down at my feet and adore. Look passionately
at me, fool, or by the living Sap——"

I declare, either her intimidating manner,
or something entrancing in those wonderful
eyes, led me on, and for the moment I
fell in with her odd humour. I did assume
those amorous glances she had instructed
me to give; and, to carry out the delusion
better, I even took her hand, and poured
out some half-rapturous fragments. She
answered me much in the same key. I could
see the hook-nosed man was really disturbed at
the proceedings; and, from a strange feeling of
curiosity to see how far the thing could go, I
carried on some pantomime, bending over her
hand as though I was about to imprint a——

"O my Alfredo!" she said, her hair
"fanning" me.

"O Sultana!" I said, "see me at your feet."

There was a rustle and a half-cry behind me.
I had forgotten them. They were come, the two
women, and were standing over us—the injured,
outraged girl, on whose neck was actually
glittering the section of the little cable—I mean the
little section of the cable. O infatuation!

The situation was desperate. I lost all speech
and presence of mind. I could make no
excuse. I stammered out some frantic
explanation.

"It was all her fault. She was acting a part
just to excite the jealousy of that hook-nosed
man opposite. I am innocent, indeed I am. It
looks bad, I know. She intimidated me, but it
was mere acting—it was, indeed."

"Softly," said the Franco-Spanish lady. "He
is touched at last. All goes well." Then she
turned round. "Ah," she said, smiling, "so your
bêtes noires have come at last. I told you they
would. I know women better than you. You
can hide nothing from us, though you plot ever
so cleverly. I told you they would find you out.
See, see, he is going. 1 knew the spell would
work. I shall confront him in the lobby, and
then, what a scene!"

All this while the two women had not spoken
a word.

"It is time for us to leave this place," said
Mrs. Mantower. "It is not a fit spot for
us."

"It was all a mistake, I assure you," I said,
frantically. "I am as innocent as a child——"

The other was panting helplessly.
Hysterics were coming on. She said not a
word. Her mother took her arm and led her
from the box. As I looked back vacantly
and stupified, something was thrown to me,
that struck me lightly on the shirt-front, much
like an insect, known to naturalists, I believe—
or rather not known to naturalists, by the
name of a "Daddy Longlegs." It was the little
section of the cable! On examination the
next morning, I found that the chain was
broken, and the clasp still clasped. So she
must have dragged it from her neck.

I repeat, the whole situation was so desperately
hopeless, that I could say nothing—do
nothing. Saying or doing would only make it
worse. In my desperation, a wild notion came
on me of pushing the thing to a logical outrance
and brazening it out by open and abandoned
lovemaking. But they were gone. Mechanically
I went after them. They were at the bottom
of the stairs, at the door, and going out to
their carriage, or job, or cab; it doesn't matter
now. It was all up from that hour to the
present. I went back to BOX NUMBER TWENTY.
Fatal receptacle. It was empty. The play was
going on. A great sensation-scene—an interior
of a railway carriage, and wires (real) all passing
by (canvas on rollers, like the panoramas). The
carriages lit; the passengers seen inside in rugs
and travelling-caps, sleeping or reading their
newspapers. The murderer had got out of the
third-class carriage, and was creeping along the
footboard to carry out his infamous deed, to
slow music. The house was darkened: not a
sound could be heard. Even the box-keepers
stood at the door, and looked on with interest.
Another time all this would have amused me;
but now, actually, when the stage murderer was
leaning his hand on the first carriage door, I
rose up, left BOX NUMBER TWENTY, and went
home, consumed with rage, despair, and
disappointment.

She married the Irish parson after all! He
cut out the captain, as I suspected he would.
He is now the Dean of Ballymascallion. The
Venerable! Ha, ha!

              Now ready, price Fourpence,
                                THE
   EXTRA DOUBLE NUMBER FOR CHRISTMAS,
                            ENTITLED
                  NO THOROUGHFARE.
                 BY CHARLES DICKENS
                 AND WILKIE COLLINS.

To commence in the Number dated Saturday,
January 4, 1868,
THE MOONSTONE;
A NEW SERIAL STORY
By WILKIE COLLINS.

On the 16th instant will be published, bound in cloth,
price 5s. 6d.,
THE EIGHTEENTH VOLUME.