"Send three of the garden people with spades
to the rear of the cedar-copse."

Signing to the magistrates to follow, Corsellis
passed into the garden, and, thence, by a small
door into the outer grounds. The gardeners
arriving at the same instant, Corsellis led the
party directly to the scene of the midnight
burial. Pointing to the spot where the fresh-
turned soil indicated the grave, he ordered his
men to dig.

A hole was quickly made. Fast flew the loose
black mould to the surface. Presently, one of
the labourers held up his hand.

"There is something here," he said.

"Well, man, up with it. Why do you stop?"
exclaimed Corsellis, impatiently stamping his
foot.

The men carefully uncovered the buried
"something," and handed to the surface the
carcase of an animal of the canine family, but
with a shaggy mane and crest, something
resembling those of a lion. Even in death, there
was something curiously fierce and repulsive in
the aspect of the hybrid beast. It had been
stabbed with some broad keen blade, absolutely
through and through.

"Gentlemen, are you content?" asked
Corsellis, pointing at the animal as it lay at his
feet. " This dog-lion acknowledged but two
masters in the world—myself, and my servant
Morgan. He became dangerous. We tried to
poison him in vain. I killed him with my
Malay creese, and here's his carcase. What
more?"

"But, what below him, sir?" said old
Harlbutt.

Corsellis bit his lip. His eye glared upon
the speaker with a gleam hardly less ferocious
than that of his own dog-lion, when alive; he
looked round upon the circle; then, in a fury,
burst out:

"Dig, dig, fellows, and have done with it!
Cast out, cast out! Quick, now! That's well!"

A spade had rested upon something else than
mould. The earth was rapidly cleared away,
and exposed the folds of a shroud.

"Lift her carefully, fellows," said Corsellis,
with a sort of fierce laugh. " Soft, now, soft!
Do not expose those delicate limbs. Remember,
though dead, she is a woman. Now, altogether.
There!"

The stiffened frame was laid upon the grass
close at hand. Then Sir George, taking the
shroud in his two hands, rent it from top to
bottom, and threw the pieces apart. It was an
artist's lay-figure. On the face appeared a
hideous mask, with white stony eyes, so
constructed as to pass round and round: showing
the face in any direction, as though the neck
were invertebrated.

"There, gentlemen, is the whole secret,"
said Sir George, "since you will be content
with nothing less. And here," he added, in a
tone suddenly changed to one of the deepest
feeling, "here is the key to the mysteries of
Mournivale. My darling wife was—thank God
I may now so express it—mad. Gentlemen, I
was assured by a foreign physician, whose life
has been passed in the study of brain disease,
that if I would fearlessly and minutely follow
the directions he would give me, as adapted
to my wife's peculiar case, there was every
hope, nay, almost certainty, of ultimate restoration.
A portion of his system involved an
absolute indulgence of the delusion under which
she laboured. Her delusion was, that she had
passed into the custody of a fiend, in whose
fiery palace she was condemned to pass two
hours nightly, amidst the noise and riot of
fearful beings who were invisible to her. For
months this hallucination was humoured. At
length, certain symptoms which were from
time to time carefully reported to the
professor, induced him to authorise a daring
experiment. We resolved to kill the fiend. It was
done; we not only killed, but the more deeply
to impress the supposed occurrence on my poor
patient's mind, buried, her persecutor with all the
pageant that the resources of my establishment
could supply, sacrificing at the same time my
poor Lion, on whose temper I could no longer
depend.

"As touching the poison, Mr. Harlbutt,"
continued Sir George, " I conclude that my cook's
consternation arose from the fear that some
apple-tart intended for the destruction of Lion,
had been productive of mischief elsewhere—a
circumstance I should deeply deplore. At all
events, I know that the poisoned dish was missing,
and that its disappearance created no small
anxiety. When I add that our own viands were
occasionally seasoned with homœopathic
preparations, I think I have touched upon
everything you could desire to know. If not, give
me the pleasure of your company on any future
day, and I will complete my explanations, as well
as make you known to my wife, and her nurse,
friend, and cousin in one—our ex-demon—
Miss Blatchford."

Sir George and his lady resided here for two
years—mixing frequently with society, everywhere
popular and welcome guests. When, at
the end of that time, Miss Blatchford married
Captain—then Colonel—Harlbutt, Sir George
and his wife went to Italy, and continued, I
believe, to reside there, until the death of both
—on the same day—at Florence.

Here comes our engine! If my little story
has beguiled the interval, I am sufficiently
rewarded.

NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS,
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
"Pickwick," " Copperfleld," &c.
Now publishing, PART III., price 1s., of
OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.