minutes. Now then, Dawes, you move back
that bed. Stonehill, you take a big chisel and
rip off that skirting-board round the wainscot.
Give me your axe, Mr. Hewson here your small
crow, and we'll lift up those corner planks in the
bedroom."

They did so. In a few minutes the dusty
wainscot lay on the floor at the foot of the bed.
One heave, and up came the planks.

"And here, Ellis, come and see. I was
right. See, here lies your deadly enemy!"

Ellis looked. Three leaden gas-pipes were
lying between the floor and the ceiling of the
billiard-room, and they passed behind the wainscot
at the head of his bed. They had been placed
there before he occupied the chambers. There
was a leak in them, and the pungent smell was
almost intolerable.

"That leak," said the architect, " is new, and
would probably have saved your life by informing
you of the presence of these pipes. It was
not it, however, that was killing you by inches;
it was the carbonised fœtid vapour, the poisonous
hot air which bathed you as you slept; it was
the glare of those six lamps below in that
blackguard's room; it was the gas that he burnt away
for hours and hours as you reposed. That was the
nightmare. Now for the remedy. We must go
and inform Mr. Medlicot, and beg him to have
the pipes altered. If he refuses, you must stop
here by day, and come at night and sleep in my
rooms or Hewson's. This room, as it is now, is
a mere room of death."

Ellis looked on the planks as if they had
covered a murdered body.

"And now," said Hewson, "let us ring for
your laundress, and tell her to go and see if
that rip of a fellow is in."

They rang. Mrs. Harvey appeared, was
pale and trembling, and hardly able to speak.
"Oh, Mr. Ellis and gentlemen, I was just a
coming up to you! Do come down, for mercy's
sake come down! I know there's something
wrong about Mr. Medlicot, his bedroom door's
ajar, and it is now half-past twelve, and he hasn't
touched his breakfast yet, that he ordered last
night at seven. Oh, do come! I know there's
something wrong, for he looked so bad when he
got a letter last night that a man left for him."

The three men went down; there was no one
in the parlour; the breakfast was untouched,
the billiard-room was silent. The bedroom door
was ajar. Ellis knocked once, twice, three
times, low, loud, louder. No one replied, no one
moved. Then they all three knocked, and
Hewson called out who they were, and what they had
come for. They listened, but there was no sound
even of heavy breathing.

Then, and not till then, Hewson stooped and
looked through the keyhole to see if the man was
really asleep. In an instant he rose and burst
open the door like a madman.

On the floor near lay a blood-stained letter,
with the postmark Liverpool. It contained
only these few words:

"Sir,—The signature to your last cheque for
500/., paid for wine sent by our house, has been
discovered to be a forgery on the Royal Bank in
this city. If you do not, by return, send the
money, you must take the consequences.
"Yours faithfully,
"SHAW AND ANDERSON.
"November 9, 1860."

Below was written, hurriedly in pencil, these
few words:

"I'm in a tight place at last, for that rascal
Hunt cleared me out last night at billiards, so
here goes, Messrs. Shaw and Anderson!"

What else they saw on the floor was too
shocking to need description.

The other day after dinner, when Mr. Ellis,
now a medical man of large practice at Lewisham,
and the happy husband of Miss Ellen Hewson,
told this story to a large party of friends who
had been discussing nightmares, he added:
"There was indeed an evil and potent spirit in
the poisonous vapours that rose from the scene
of that bad man's revels; but Providence
was good and saved me from that slow
and terrible death. That cruel spirit that
my friends exercised, and drove from my
sleep, turned back in its baffled rage like a
maddened Frankenstein demon, but, ere it
descended, it choked out the life of the bad man
that had evoked it from the lowest and blackest
vice, folly, and crime. The fool that calls up
such spirits, so quick to obey the bidding of the
bad, had no spell by which he could dismiss it.
His death was the payment that the spirit
demanded. That was the price of his services,
and that price he obtained."

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

In Number 313, to be published on the 19th of April, will
            be commenced a new Serial Novel, entitled
                HALF A MILLION OF MONEY,
                   By AMELIA B. EDWARDS,
             Author of "BARBARA'S HISTORY."

The Right of Translating Articles from ALL THE YEAR HOUND is reserved by the Authors.