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had been no storms when the Lorient steamed away from Cherbourg.

And what of the pale-faced girl in black who had given these letters to me, saying that my own heart would teach me where to place them?

I felt in my pockets for the letters where I had thrust them all crumpled and wet. They were there, and I decided to turn them over to the police. Then I thought of Cusick and the City Hall Park and these set my mind running on Jamison and my own work,-ah! I had forgotten that, I had forgotten that I had sworn to stir Jamison's cold, sluggish blood! Trading on his fiancée's reported suicide, or murder! True, he had told me that he was satisfied that the body at the Morgue was not Miss Tufft's because the ring did not correspond with his fiancée's ring. But what sort of a man was that !-to go crawling and nosing about morgues and graves for a fullpage illustration which might sell a few extra thousand papers. I had never known he was such a man. It was strange too-for that was not the sort of illustration that the Weekly used; it was against all precedent-against the whole policy of the paper. He would lose a hundred subscribers where he would gain one by such work.

"The callous brute!" I muttered to myself, "I'll wake him up-I 'll

I sat straight up on the bench and looked stead

ily at a figure which was moving toward me under the spluttering electric light.

It was the woman I had met in the Park.

She came straight up to me, her pale face gleaming like marble in the dark, her slim hands outstretched.

"I have been looking for you all day-all day," she said, in the same low thrilling tones,— "I want the letters back; have you them here?"

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"Yes," I said, I have them here,-take them in Heaven's name; they have done enough evil for one day!"

She took the letters from my hand; I saw the ring, made of the double serpents, flashing on her slim finger, and I stepped closer, and looked her in the eyes.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I? My name is of no importance to you," she answered.

"You are right," I said, "I do not care to know your name. That ring of yours

"What of my ring?" she murmured.

"Nothing, a dead woman lying in the Morgue wears such a ring. Do you know what your letters have done? No? Well I read them to a miserable wretch and he blew his brains out !'' "You read them to a man!" "I did. He killed himself." "Who was that man?" "Captain d'Yniol"

With something between a sob and a laugh she seized my hand and covered it with kisses, and I, astonished and angry, pulled my hand away from her cold lips and sat down on the bench.

"You need n't thank me," I said sharply; "if I had known that,-but no matter. Perhaps after all the poor devil is better off somewhere in other regions with his sweetheart who was drowned, yes, I imagine he is. He was blind and ill,-and broken-hearted." "Blind?" she asked gently. "Yes. Did you know him?” "I knew him."

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And his sweetheart, Aline?"

"Aline," she repeated softly," she is dead. I come to thank you in her name."

"For what?-for his death?" "Ah, yes, for that."

"Where did you get those letters? I asked her, suddenly.

She did not answer, but stood fingering the wet letters.

Before I could speak again she moved away into the shadows of the trees, lightly, silently, and far down the dark walk I saw her diamond flashing.

Grimly brooding, I rose and passed through the Battery to the steps of the Elevated Road. These I climbed, bought my ticket, and stepped out to the damp platform. When a train came I crowded in with the rest, still pondering on my

vengeance, feeling and believing that I was to scourge the conscience of the man who speculated on death.

And at last the train stopped at 28th Street, and I hurried out and down the steps and away to the Morgue.

When I entered the Morgue, Skelton, the keeper, was standing before a slab that glistened faintly under the wretched gas jets. He heard my footsteps, and turned around to see who was coming. Then he nodded, saying: "Mr. Hilton, just take a look at this here stiff-I'll be back in a moment-this is the one that all the papers take to be Miss Tufft,-but they 're all off, because this stiff has been here now for two weeks."

I drew out my sketching-block and pencils. "Which is it, Skelton?" I asked, fumbling for my rubber.

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This one, Mr. Hilton, the girl what's smilin'. Picked up off Sandy Hook, too. Looks as if she was asleep, eh?"

"What's she got in her hand-clenched tight? Oh, a letter. Turn up the gas, Skelton, I want to see her face."

The old man turned the gas jet, and the flame blazed and whistled in the damp, fetid air. Then suddenly my eyes fell on the dead.

Rigid, scarcely breathing, I stared at the ring, made of two twisted serpents set with a great diamond, I saw the wet letters crushed in her

slender hand,

I looked, and-God help me !—I looked upon the dead face of the girl with whom I had been speaking on the Battery!

"Dead for a month at least," said Skelton, calmly.

Then, as I felt my senses leaving me, I screamed out, and at the same instant somebody from behind seized my shoulder and shook me savagely -shook me until I opened my eyes again and gasped and coughed.

"Now then, young feller!" said a Park policeman bending over me, "if you go to sleep on a bench, somebody 'll lift your watch!"

I turned, rubbing my eyes desperately.

Then it was all a dream-and no shrinking girl had come to me with damp letters,-I had not gone to the office-there was no such person as Miss Tufft,-Jamison was not an unfeeling villain,-no, indeed !-he treated us all much better than we deserved, and he was kind and generous too. And the ghastly suicide! Thank God that also was a myth,-and the Morgue and the Battery at night where that pale-faced girl had -ugh!

I felt for my sketch-block, found it; turned the pages of all the animals that I had sketched, the hippopotami, the buffalo, the tigers-ah! where was that sketch in which I had made the woman in shabby black the principal figure, with the brooding vultures all around and the crowd in the sunshine-? It was gone.

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