woman. Take me away, take me away where I
can never see her, Gilbert. Take me, if you love
me."

And then, when her miserable husband, hardly
more reasonable than herself, besought her to
remember that to do such a thing would be to
throw away their last chance, and that it would
proclaim her to be guilty before all the world,
then would she fall into a worse state still, and
would cry out that he, too, was deserting her,
that he believed her guilty, and that his love for
her was gone.

Worst horror of all, but not, Heaven's mercy
be thanked, of long continuance, ere long she
would acknowledge the truth and justice of all
that he said, and clinging round him once again,
would entreat him that he would, at least,
accord her this one favour, that if—if it came to
the worst, he would in some way convey to her
the means of death, that so she might die by his
beloved hand. Such were some of the phases
of affliction through which the suffering woman
passed at this time.

On that critical day, when, in consequence of
the discovery made at the chemist's, certain
authorities came to search her room, she stood
outside the door trembling in anticipation of
some new horror. Her husband was inside with
the men, but presently he came out to speak to
her, and comfort her.

"What are they doing, Gilbert?" she asked,
looking into his eyes for hope.

Gilbert told her of their search, and what it
was they looked for.

"And have they found it?" she asked.

"Found—found what?"

"The bottle, Gilbert. Don't you remember,
dear?"

"Remember," he repeated, mechanically.
"No."

"Not remember. I got it to rub my poor
shoulder—THE LAUDANUM."

Penmore uttered a cry of agony, as if in
physical pain.

"Was there any left?" he gasped.

"Yes, about half."

"And what did you do with it?"

"I hid it. The chemist told me to keep it
out the way of the servants. So I hid it."

"Oh, why did you do that?" cried Gilbert,
who had remained for a moment stunned. "It
will look worse than all the rest."

"I was so afraid lest some one should get
hold of it," said Gabrielle, "and so there might
be mischief done."

Again there was a silence. They were there
on the landing outside the bedroom door.
They could hear the men inside talking. They
could hear them moving articles of furniture,
opening and shutting drawers, and turning over
everything that came in their way.

"Where did you hide it, Gabrielle?" said
her husband, taking her hand, which was as
cold as ice.

"In the box underneath the bed."

"Is it locked?"

"Yes, and I have got the key. I thought to
keep it safe, Gilbert. You are not angry with
me?"

"Angry? my poor darling. But you must
give me the key."

"Oh, Gilbert."

"Yes, yes," he said, eagerly. "It is our
only chance."

There was a pause in the movement that had
been going on within the room, and then a
dragging sound as of some object drawn
heavily across the floor. The husband and wife
looked each other in the face.

"The key, the key," said Gilbert again.
Gabrielle took the bunch from her pocket, and
with trembling hands divided the key from the
rest.

"This is it," she whispered.

At that moment the door of the bedroom was
opened from within, and one of the policemen
appeared on the threshold.

"Here's a box here," the man said, respectfully
enough, "which we should wish to be
allowed to examine. If you could oblige us
with the key."

Gilbert handed the man the bunch of keys
just as he had received it from his wife—the
key in question separated from the rest.

"You will find what you are looking for in
that box," he said.

AT CARACAS.

THE hotel was a square house of two stories,
close to the market-place, and not far from the
centre of the city. All the rooms on the groundfloor
were bedrooms. On the floor above was
my apartment, a very large room divided into
three by partitions, and overlooking the street.
On the side opposite my room was another very
large one, where the table d'hôte was held. To
the left were three rooms occupied by the landlord
and his family, and on the right were some
more bedrooms for travellers. The concierge
was a huge negro, who, having been a custom-
house officer, gave himself all the airs of a
government official, and had grown so fat that
he quite blocked up the doorway. The landlord
had come to the country as a savant, to collect
articles for some museum, but, having married
an English lady's-maid, condescended to allow
her to make his fortune by keeping this hotel.
He was the most silent man possible, and all the
time I was there I never heard him say but two
words, "Mon Dieu!" An unmarried daughter
lived in the house, and played the piano at a
great rate. The establishment consisted of two
Indian waitresses, and a mulatto stable-boy.
There was also a cook, so enormously fat that I
put her down as the wife of the fat concierge.
I was glad that I encountered her only once, and
that at my departure, as I should never have
been able to relish my dinner after seeing by
whom it was cooked. I found my apartment
very neatly furnished, and beautifully clean, and
congratulated myself on having so comfortable a