button when the door was flung open rather violently and Dominica found herself face to face with a red-faced, thick-set young man who appeared to be going out in a considerable hurry.

Dominica recognized him immediately. About a year before when, during an interval of more profitable employment, she had been serving as a manicure in a fashionable hair-dresser's establishment, this man had been one of her regular clients. Dominica had never known just who he was, but now she remembered having heard him addressed by a friend whom he had brought to the place with him one day as “Ryan.” She realized at once that he must be Mrs. Ryan's son, whom she had heard Mrs. Mumford allude to as “Mickey” Ryan—Mickey having apparently been his college nickname.

Mickey recognized Dominica instantly, and his rather bulbous eyes opened very wide at sight of her.

Dominica treated his sudden apparition as a sort of unfortunate accident. She stepped aside to let him pass, then touched the bell again to summon the official door-opener. Mickey, recovering himself, stuck a bulging gill inside the door and told the domestique not to come. He wanted to find out why Dominica was there.

“Blest if it ain't Nica!” said Mickey, and his eyes rested on her with a gleam of admiration.

Had he been a peacock, he would have spread his tail and strutted; as a rooster, he would have flapped his wings, crowed, and looked for invisible particles of some delicacy in the soil; as a wild boar, he would have shorn a piece of bark from the trunk of an oak with his polished tusk, then ripped from the mulch a truffle for Dominica. Being an amorous young man of the period, he lighted a cigarette—and at that moment the telephone-bell began to ring.

Somebody asked for Mickey, who was listening with one ear cocked. “He looks like a French bulldog,” said Dominica to herself. “What a beast!” Mickey excused himself and went to the telephone. The nice little maid, who had overheard some of Mickey's conversations, ushered Dominica into the salon.

“Madame Ryan is reposing herself,” said she. “When dining out, madame sleeps for an hour in the afternoon.”

“Then do not disturb madame,” said Dominica, and paused, for Mickey was talking loudly over the telephone and his conversation was interesting.

“Huh!” (The conversation was in French but translated as follows, due allowance being made for slang.) “Huh—somebody swiped your pearls—huh—full of cocaine again—say, why can't you cut out that dope? What—no—what? What? I can't hear—tell that bunch of hens to shut up a minute—what?” (To the maid, and savagely) “Shut that door—how many times”

Bang! The maid shut the door, then opened it on the faintest crack. Dominica, seated in the salon, was not supposed to see this play but did. Some of the pearls in her muff were falling off the string. She could feel them all adrift and, realizing that each was worth about two thousand francs, proceeded to plug the ends of the muff. Her handkerchiefs were naturally too small, so she ripped a piece of lingerie from somewhere and stuffed that in. The pretty maid had slipped out of the room, and Dominica knew that she was listening somewhere.

There appeared to be an air of tension about the premises, and Dominica pricked up her pretty ears. She was trying to absorb things when Mickey came in with lines across his forehead. He looked troubled, and Dominica was glad. There had been something in Mickey's scrutiny of herself which had frightened her—and Dominica was no coward.

“Now here's the deuce of a mess!” said he. “A fool of a woman I know, an actress, has just telephoned me that somebody has stolen her pearls at a lecture at my aunt's, the Countess de Rosoy's, just around the corner. She wants me to hustle down to the préfecture and get 'em to put some of their best men on the job. She's having hysterics and raising the deuce around there. Seems to have busted up the whole show. Says there was a woman beside her in a long cape and a figured veil, and that she knows she swiped the pearls when they turned off the lights. Pretended to having a coughing-spell and went out. I've telephoned for my car.”

“Why should she bother you about it?” asked Dominica. “Did you give her the pearls?”

Mickey gave a short laugh.

“Not on your life!” he answered. “She happens to be rather a friend of mine and seems to want to hold me responsible because I got her a card for the bloomin' affair. Old Von Hertzfeld gave her the pearls.” Mickey grinned. “Kind of him, wasn't it?” He cocked his head. “Do I hear my car?”

As he stepped to the bay window, which commanded a view of the street, Dominica rose and looked down from his elbow. She saw a handsome limousine drawing up to the curb—and she saw also something far more interesting.

Directly opposite was a diminutive café for the patronage of servants and chauffeurs which was nestled in between the aristocratic houses as these little vases are located throughout Paris. It was a neat little establishment, with its four dwarf-orange trees in tubs on the sidewalk, four little iron tables behind them, and a strip of awning overhead.

Against one of these tubs, smoking a cigarette and with a half-liter of beer in front of him, sat Legrand. Dominica knew, that instant, that he had recognized her and was waiting for her to reappear with that savage patience peculiar to the wild animal, the aborigine, and the criminal.

“Well,” said Mickey, “I've got to go. Say, Nica, what do you want to see mother about, anyhow?”

“I came to ask if I might count on her patronage tor a manicure parlor which I hope to open in a few weeks,” said Dominica. “I knew that she was an old friend of Mrs. Mumford's, in whose house I was once governess; so I thought she might be willing to recommend me to her friends.”

“Oh, I can fix that all right for you,” said Mickey. “Leave it to me, Nica. I can steer you all the trade you can swing to. Mother's taking a nap. Come on along with me. I'll set you down wherever you like.”

Had she been situated otherwise, Dominica would have declined: this polite offer. She was afraid of Mickey. But, seeing Legrand in the café opposite, she was quick to take advantage of this means of escape.

On the way down, Nica readjusted her veil and noticed, as the door was opened, that the big car shielded her directly from the café. She got into the limousine and Mickey seated himself beside her. As they drew away from the curb, Mickey leaned toward Dominica.

“Say, Nica,” said he, “is this straight goods about the manicure business? If there's anything you need, you know you've only got to say the word.”

Dominica drew back into her corner.

“There's nothing that I need, Mr. Ryan—thank you very much,” said she, “except to get some idea of how large a clientèle I can hope to count on. I went to call on your mother because she is an old friend of Mrs. Mumford's, and I know that Mrs. Mumford will give me references.”

“Who's backing you?” asked Mickey bluntly. “Good Lord, Nica, if you could only get it through your pretty head how much I liked you, and if you could only manage to like me a quarter as much, you'd never have to bother about hunting customers for a manicure business! Listen, dear: Of all the girls I've ever met, you're the only one that I could never get out of my head or find any understudy for. See here, Nica: I've been crazy about you ever since I first laid eyes on you going down the boulevard and followed you back to where you were working. Since you left the shop I've been hunting for you everywhere. Why can't you be reasonable?'”

Dominica flung her arm across her face and shrank back deeper into her corner. She had welcomed Mickey's protection for the moment as a means of escape from Legrand, but she now wondered if, perhaps, she had not got out of the frying-pan into the fire. For Mickey, in the growing ardor with which Dominica's nearness infused him, was most obviously on the point of losing his self-restraint. Aside from his brutal masculinity (a quality which usually made its distinct appeal to Dominica), there was nothing particularly offensive about Mickey. He was a purely primitive type, and, as such, might have appealed to Dominica had he only possessed a little subtlety.

“You're very kind, I'm sure, Mr. Ryan,” said Dominica a little faintly; “but we can talk about that better some other time. Just now I've an awful lot to do. Would you mind telling your chauffeur to stop at the corner of the Rue Royale?”

“All right, if you insist,” said Mickey. “Somehow, when I'm with you I don't seem able to behave. Say, Nica, give me one kiss and tell me where I can look you up and I'll promise to be good.”

“Don't be silly,” said Dominica. “What good is it going to do you if I give you a kiss?”

“I'm the best judge of that,” said Mickey. “Can't you see that I'm just crazy about you? What harm is it going to do you, anyhow?”

He slipped his arm behind her shoulders. Dominica was seized with a sudden panic.

“Let me out here!” she panted. “Stop the car!”

She reached frantically for the speaking-tube. Mickey's grasp tightened and he drew her against him. Dominica struggled, but impotently, for Mickey's grasp was like the hug of a bear. He kissed her devouringly, then loosed her gently, though his arm still encircled her.

“That didn't hurt you, did it?” He gasped.

“Yes; it did—” retorted Dominica breathlessly.

“Oh come, Nica,” purred Mickey; “it didn't anything of the sort. Say, let's turn around and go for a little blow through the Bois, then stop for tea at my garçonnière in Ranelagh. Come on; I'll promise to be good.”

“I can't,” said Dominica. “I've got some errands to do. And how about your friend's pearls?”

“Oh, hang the pearls!” said Mickey. “I don't care three whoops about the pearls—or the girl either, when it's a question of you, Nica. Come on; let's shoot back up the Champs Elysées.”

“No,” said Nica; “I simply can't. I've got to get out. Stop the car!”

“All right,” growled Mickey; “but another kiss first!”

A hot gust of anger swept over Dominica. She leaned forward to tap on the glass. She could not reach the speaking-tube, for Mickey was on the right. The next instant she found herself in the bear's hug again, but this time held more roughly. Her temper burst out with violence, and for a moment she fought like a little fury. She struck him over the eye, and her emerald ring cut through the thin glove and gashed his eyebrow. Her face was seized in his strong hands as one might crush a rose peony to the lips to inhale its perfume. Struggling furiously and fighting like a wild kitten cornered in a loft, Dominica's muff flew from her wrist. The automatic pistol slipped out of it, followed by a shower of pearls.

“Huh!” growled Mickey. “What's all this?”

Still holding her in the grip of his left arm, he leaned down, picked up the pistol, glanced at it stupidly, then dropped it into the side pocket of his coat. He gathered up the string of pearls, only a few of which had slipped from the knotted silk, and weighed them in his hands, then dropped them into his pocket after the pistol, and turned to stare at Dominica with a fast-growing intelligence in his square face. He reached for his handkerchief and touched it to his forehead.

“Huh!” repeated Mickey, and there was a different accent in his growl. “Pearls—big ones—and an automatic pistol! What the deuce have you been up to, my little dear?”

“I—they are some imitation pearls that I am having taken to be restrung.”

“The deuce they are!” said Mickey softly. He looked at her curiously, admiringly. He examined her long cape, her figured veil, her hat trimmed with an aigrette. He gave a short laugh. “You cute little devil! You can have the pearls. I'll never say boo. Gee, Nica, I must say I like your nerve! You're the girl for me.”

He reached for the speaking-tube.

“Turn around and go back through the Bois,” said he to the chauffeur.

“Let me out,” said Dominica feebly.

“All right,” said Mickey, with a short laugh. “Shall I let you out at the préfecture—or at my cosy little garçonnière?”

Dominica glanced at his face and saw no hope of mercy there.

“Where are you going to?” she cried frantically, as the car turned around the fountains in the Place de la Concorde. “Let me out! I want to get out!”

“So do I,” said Mickey. “It won't take long to get to my place. Of course, if you'd rather go to the préfecture”

Dominica made a motion as if to open the door of the car.

“Let me out this instant!” she cried.

“Oh, very well,” said Mickey, and called to the chauffeur to stop. He held up the string of pearls. “You come for these to-morrow afternoon at two.” And he spoke the address.

the first-class passengers to disembark at Cherbourg from the Victoria Luise was a silent man of about thirty-five, whose personality had been the object of some argument aboard the ship. He was broad of shoulder, square of frame, big-boned, with shapely hands, and a face which suggested an allegorical statue entitled “Industry” or “Labor” or “The Iron Age” or something of the sort.

His skin was clear and fresh, though of a peculiar pallor, as of one whose employment keeps him away from the sun. He was quiet, well mannered, and extremely well dressed, and his features held at most times a certain melancholy which the ladies found interesting. Only one of his shipmates, a doctor who had done much prison-work, recognized him as a recently liberated convict, and this man held his peace.

“Gentleman Joe's” sobriquet had its origin in his fastidious care of his body and a certain taciturn politeness of manner not without a hint of mockery. He had been a master mechanic and foreman in a big company which manufactured safes when a life of crime had claimed him, this departure the result of a conviction of being deeply wronged in the matter of an invention of his own which had more than doubled the value and efficiency of the company's world-famed product. Failing to receive the compensation which he felt to be due him. Joe had given up his place and set himself deliberately to work to undermine the reputation for security in the wares which his own brain had rendered nearly perfect. In the end, his own handicraft had betrayed him, and the last five years of his life had been passed inside the gloomy walls of Sing Sing prison.

Dominica had kept Joe informed as to her location, but she had not expected his liberation for at least another eighteen months. Neither, for that matter, had Joe. It had come, suddenly and without warning, as the result of a pardon obtained through the efforts of the very last man who he could have hoped might exert himself in his behalf—the president of the Rosler Safe Company.

On reaching Paris, Joe took a taxi and repaired immediately to the address which Nica had given him in Montmartre. It was then about ten in the morning, and, as he got out in front of the house, two policemen standing just outside what appeared to be a local station favored him with a searching scrutiny. Joe's jaw hardened, for he felt that his measure had been pretty accurately taken. These men knew a prison pallor when they saw it, and also, no doubt, were quick to recognize that indefinable something—a vagueness, a bewilderment, a short focus of the vision peculiar to the recent convict whose motions have been for years automatic and dependent on a curt command, and whose gaze does not get beyond the close confines of prison walls.

The concierge, seeing that Joe understood no French, led him up the stairs to Dominica's door and rapped. A small dog began to bark furiously. Then, a tremulous voice, which Joe recognized at once as Dominica's, asked in French,

“Who is it?”

“It's Joe, Nica!” came the muffled answer.

There was a stifled gasp, the click of a bolt, and the door opened suddenly to disclose Dominica in a kimono, with her profuse ruddy hair tumbled about her ears. The terrier darted out and fastened to Joe's heel, but Joe was oblivious to it. His steely eyes were swimming as he raised his powerful arms and gathered Dominica into them. She lay there, sobbing convulsively. Joe stepped inside and closed the door. “Oh, la-la!” wheezed the fat concierge, and descended. It was the first time that her quiet locataire had received a man in her apartment, and the kindly soul was very glad that the man had come at last.

Dominica clung to Joe in a paroxysm of weeping which amazed while it touched him deeply. He had hoped that Dominica would be glad to see him, but had counted on nothing, lest the disappointment which he felt to be his due portion might await him. The Dominica whom he had first met was a good girl, and he had made of her a criminal. She had become a criminal gladly, for his sake—and then he had been landed in a living tomb and forced to leave her to the mercy of his evil teachings. Nothing, during the five years of his incarceration, had so weighed on Joe's mistaken soul as this consciousness. In the confines of his stifling cell, in the routine of his prison-work, Dominica's image had been always before his eyes, and he had realized too late the volume of his love for her. He had often wondered how it was that the little life of a man could contain so great a misery. And now he felt as though his heart would burst in this hour of possible redemption.

He half carried her to the divan, which was beside a window commanding a wonderful view of Paris, shimmering beneath in the hazy, autumn sunshine. Dominica was fighting her emotion bravely; but her arms clung to him, and she buried her face against his chest like a frightened, grief-stricken child.

“Oh, my dear,” she sobbed, “why didn't you let me know? Why couldn't you have come a day sooner? Why—why—why?” (The age-old protest of erring humanity against the little minute “too late.”)

“What's the trouble, Nica?” asked Joe. “What's a day worth after five years of hell?”

“Everything!” cried Dominica passionately. “It should have been Our Day—the day that we live our lives for and makes everything worth while. I can't explain. Don't ask me to, Joe. Let's start life all over. Let's never steal another thing from anybody, not even from our worst enemy—never—never again! It's not good enough, Joe! We are not real thieves, you and I. We've been just bad children—and we've been awfully punished, and we deserved it.”

Her sobbing broke out afresh and with even greater violence. Joe, holding her close, tried his best to soothe her. He wondered at the intensity of her grief, but yet his face was radiant, and Dominica, turning presently in his arms, caught sight of it and controlled herself.

“Oh, my dear,” she gasped chokingly, “do you think it is too late? Can't we start fresh—start all over and live honestly?”

Joe bent down and kissed her tear-stained face.

“God's in heaven, little girl,” said he huskily; “that's just what brought me over here to get you. Listen, Nica: I'm through with all this crooked business, and I've been wondering every day if you could see it like I do. I'd about made up my mind that when I got out I'd live on the level, when Mr. Rosler came to me with my pardon and told me that I was a free man. He'd been working for it along time. More than that, he told me that my old job was open and the company had decided to pay me a royalty on that invention of mine. It broke me all up, Nica, and I told him that he could count on me to do my part, and I'm going to stick to my word, so help me God! All that bothered me then was the thought of you. I'd dragged you down, and I wondered if I'd be able to get you back again on the level. Listen, Nica: Let's just pretend that all that's passed since we went wrong had never happened. We'll start life from now.”

Dominica hung her head.

“There are some things I ought to tell you first, Joe—” she murmured.

“I don't want to hear 'em, dearie,” Joe interrupted, in a deep but gentle voice. “What wrong you may have done to yourself or anybody else ain't your fault. It's mine. You were a good girl until the devil sent me your way, and I guess I've got a lot to answer for. All you need to tell me is that I'm the man for you and always will be, and that you'll try your best to be the sort of wife that you've got it in you to be. There never was any real bad in you, Nica—and sometimes I almost think that there wasn't such an awful lot in me. We just got going wrong and kept on going. Say, Nica, do you love me enough for that?”

Her bare arms slipped around his neck, and she drew the strong, rugged face to hers.

“You are the only man I ever loved, Joe,” she whispered, “the only man I ever could love.” She caught her breath in a smothered sob. “I've never been untrue to you, Joe,” she faltered.

 suppressed a smile beneath his white mustache when it was announced to him that Dominica Meduna and a man who had been recognized at the Gare St. Lazare by one of the secret international police as the recently released American thief who had sailed from New York on the Victoria Luise were in his antichambre and requested an interview. He ordered that they be immediately admitted.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” said he to Dominica, and nodded courteously to Joe. “Bonjour, monsieur.” His keen eyes examined Joe for a brief instant. “I believe I have the pleasure to receive Mr. Joseph Clancy, alias 'Gentleman Joe,' have I not?” he asked in English.

A tinge of color appeared in Joe's lean cheeks, but his steely gray eyes met those of the prefect unwaveringly.

“That's right, Chief,” he said. “I'm the party.”

The prefect nodded and glanced at Dominica.

“Well, mademoiselle,” said he, “I am very glad that you have chosen to come to me of your own accord. I was beginning to fear that I might be under the unpleasant necessity of sending for you.” He glanced at his watch. “The twenty-four hours of espionage which I permitted you have nearly expired.”

Dominica looked at him smilingly.

“That would have been a pity, Monsieur le Préfet,” said she.

“And how is that?”

“Because it would have upset my plans,” said Dominica demurely, “and I might have been obliged to present myself before monsieur very poorly dressed and—without jewelry.”

The prefect's deep-set eyes twinkled. He loved the fascinating game which his high office compelled him to play. A man of subtle wit, he loved to measure blades with good fencers.

“As it is,” said he, “perhaps you may permit me to compliment you on your grande tenue. That toque trimmed with an aigrette becomes you charmingly; one might, however, criticize the long cape which masks so graceful a form—and the figured veil, because it hides such a pretty face.”

“I am sorry that Monsieur le Préfet should find anything to criticize in my simple costume,” replied Dominica, in her most limpid voice. “It passed muster yesterday at the house of Madame de Rosoy— and the assistance was most chic.”

Even the experienced prefect was a bit startled at such impudence. He disguised it, however, and, with a smile, replied:

“My criticism, mademoiselle, was merely an appreciation, less of the dress than of the qualities which it concealed. I rejoice that my people should not have hurried you in the completion of your toilette, but—” He twisted the end of his mustache and regarded her quizzically, while Joe, who could not understand a word of the conversation, which had relapsed into French, wondered what in the name of heaven all of this shilly-shallying was about and made uncomplimentary comparisons between the police methods of the Eastern and Western hemispheres. He wondered, also, what a chief of police wanted of handsome Empire furniture, Oriental rugs, and lace curtains in his business office.

“But what, monsieur?” asked Dominica, dulcetly.

“But did I not understand you to say something about jewelry—or was I”

“Ah, pardon!” Dominica's violet eyes were dancing. Her warm Latin blood made it possible for her to pass from one emotion to the next as easily as a coryphée glides into a different step, and she was thoroughly enjoying the interview (which Joe was not). “My jewels! Of course. They are here in my muff, monsieur. I put them there for safe-keeping, because there are so many dishonest people abroad in these days.” She placed a parcel on the desk of the prefect. “They are all there, Monsieur le Préfet, and I don't think that they would be there at all if it hadn't been for—for my fiancé,” she ended, in a sudden gust of passion.

The prefect leaned forward, reached for his scissors, cut the string, and examined the contents of the parcel, then looked inquiringly at Dominica.

“Your—fiancé, mademoiselle?” he asked softly.

Dominica turned her face away. The prefect, quite at a loss, looked at Joe, who hunched his square shoulders forward and glared at him.

“Say, Chief,” said he, “s'pose you let me put you right. I got in wrong some years ago because I thought I wasn't getting a square deal. Well, I started this young lady wrong, too, and when I got pinched I sent her over here. I served my time—over five years in Sing Sing—and I came out with a different idea about things. My first move was to come over here to get Nica, to take her back with me and start a new life—an honest life, y'understand, Chief; I mean it!”

“I understand,” said the prefect.

“Well, I found Nica all right, and she told me that she felt just like I did and wanted to go back with me and begin fresh and on the square; honest, y'understand. But it seems I got here a day too late. Nica had got hard up and went to this here lecture and got away with this woman's pearls. Coming away from the house, she saw this guy Legrand'”

“Legrand!” The prefect leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair.

“Yes; the guy that tried to drown her, and all that. She got frightened and ran into the first house around the corner. But this Legrand had her spotted and was waiting for her to come out. In the house, Nica met up with a man she knew when she was manicuring, named Ryan—Mickey Ryan—and he was a sort of running mate of this actress lady that had lost her pearls and she'd telephoned him about it. He was starting down here to headquarters when he met Nica. Well, he offered her a seat in his car, but on the way he tried to get gay, and Nica dropped her muff and he found the pearls. So what does this mutt do but try to blackmail Nica—y'understand.”

“Perfectly,” said the prefect.

“Well”—Joe's face darkened—“he wanted to take her to a place of his. And when she wouldn't go he took the pearls from her and told her to come for them to-day.” Joe's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible growl. “He kept the pearls” Joe seemed unable to proceed.

“What then?” asked the prefect presently.

“Yes; he told her to show up there at two o'clock this afternoon unless she wanted to go to prison,” snarled Joe. “I kept the date myself. He ain't dead—but he won't be much use for some time. He was breathing all right when I came away—with the pearls.”

The prefect drummed on the table with his fingers.

“You say this happened at two o'clock?” he asked.

“Yes; about that time.”

“We have heard nothing about it,” said the prefect.

“You won't, Chief. He knows where he stands on that pearl business, and he'll have sense enough to keep his mouth shut. I made that plain before I started with him.”

“Did you hurt him badly?”

“Not so bad as what he had coming to him,” said Joe grimly. “I used only my hands to him. I might have killed him, only he didn't seem worth it, somehow. But I guess he won't ever take any beauty prize. Honest, Chief, that mutt is probably the worst licked man in the world to-day. I didn't take advantage of him. He struck the first blow, and when I'd got him to rights I took his riding-crop to him. He'd just been out ahorseback [sic]. I guess he won't want to sit on a horse again for some time.”

The prefect leaned back in his chair and drummed on the table with his fingers. Anglo-Saxons, he reflected, had effective if crude methods of adjusting their private difficulties. However, if no complaint were lodged, he felt under no compulsion to take official recognition of the affair. He would be able to return the stolen articles, and that, after all, was the main thing.

“What induced you to bring me these pearls?” he asked. .

“It was like this, Chief,” said Joe: “I just finished doing time for burglary, like I told you. My old employer got me out, and I promised to live honest, and mean to keep my word. But it was me that started Nica wrong and got her into graft and all o' that, and I couldn't rest until I found her and got her back on the right road again. She felt like I did about it, and, as we both want to begin life over again with as clean a slate as we can, we brought you the pearls. We've both paid for what we done in the past, and now we want to go back home and get married and live on the level, see?”

The prefect nodded.

“Strictly speaking,” said he, “this affair should go before the court and pass through the usual official channels. But there is every hope that this can be avoided. Personally, I sympathize with your good resolutions, and this young woman has already rendered the law most distinguished service on two occasions.” He turned to Dominica. “About Legrand?” he asked.

Dominica described her discovery of the man.

“I did not telephone for the police, monsieur,” said she, “because I did not wish to have it known that I was in the neighborhood. Besides, he could not have believed that I had recognized him, as otherwise he would not have dared to linger in the café.”

The prefect frowned.

“You value your liberty more than your life,” he observed. “Well, perhaps it is for the best as it has turned out. It would have grieved me deeply to have been obliged to lodge you in St. Lazare after our sympathetic work together. Besides, I have never believed that you were of the criminal type. You are one of the many young people who find outlawry amusing because of a mistaken sense of its romance. They should be whipped, not sent to prison, and the game would lose all of its glamour. Our young apaches would not return from correction as heroes to their comrades if their backs were well striped. I should like to take a leaf from the book of your fiancé in the treatment of adolescent crime.” He glanced at Joe, and smiled grimly. “Very well; let us hope that you may soon return to America to begin a worthy and useful career. Do not leave Paris, however, until you hear from me. If we succeed in catching Legrand, I shall need your testimony. I hope that it may not be necessary to delay you long.”

He nodded to indicate that the interview was at an end. As they rose to go out, Joe paused and looked at the prefect with a red, embarrassed face.

“Say, Chief,” said he, fumbling with his hat, “would you mind giving us leave to go to England for a couple of days. We'll come right back—honest we will.”

“England?” asked the prefect, “But what do you want to do in England?”

“Get married,” said Joe. “It takes so long over here.”

The prefect's stern face softened. His eyes twinkled.

“Very well, my children,” said he; “you may go.” He rose suddenly from his chair, and stepping to Dominica pinched the lobe of her pink ear. “I shall send you a wedding-present—dear little thief that was and is no more!” said he gruffly.

Dominica's first baby is named after the prefect of police. Joe was the strong advocate of conferring this honor on that dignitary.

“Say, Nica,” said he, “a chief like him is what a town needs. He's more like your old dad than a boss cop. Me for him!”

title: Cosmopolitan/'Gentleman Joe' Returns


text: Talk:Cosmopolitan/'Gentleman Joe' Returns

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 in the event where he opines that prosecution should be ordered, he shall order prosecution and charge the offender before the court, or if he disagrees, he shall order non-prosecution.

In either of the above events, the public prosecutor has the power—

to order, if he finds it appropriate, the inquiry official to send any witness forth for interrogation, in order that any order could further be given;

to rule that the alleged offender should be released, be provisionally released, be placed under custody, or have his detention sought in court, as the case may be, and to make arrangements or orders for the implementation thereof.

In a murder case where the deceased was killed by an official whilst performing a duty, only the Director General of the Public Prosecution Department or his substitute has the power to issue an order of prosecution or non-prosecution against the official causing such death.

In the event that the public prosecutor gives an order of prosecution, if the offence in question is one which may be settled, the public prosecutor, finding it appropriate, has the following powers:

order the inquiry official to attempt to settle the case instead of sending the alleged offender to the public prosecutor;

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THE

PREFACE

TO THE Reverend Dr. Hickes.

SIR,

after the Publication of the Homily on St. Gregory, I was engaged by the Importunity of my Friends, to make Visit to Canterbury, as well to enjoy the Converdation of my Friends and Relations there, as for that Benefit which I hoped to receive from Change of Air, and freer Breathing, which is the usual Expectation of those, who are used to a sedentary Life and Confinement in the great City, and which renders such an Excursion


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 now and then excusable. In this Recess, among the many Compliments and kind Expressions, which their favourable Acceptance of my first Attempt in Saxons had obtain’d for me from the Ladies, I was more particularly gratified, with the new Friendship and Conversation, of a young Lady, whose Ingenuity and Love of Learning, is well known and esteem’d, not only in that Place, but by your self: and which so far indear'd itself to me, by her promise that she woud learn the Saxon Tongue, and do me the Honour to be my Scholar, as to make me think of composing an English Grammar of that Language for her use. That Ladies Fortune hath so disposed of her since that time, and hath placed her at so great distance, ss that we have had no Opportunity, of treating farther on this Matter, either by Discourse or Correspondence. However though a Work of a larger Extent, and which hath amply experienced your Encouragement, did for some time make me lay aside this Dsfign, yet I did not wholly reject it. For having re-assumed this Task, and accomplish'd it in such manner as I was able, I now send it to you, for your Correction, and that Stamp of Authority, it must needs receive from a Person of such perfect and exact Judge-ment in these Matters, in order to make it current, and worthy of Reception from the Publick. Indeed I might well have spared my self the labour of such an Attempt, after the elaborate Work of your rich and learned Thesaurus, and the ingenious Compendium of it by Mr. Thwaites; but considering the Pleasure I my self had reaped from the Knowledge I have gained from this Original of our Mother Tongue, and that others. of my own Sex, might be capable of the same Satisfaction: I resolv'd to give them the Rudiments of that: Language in an English Dress.However not till I


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 had communicated to you my Design for your Advice, and had receiv'd your repeated Exhortation, and Encouragement to the Undertaking.

The Method I have used, is neither entirely new, out of a Fondness and Affectation of Novelty: nor exactly the same with what has been in use, in teaching the learned Languages. I have retain'd the old Division of the Parts of Speech, nor have I rejected the other common Terms of Grammar; I have only endeavour'd to explain them in such a manner, as to hope they may be competently understood, by those whose Education, hath not allow'd them an Acquaintance with the Grammars of other Languages. There is one Addition to what your self and Mr. Thwaites have done on this Subject, for which you will, I imagine, readily pardon me: I have given most, if not all the Grammatical Terms in true old Saxon, from Ælfrick's Translation of Priscian, to shew the polite Men of our Age, that the Language of their Forefathers is neither so barren nor barbarous as they affirm, with equal Ignorance and Boldnss. Since this is such an Instance of its Copiousness, as is not to be found in any of the polite modern Languages; and the Latin itself is beholden to the Greek, not only for the Terms, but even the Names of Arts and Sciences, as is easily discerned in the Words, Philosophy, Grammar, Logick, Rhetorick, Geometry, Arithmetick, &c. These Gentlemens ill Treatment of our Mother Tongue has led me into a Stile not so agreeable to the Mildness of our Sex, or the usual manner of my Behaviour, to Persons of your Character; but the Love and Honour of one's Countrey, hath in all Ages been acknowledg'd such a Virtue, as hath admitted of a Zeal even somewhat extravagant. Pro Patria mori, used to be one of the great Boasts of


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 Antiquity; and even the so celebrated Magnanimity of Cato, and such others as have been called Patriots, had wanted their Praise, and their Admiration, had they wanted this Plea. The Justness and Propriety of the Language of any Nation, hath been always rightly esteem'd a great Ornament and Test of the good Sense of such a Nation; and consequently to arraign the good Sense or Language of any Nation, is to cast upon it a great Reproach. Even private Men are most jealous, of any Wound, that can be given them in their intellectual Accomplishments, which they are less able to endure, than Poverty itself or any other kind of Disgrace. This hath often occasion'd my Admiration, that those Persons, who talk so much, of the Honour of our Countrey, of the correcting, improving and ascertaining of our Language, shou'd dress it up in a Character so very strange and ridiculous: or to think of improving it to any degree of Honour and Advantage, by divesing it of the Ornaments of Antiquity, or separating it from the Saxon Root, whose Branches were so copious and numerous. But it is very remarkable how Ignorance will make Men bold, and presume to declare that unnecessary, which they will not be at the pains to render useful. Such kind of Teachers are no new thing, the Spirit of Truth itself hath set a mark upon them; Desiring to be Teachers of the Law, understanding neither what they say, nor whereof they affirm, I. Tim. I. 7. It had been well if those wise Grammarians had understood this Character, who have taken upon them to teach our Ladies and young. Gentlemen, The whole System of an English Education; they had not incurr'd those Self-contradictions of which they are guilty; they had not mention'd your self, and your incomparable Treasury of Northern Literature in so cold


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 order the alleged offender who has already been sent to the public prosecutor to be sent back together with the file to the inquiry official, who shall then attempt to settle the case, or, if found appropriate, order another empowered inquiry official to implement the settlement on his behalf.

In the event that an order of non-prosecution is given and such order does not belong to the Director General of the Public Prosecution Department, the inquiry file together with the order shall, if it be in the province of Phra Nakhon or Thon Buri, be sent with dispatch to the Director General of the Royal Siamese Police Department or Deputy Director General of the Royal Siamese Police Department or, if it be in a different province, be sent with dispatch to the commissioner of the province. But this does not preclude the power of a public prosecutor to proceed with the alleged offender according to the provisions of section 143.

In the event that the Deputy Director General of the Royal Siamese Police Department or Director General of the Royal Siamese Police Department, for the provinces of Phra Nakhon and Thon Buri, or the commissioner of the province, for a different province, dissents with the order of the public prosecutor, the file together with the dissenting opinion shall be sent to the Director General of the Public Prosecution Department for determination within a period of one month from the day of his receipt of the file. But if the case is going to be barred by limitation or there is another reason for which the case needs to be instituted instantly, the case shall be instituted in accordance with the opinion of the Deputy Director General of the Royal Siamese Police Department or Director General of the Royal Siamese Police Department or the commissioner of the province for the time being.

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Signature 簽署


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 and negligent a manner, as betrays too much of an invidious Pedesntry : But in those Terms of Veneration and Applause which are your just Tribute, not only from the Learned of your own Countrey, but of most of the other Northern Nations, whether more or less Polite: Who would any of them have glory'd in having you their Native, who have done so much Honour to the Original of almost all the Languages in Europe.

But it seems you are not of so much Credit with these Gentlemen, who question your Authority, and have given a very visible Proof of their Ingenuity in an Instance which plainly discovers, that they cannot believe their own Eyes. "The Saxons, say they, if we may credit Dr. Hickes, had various Terminations to their Words, at least two in every Substantive singular: whereas we have no Word now in use, except the personal Names that has so. Thus Dr. Hickes has made six several Declensions of the Saxon Names: He gives them three Numbers; a Singular, Dual, and Plural: We have no Dual Number, except perhaps in Both: To make this plainer, we shall transcribe the six Declensions from that Antiquary’s Grammar. I would ask these Gentlemen, and why not credit Dr. Hickes? Is he not as much to be believd as those Gentlemen, who have transcribed so plain an Evidence of the six Declensions to shew the positive Unreasonableness and unwarrantable Contradiction of their Disbelief? Did he make those six Declensions? or rather, did he not find them in the Language, and take so much pains to teach others to distnguish them, who have Modesty enough to be taught? They are pleased to say we have no Word now in use that admits of Cases or Terminations. But let us ask them, what


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 The provisions of this section shall apply mutatis mutandis to the submission of an appeal or final appeal or withdrawal of a charge, appeal, or final appeal by a public prosecutor.

The alleged offender and the complainant shall be notified of a conclusive order of non-prosecution. If the alleged offender is being under custody or detention, his release shall be granted or be sought in court, as the case may be.

Once a conclusive order of non-prosecution has been given, no inquiry shall again be conducted in relation to that person for the same matter, save where fresh evidence important to the case and likely to enable the court to punish the alleged offender has been obtained.

When it certainly appears or is reasonably suspected that any person has died unnaturally, except because of having been put to death by an authority according to the law, an inquest shall be conducted.

Unnatural deaths are—

suicide;

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 they think of these Words, God's Word, Man's Wisdom, the Smith's Forge, and innumerable Instances more. For in God's Word, &c. is not the Terminations a plain Indication of a Genitive Case, wherein the Saxon  is omitted? For example, ', ', . Some will say, that were better supplied by his, or hers, as Man his Thought, the Smith his Forge; but this Mistake is justly exploded. Yet if these Gentlemen will not credit Dr. Hickes, the Saxon Writings might give them full Satisfaction. The Gospels, the Psalms, and a great part of the Bible are in Saxon, so are the Laws and Ecclesiastical Canons, and Charters of most of our Saxon Kings; these one wou'd think might deserve their Credit. But they have not had Learning or Industry enough to fit them for such Acquaintance, and are forc'd therefore to take up their Refuge with those Triflers, whose only Pretence to Wit, is to despise their Betters. This Censure will not, I imagine, be thought harsh, by any candid Reader, since their own Discovery has sufficiently declared their Ignorance: and their Boldness, to determine things whereof they are so ignorant, has so justly fix'd upon them the Charge of Impudence. For otherwise they must needs have been ashamed to proceed in manner following.

"We might give you various Instances more of the essential difference between the old Saxon and modern English Tongue, but these must satisfy any reasonable Man, that it is so great, that the Saxon can be no Rule to us; and that to understand ours, there is no "need of knowing the Saxon: And tho' Dr. Hickes must be allow'd to have been a very curious Enquirer into those obsolete Tongues, now out of use, and containing nothing valuable, yet it does by no means follow (as is plain from what has been said)


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 But Subtantives are ometimes put in the same Cae by appoition, as, , ,.

The Genitive Cae is ometimes put alone, the former Subtantive being undertood by an Ellepis, as, , where is left out by an Ellipis.

The Praie and Dipraie of a thing, is expret by the Genitive Cae, as,, they were of white Complexion, and Men of fair Countenance.

, which anwers to the Latin word opus, will have a Dative, or an Ablative Cae, as,, there is need of Repentance, or making amends: But ometimes it is ued as an Adjective, to ignify what is neceary, as,, it is very neceary for every Man; , but let us do as it is neceary for us.

Of the Contruction of

Adjectives governing a Genitive Cae

 * 1) F Comparion, as,, the firt of Men.
 * 2) That ignify Fullne, as,, full of dead Mens Bones. Thee alo have an Ablative Cae, as, , full of Deceit and Unrighteounes.


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 You will pardon, I hope, this digression, and any when she comes in my way, (and I am sure I am out of mine when she is not,) and I doubt you thinke I had need make an apology for having made this, being, as you may truly say, much adoe about nothing. I should thinke so too, did I not remember that good love was the best thing in heaven and earth, and all this was but to express it was not wanting to you in the else despicable heart of Your affectionate Uncle and Humble Servant,

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 death caused by another person;

death caused by an animal;

death caused by an accident;

death of a cause not yet known.

Wherever an unnatural death occurs, it shall be the duty of the husband, wife, relative, friend, or guardian of the deceased who has learnt of such death to proceed with it as follows:

keep the corpse at the very place of its finding in so far as possible;

go inform an administrative or police official as promptly as possible.

The duty stated in the first paragraph extends to other persons who find the corpse in a place where no husband, wife, relative, friend, or guardian of the deceased is present.

Whoever fails to perform the duty prescribed in this section shall be held guilty and be punished with a fine of not over a hundred baht.

An inquiry official of the locality where a corpse is, together with a subdistrict physician or other physician, shall conduct an inquest promptly and shall record the details of the inquest.

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Rh fortnight being denoted by శు॥ These expressions are used in nearly all common letters.

The fractional system of numbers uses peculiar signs: of which the basis is one అణా ana or anna i. e. one sixteenth: for which the Telugu name is వీసం vīsam, or, viss. Therefore as we divide decimally, (by tenths, twentieths and so forth) the Hindus divide by quarters eights, sixteenth, half 16ths, quarter 16ths, and then follows a 16th, 32nd and 64th part of a sixteenth.

One anna is denoted by a horizontal line—twothree. Then four (that is one quarter) is expressed by an upright line ౹ the name for which in Sanscrit is పాదం pādam: in Hindustani pāo and in Telugu కాలు cālu: each of which words literally means a leg. Thus in Sanscrit సపాదలక్ష sa-pāda-laxa signifies a lac [లక్ష] and a quarter.

The mark for two sixteenthsis written thus ౽, and called పరక or two annas. Three annasis written ౾ and called మువ్వీసం muvvīsam i. e. three visams. Two quarters, or, half, is ౺ called అర Three quarters is ౻ and called ముక్కాలు which is a contraction for మూడు three కాలు quarter.

The anna or sixteenth is used in various modes of reckoning, but whether regarding money, quantity, number, time, or distance, a one-anna or half anna share always bears the import already specified. Thus $1⁄64$ is called a quarter-anna Share.

The letters క, చ, ట, త, ప when they stand at the beginning of words are liable to being softened into గు, జ, (or స) డ, ద, and


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RV 380 (CANTO II.])


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 If the death occurs as a result of an action of an official whilst performing a public service by virtue of his duty, the inquest requires the participation of a judge of the court of the first instance in whose territory the locality where the inquest is conducted is.

It shall be the duty of the inquiry official to inform those who have to duty to conduct the inquest.

Whenever it is necessary in order to discover the cause of death, the official conducting the inquest has the power to order dissection of a corpse and analysis of any parts thereof, or may have a corpse sent in whole or in part to a government physician or analyst.

The government physician or analyst shall do as follows:

make a report on the condition of the corpse or parts thereof as seen or shown from the inspection, accompanied by an opinion thereon;

indicate the cause of death as well as he can;

affix the day, month, year, and signature to the report and send it to the official conducting the inquest.

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RV 381 (CANTO II.])


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38 బ or వ. Thus తమ్ముడు tammadu is a younger brother but when combined with అన్న elder brother, the compound is అన్నదిమ్ములు anna-dammulu brothers. In like manner తండ్రి tandri is father, but combined with తల్లి mother, it forms the word తలిదండ్రులు tali-dandrulu, i. e. parents. Thus చెల్లెలు chellelu is a younger sister and acca is an elder sister but అక్కజెల్లెండ్లు acca-jellendlu is Sisters.

This change is denominated సరళాదేశం Saral-ădesam. It frequently occurs in Telugu poetry and (but rarely) is used in common prose. The few instances given above are in frequent use. In Welsh poetry as also in Irish, Gaelic, and other languages of the Celtic school the same principle occurs. It is wholly unknown to Sanscrit Etymology.

To accustom the reader to this principle I shall in this grammar write the hard and soft initials indiscriminately; particularly in the verb: where the auxiliar పడుట paduta to fall, is continually spelt బడుట baduta, which is the form we hourly use in speaking and writing.

In a few instances an initial consonant is dropped. Thus వేయుట veyuta to cast, వెర్రి verri, foolish నేను nenu (the pronoun I) నీవు nīvu Thou మేము memu we are spelt ఏయుట, ఎర్రి, ఏను, ఈవు, ఏము, ēyuta, erri, ēnu, īvu, ēmu. The pronoun నేను I can even become ఏ E′.

The three vowels ి ు when they are final are often lengthened. Thus అక్క sister in the vocative becomes అక్కా accā.


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RV 382 (CANTO II.])


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276 nated, and also the Tarpeian Rock. We saw the Dying Gladiator at the Capitol, and I think that even we appreciated that wonder of art; as much, perhaps, as we did that fearful story wrought in marble, in the Vatican—the Laocoon. And then the Coliseum.

Every body knows the picture of the Coliseum; every body recognizes at once that “looped and windowed” band-box with a side bitten out. Being rather isolated, it shows to better advantage than any other of the monuments of ancient Rome. Even the beautiful Pantheon, whose pagan altars uphold the cross, now, and whose Venus, tricked out in consecrated gimcracks, does reluctant duty as a Virgin Mary to-day, is built about with shabby houses and its stateliness sadly marred. But the monarch of all European ruins, the Coliseum, maintains that reserve and that royal seclusion which is proper to majesty. Weeds and flowers spring from its massy arches and its circling seats, and vines hang their fringes from its lofty


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Rh walls. An impressive silence broods over the monstrous structure where such multitudes of men and women were wont to assemble in other days. The butterflies have taken the places of the queens of fashion and beauty of eighteen centuries ago, and the lizards sun themselves in the sacred seat of the Emperor. More vividly than all the written histories, the Coliseum tells the story of Rome’s grandeur and Rome’s decay. It is the worthiest type of both that exists. Moving about the Rome of to-day, we might find it hard to believe in her old magnificence and her millions of population; but with this stubborn evidence before us that she was obliged to have a theatre with sitting room for eighty thousand persons and standing room for twenty thousand more, to accommodate such of her citizens as required amusement, we find belief less difficult. The Coliseum is over one thousand six hundred feet long, seven hundred and fifty wide, and one hundred and sixty-five high. Its shape is oval.

In America we make convicts useful at the same time that we punish them for their crimes. We farm them out and compel them to earn money for the State by making barrels and building roads. Thus we combine business with retribution, and all things are lovely. But in ancient Rome they combined religious duty with pleasure. Since it was necessary that the new sect called Christians should be exterminated, the people judged it wise to make this work profitable to the State at the same time, and entertaining to the public. In addition to the gladiatorial combats and other shows, they sometimes threw members of the hated sect into the arena of the Coliseum and turned wild beasts in upon them. It is estimated that seventy thousand Christians suffered martyrdom in this place. This has made the Coliseum holy ground, in the eyes of the followers of the Saviour. And well it might; for if the chain that bound a saint, and the footprints a saint has left upon a stone he chanced to stand upon, be holy, surely the spot where a man gave up his life for his faith is holy.

Seventeen or eighteen centuries ago this Coliseum was the theatre of Rome, and Rome was mistress of the world. Splen-


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Rh వెర్రి fool in the vocative becomes వేర్రీ. Again the final ు or  is changed into ఆ to denote question. Thus వాడు he becomes వాడా He?

This will be fully explained elsewhere. At present it is only requisite to point out that the final vowel is often lengthened (in the manner of emphasis) without affecting the meaning. This particularly happens in compound words. Thus అక్కజెల్లెండ్రు Sisters, is generally spelt అక్కాజెల్లెండ్లు.

In like manner కూడ together is generally spelt కూడా and the final ు in లోను becomes లోనూ inside. These forms are considered vulgar but are in daily use.

The final short vowels ి  ు are liable to elision when followed by a word beginning with a vowel. Thus వాడు + ఎక్కడ vadu + eccada becomes వాడెక్కడ vad'eccada where is he? అది + ఎక్కడ adi + eccada, where is it? becomes అదెక్కడ ad'eccada, అన్న + ఎక్కడ anna + eccada may become అన్నెక్కడ ann'eccada, where is his brother.

But in speaking and writing Telugu we usually neglect this elision (which is denominated సంధి sandhi.) In this we are frequently misled by natives teachers, who forget that rules binding on poets are needless to those who use the common language of conversation or correspondence. Accordingly they insist upon our using elision and permutation in ordinary Telugu: a pedantic refinement which we are obliged to lay aside when we commence to transact business in the language.

When driven to admit that they themselves depart from the principles they inculcate, they even will acknowledge themselves to speak erroneously. But in truth there is no error: there are merely two dialects, and when we write or converse we have no occasion to use the forms which are peculiar to poetry.

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 to her headstrong will, and flew along the narrow path, dragging her panting, reluctant nurse after her.

A pale, wasted boy sat at the door of the miserable hut, murmuring a wild song in broken accents, while his bony fingers played among the strings of a guitar, and drew forth a low wailing sound. Insanity was blazing in his haggard eyes as he raised them to the new comers. “You would see Walfrida,” he said, “the syren, the enchantress—you would listen to her spells? She will admit you. Oh, implore her to let me gaze on that vision once again—only, only once!”

Viola trembled as she tapped at the door, which was instantly opened; and a voice bade her enter. She obeyed, and the piteous tones of the maniac followed her, still petitioning for admittance once more.

“What would you with me, maiden?” said a tall woman, clad fantastically in black.

Viola was silent, between shame and fear.

“Speak boldly, and fear not. Would you know whether your lover is true or false? Do you wish to see him as he now is—or is it the bridegroom fate has in store for you that you would gaze on? Walfrida has power to show you all, any of these.”

“I would look on my future bridegroom,” murmured the trembling Viola.

The woman took her hand, and led her through a long range of chambers hewn from the solid rock, against which the house was built; and the affrighted girl almost closed her eyes to shut out the view of the skeletons, monsters, and strange forms which seemed to gibber and grin at her as she passed along. They reached a spacious chamber, and she was left alone in utter darkness for some moments. A silence like that of death prevailed; she dared not move, for fancy pictured a deep abyss at her feet, down which one step, nay a single breath, might plunge her. Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced her bosom, as if a dagger had been plunged therein, and she screamed in agony; the mocking, hollow laugh of Walfrida replied to her, as that mysterious being entered with a burning torch, which she fixed in the ground, and then loosening her hair and baring her arms, she drew a circle round Viola, chaunting meanwhile in a monotonous tone, which gradually arose or fell like the dreary sound of a stormy wind. Suddenly the maniac’s voice was heard above it—“That vision, Walfrida, once again—only once!” and as the witch grasped her magic staff, he rushed into the room and knelt before her. She touched him with it, and the wasted form dropped lifeless at her feet. The scream of horror was frozen on Viola’s lips, by the demoniac look and gesture with which Walfrida exclaimed—“Speak not—move not! The spell is wound up. Behold!”

Stunned, terrified, and half fainting, Viola gazed on a dim cloud, which gradually assumed form and substance; until it gave to view a noble, princely knight, clad in glittering armour. In his outstretched hand he held a broken minatureminiature [sic], richly set in gold and diamonds. It was not Serini, and yet Viola gazed on him with admiration, with feelings such as her heart had never known before; it was as if his eyes were sunbeams which warmed and irradiated her whole being with a new and rapturous sensation. He knelt and lifted his hands towards her, and she saw that the one which held the picture was wounded and bleeding. The voice of Walfrida startled her from her rapt gaze—Tis your future bridegroom, maiden; and methinks you seem not ill pleased with him; but now dismiss him. Quick, touch the form. Dost hear me, girl? Life and death hangs on the moment. Touch him, I say, if not with your hand, with something else!”

Viola mechanically drew a diamond bodkin from her hair, and touched the hand of the form. It was gone.

“Was it then a dream,” she murmured.

“Look on the bodkin,” replied the witch.

She obeyed. The gem and setting were stained with blood.

“It is the blood of your future husband; keep it from his sight, as you value your life and his love!” were the last words she remembered, until she found herself lying on the forest turf, and Gertrude bending anxiously over her.

The day had arrived for Viola’s departure for the capital, and all her repugnance to go there seemed to have vanished; even the neglect of Serini, who had failed to reply to her letter, was unnoticed. The only tears she shed were those occasioned by her parting with her faithful nurse—her more than mother.

The Count Harras, who remembered his daughter but as a plain, sickly child, was astonished and delighted by the beautiful girl who called him father; and he now prepared, with redoubled splendour, for the period which was to celebrate the marriage of one child and the introduction of another.

The Count Nadasti had been absent some time in active service, and for many days had been hourly expected. Maria looked anxiously for him, and often felt somewhat vexed by such protracted delays. At length came the welcome sound of his trumpets; Viola descended with her sister to the hall, bounding with all the elasticity of health and joy; but scarcely had she entered than, with a faint cry, she sank lifeless to the ground. The Count, who was just entering at the opposite door, sprang forwards, but too late to save her from falling. Eagerly he inquired who this lovely stranger was, and most anxiously watched for returning animation; but with it came delirium and fever, and for many weeks Viola lay on the point of death. Nadasti proposed that his nuptials should be postponed until she recovered; and while the Count thanked him for this mark of regard to his feelings, Maria felt that indifference to her, if not admiration for her young sister,


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 prompted the proposal; and bitter tears fell from the eyes of that gentle girl as she patiently watched by the couch of the unconcious Viola.

Maria’s fears were but too well founded; no sooner was Viola able to quiet her chamber than Nadasti became her shadow; his every thought, look, and word was too evidently hers; and the young maiden received his attentions with trembling and blushes, now smiling sweetly as in joyful bliss, now stealing a glance at her deserted sister which filled her eyes with tears.

The conversation, one day, was unusually lively; and Maria, conquering her timidity, inquired of her sometime-lover what he had done with her miniature.

A cloud passed over the lofty brow of the Count, as he replied, “It is broken.”

“Broken!” exclaimed Maria and her father.

“Yes,” replied he. “Listen, and I will tell you how it was. I drew it, one afternoon, from my bosom, to contemplate those fair and gentle features; when, suddenly, my breathing became heavy and difficult, my heart ceased to beat, I felt as if suffocated, and became unconscious; thus my servants found me, and under their care I gradually revived. In my struggles, or in the fall, the miniature was broken; and some portions of it had severely wounded my hand. But what ails the Lady Viola? You are fainting, sweet girl! lean on me. It is strange, but I always feel as if we had met before. Perchance it was in some previous existence. Smile at my wild imaginings if you will, but it is delightful to think that we have long known and loved each other—that some mystic bond unites our souls. Can you sympathize with this feeling, Viola—my sweet Viola?”

Viola was almost sinking with anguish and fear; but she rallied her spirits, and endeavoured to turn the conversation by proposing a walk. Nadasti was instantly ready to attend her, and Maria threw a veil over her sister’s head, saying—“It will blow off unless we fasten it; so take this bodkin, my lord, and play tire-woman for once.”

Nadasti turned pale, and pushed back her hand almost roughly, exclaiming—“Take it away, take it away! I cannot touch it.” The bystanders regarded his emotion with wonder; but collecting himself, he raised the offended hand to his lips respectfully, saying—“Forgive me, fair Maria. That trinket seemed to recall to mind something disagreeable, painful; the thought flashed like lightning across my brain, and is already gone, nor can I trace it out. Have you never felt a shadowy, dreamy association of ideas raised by some chance word or tone, awakening indefinite emotions which the mind in vain endeavours to grasp? Such a feeling did that bodkin raise in me; nay, so far did imagination carry me, that I seemed to feel its point in this wound in my hand.”

“This was your own, your first gift to me,” said Maria, sadly; “take it and fasten the veil.” But he still refused, and she almost impatiently exclaimed—“Then I must do it myself.”

“No, no!” murmured the shuddering Viola. “Never again will I wear such a thing.”

“Sweet, sympathizing girl!” whispered Nadasti, gazing fondly on her. “Look up, dear Viola. I am to blame for thus exciting your gentle feelings by my vague fancies. Let me see you smile again.”

But Viola could not smile, Gertrude’s words—“If ever a man discovers that he has been spiritually summoned by a female, he hates her with the deadliest hatred,” were ringing in her ears; she hastily quitted the room, and, flying to her own chamber, burst into tears. Presently she opened her casket, and drew forth the fatal diamond bodkin; it was stained in different parts with deep patches of dull red, and Viola trembled as she regarded it. “He will hate me,” she murmured. “Oh, Gertrude! would that I had followed your advice. And yet it were better he should hate me; for is he not my sister’s plighted husband? Poor Maria! Nadasti loves you not; no, no, he loves Viola! He, the brave, the noble, the beautiful, loves me now; and I love him. Oh yes! I only feel as if I lived while in his presence. How different is this love from the feeling with which I once regarded Serini; that was cold, vain, childish—this is fervent, absorbing, blissful; and yet that fatal stain! how shall I obliterate it?” For hours did she patiently wash and rub the jewel, and at length retired to rest, with the hope that the traces of blood were nearly gone; but the morning’s light showed her how vain that hope had been: and distracted by a thousand fears, she enveloped herself in a hood and mantle, and seizing the tell-tale witness of her folly, hastened to a rocky mountain, into one of the deepest fissures of which she dropped the bodkin, and then hurrying back, gained her chamber unperceived.

The love of Nadasti and Viola was soon suspected by Maria, and as her suspicions became certainties, she resolved to release her faithless lover from his vows, nor wait until he forsook her. Accordingly she stated to her father her wish to take the veil. The Count Harras was naturally surprised by so sudden, and to him so unaccountable a fancy, and vainly strove to argue her out of it; but finding this impossible, he broke the matter as cautiously as possible to Nadasti, and was again fated to be astonished by the coolness with which he received the information of the loss of his plighted bride. The good Count Harras had forgotten all the love passages of his youth, or had never had any, otherwise he would have been more quick-sighted. But there was one whose jealous eyes marked each event, and who was neither indifferent or deceived; this was Serini. His rank in life excluded him from the courtly circle, but


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 did not prevent his hearing all the various rumours and gossip which emanated from it, or occasionally having it in his power unseen to watch his enamoured lord and the fair and false idol of his heart, who had once smiled as sweetly on him as she now did on her noble lover. He wrote to her; but Viola, amid the excitements and delight of her present life, threw the epistle aside, to be read at some leisure moment, and forgot it altogether. Serini waited first patiently, then impatiently for some answer; but receiving none, became exasperated by what appeared to him studied contempt, and believing Maria to be as much wronged as himself, he sought her, to breathe revenge on their betrayers. But he little knew the being he addressed; no particle of revenge lurked in that gentle bosom. Maria had become convinced that Viola and Nadasti were deeply attached to each other, and only prayed for their happiness. She used all her eloquence to dissuade Serini from attempting to disturb or injure either of them, and at length he feigned to be convinced and calmed; but not the less deadly was his hatred, not the less firm his determination to obtain vengeance.

The Count Harras, who regretted Maria’s determination chiefly on account of its robbing him of his noble son-in-law, was not a little delighted when Nadasti requested permission to transfer his addresses to Viola, and eagerly consented.

A magnificent fête was given in honour of the betrothal, and the handsome pair received the congratulations of all their friends. “My Viola! my bride!” exclaimed Nadasti, drawing her from the crowd into a quiet walk, and looking down with fond pride on the sweet face raised half bashfully, half lovingly, to meet his gaze. A sharp report of a pistol followed his words, and the ball whizzed closely past Viola. Instant search was made, and the assassin discovered and brought forward; but he disdained to reply to any questions, and stood with compressed bloodless lips, and his flashing eyes fiercely fixed on the shrinking bride. How unlike the animated, joyous Serini of old! “Away with him to a dungeon!” exclaimed the Count; “he shall not mar our festivities to-day, and to-morrow torture shall wring from him the cause of this cowardly attack.” Ere that to-morrow Serini had escaped from his cell; there was one in the fortress who pitied, though she had ceased to love him, and could not see him harmed. Vain was Nadasti’s rage, no one knew who had assisted the prisoner to escape; even Serini himself knew not the hand which unbolted his dungeon doors, and left him the means of flight. Suspicion fell on Maria, for several persons bore witness to the fact that he had had a private audience with her on the previous day, and there were not wanting voices to hint that, envious of her sister’s happiness, she had incited him to the murderous attempt; but no one ventured to breathe such a thought in Viola’s presence, for she knew too well that she had wrecked the happiness of that gentle sister, and strove by every fond token of affection to atone for her involuntary offence, and saw with remorse and regret the fading health of that so lately beautiful and happy being.

Maria, unconscious of the secret slander uttered against her, retired to a convent on the day after her sister’s betrothal, feeling it impossible to witness the happiness and affection of the lovers without betraying the anguish of her own heart, and thereby grieving them.

The wedding-day had now arrived. Throughout the whole of the previous night Viola’s rest was haunted by feverish dreams. Every scene in Walfrida’s hut recurred with all the vividness of reality; again she heard the wailing notes of that guitar, and saw the pale spectral boy die; again she gazed on the blood-stained jewel, and heard the warning—“Keep it from your husband’s sight, as you value your life and his love.” Then the air seemed peopled by thousands of diamond bodkins, each dimmed by the same crimson stain; and that sharp, agonizing pain, once felt, again pierced her bosom. Day had begun to dawn before sound sleep visited her exhausted frame, and then a shadowy, nun-like form bent over the bed, and an icy touch thrilled to her bones. Her cry of terror aroused her attendants, who, on entering the chamber, started to see a white form flit from the bed-side, and melt into the misty morning vapour which hung around. “It was Maria, my poor sister!” she exclaimed. “I have broken her heart! Send immediately to the convent to inquire after her, and entreat the Count Nadasti to postpone our nuptials until the messenger returns.” Her first command was complied with; but her impatient lover laughed at the idea of a spirit, insisted that all was a dream, and implored her not to delay his happiness. His eager, passionate entreaties, the voice of her own heart, and the commands of her father, overcame all her scruples, she plighted her faith to him; and as she received the priest’s and her father’s blessing, and her husband’s fond embrace, all the gloomy visions of the past night vanished even from memory, nor were they recalled until the return of the messenger from the convent on the following day, who brought word that Maria had died about the same hour her sister fancied that she had seen her. Viola was deeply affected, and the Count Harras much moved; even Nadasti felt that his happiness was clouded by this sad intelligence, and he spared no pains to soothe and console his weeping bride, and was strenuously aided in his endeavours by the wise and pious conversations of the good father Paul, the family priest, whose highly cultivated and religious mind enabled him to amuse, instruct, and edify his listeners.

“I have lately made a very interesting discovery,” he said to them one day. “I had frequently read, in the works of old writers, that


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