looks, and was not altogether displeased by
it. It argued deep solicitude for Mrs. Carruthers
of Poynings—an extremely proper sentiment;
so Mr. Carruthers consoled his niece,
after his stately fashion, acknowledging, at the
same time, the unaccountable vagaries of fever,
and assuring Clare that there was nothing
infectious in the case—a subject on which it had
never occurred to the girl to feel any uneasiness.
Not so with Mr. Carruthers, who had
a very great dread of illness of every kind, and
a superstitions reverence for the medical art.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival
of the post, and Mr. Carruthers's attention was
again drawn to the subject of the murder and
the possibility of promoting his own importance
in connexion with it. Clare's pale face turned
paler as her uncle took up the first letter of the
number presented to him by Thomas, footman,
that official looking peculiarly intelligent on
the occasion; for the letter bore the magic
inscription, "On Her Majesty's Service," and
the seal of the Home Office.

Mr. Carruthers took some time to read the
letter even with the aid of the gold eye-glasses.
It came from Mr. Dalrymple, who wrote an
abnormally bad hand even for a government
official—a circumstance which Mr. Carruthers
mentally combined with the beard of which he
retained an indignant remembrance as a sign of
the degeneracy of the age. The irrepressible
pompousness of the man showed itself even in
this crisis of affairs, as he perused the document,
and laid it down upon the table under the hand
armed with the eye-glasses.

Clare waited breathless.

"Hem! my dear," he began, " this letter is
connected with the matter I mentioned to you
yesterday. You remember, I dare say, about
the murder, and the inquiry I was requested by
the government to make at Amherst."

Oh yes, Clare remembered; she had been
very much interested. Had anything since
transpired?

"Nothing of any moment. This letter is from
Mr. Dalrymple. The gentleman who came here,
as I told you, from Lord Wolstenholme."

Clare, still breathless, bowed. There was no
use in trying to accelerate Mr. Carruthers's
speech. He was not to be hurried.

"He writes to me that the Home Secretary
regrets very much the failure of our inquiries
at Amherst, in eliciting any information
concerning the only person on whom suspicion has
as yet alighted. He informs me that, as I
expected, and as I explained to you yesterday"—
Mr. Carruthers paused condescendingly for
Clare's silent gesture of assent—"the jury at
the coroner's inquest—it closed yesterday—
have returned an open verdict, wilful murder
against some person or persons unknown, and
the police have been instructed to use all
possible vigilance to bring the criminal to light."

"Have they learned anything further about
the dead man?" asked Clare, with a timid look,
half of anxiety, half of avoidance, towards the
newspaper, which Mr. Carruthers had not yet
opened, and which no member of the family
would have ventured to touch unsanctioned by
the previous perusal of its august head.

"About the murdered man? No, I believe
not. Mr. Dalrymple further informs me that the
fur-lined coat, and all the other less remarkable
articles of clothing found on the body, are
placed in the hands of the police, in the hope
of future identification. There is nothing more
to be done, then, that I can see. Can you
suggest anything, Clare?" Mr. Carruthers asked
the question in a tone almost of banter, as
though there were something ridiculous in his
expecting a suggestion from such a quarter,
but with very little real anxiety nevertheless.

"I—I really do not know, uncle," returned
Clare; "I cannot tell. You are quite sure
Evans told you all he knew?"

"Everything," replied Mr. Carruthers. "The
clue furnished by the coat was very slight, but
it was the only one. I am convinced, myself,
that the man who wore the coat, and was last
seen in company with the murdered man, was
the man who committed the murder." Clare
shivered. "But," continued Mr. Carruthers,
in an argumentative tone, "the thing to establish
is the identity of the man who wore the coat
with the man who bought it six weeks ago."

A bright flush rose on Clare's cheeks—a flush
of surprise, of hope. "Is there any doubt about
that, uncle?" she asked. "The waiter described
the man, didn't he? Besides, no one would
part with an overcoat in six weeks."

''That is by no means certain," said Mr.
Carruthers, with an air of profound wisdom.
"Artists and writers, and foreigners, and,
generally, people of the vagabond kind, sell and
barter their clothes very frequently. The young
man whom Evans describes might have been any
one, from his purposeless, indistinguishable
description; the waiter's memory is clearer, as is
natural, being newer."

"And what is the description he gives?"
asked Clare, faintly.

"You will find it in the weekly paper, my
dear," returned Mr. Carruthers, stretching his
hand out towards the daily journal. "Meantime,
let's see yesterday's proceedings."

Hope had arisen in Clare's heart. Might not
all her fear be unfounded, all her sufferings
vain? What if the coat had not been purchased
by Paul Ward at all? She tried to remember
exactly what he had said, in the few jesting
words that had passed on the subject. Had he
said he had bought it at Amherst, or only
that it had been made at Amherst? By an
intense effort, so distracting and painful that
it made her head ache with a sharp pain,
she endeavoured to force her memory to reproduce
what had passed, but in vain; she remembered
only the circumstance, the fatal identification
of the coat. "Artists and writers," her
uncle had said, in his disdainful classification,
occasionally made certain odd arrangements
concerning their garments, unknown to the upper
classes, to whom tailors and valets appertain of
right, and Paul Ward was both a writer and an