The Forrest City times., 1891-07-03
TIE alUnTED CHAN1R.
SY 'trxn pucuxss.n '
AsAoS sr "Moniea," "Ao~s Ssvuy. .p
 "Phyllis," etc.. etc.
CHAPTER TX.

CHATTER Tx.
 The night passes; the next day dawns, deepens, grows into noon, and still nothing happens to relieve the terrible anxiety that is felt by all with in the castle as to the fate of it's miss ing master. They weary themselves out wondering, idly but necessarily, what can have become of him.
 The second day comes and goes, so does the third and the fourth, the fifth and the sixth, and then the seventh dawns.
 Florence Delmaine, who has been alf-distracted with conflicting fears and emotions, and who has been sit- ting in her room apart from the others, with her head bent down and resting on her hands, suddenly raising her eyes, sees Dora standing before her.
 The widow is looking haggard and hollow-eyed. All her dainty freshness has gone, and she now looks in years what ill reality she is, close on thirty five. Her lips are pale and dropping, her cheeks colorlesS; her whole air is suggestive of deep depression, the re- suit of sleepess nights and days filled with grief and suspense of the most poignant nature.
 Alas, how well she loves him tool" thinks Florence, contemplating her in silence. Dora, advancing, lays her hand upon the table near Florence, and says, in hurried impassioned tone
 "Oh, Florence, what has become of him? What has been done to him? 1 have tried to hide my terrible anxiety for the past two miserable days, but now feel I must speak to some one or go mad!"
 She smites her hands together, and, sinking into a chair, looks as if she is going to faint. Florence, greatly alarmed, rises from her chair, and, running to her, places her arm round her as though to support her. But Do- "a repulses her almost roughly and motions her away.
 Do not touch mel" she cries hoarse- ly. Do not come near me; you, of all people. should be the last to come to my assistance Besides, l am not here to talk about myself, but of him. Flor ence, have you any suspicion?"
 Dora leans forward and looks scrutin- izingly at her cousin, as though fearing, yet hoping to get an answer in the affirmative. But Florence shakes her head.
 Il have no suspicion-none," she an- swers sadly. If had should not act upon it, whatever it might cost me?"
 Would you," asks Dora eagerly, as though impressed by her companions WordS-"whateve it might cost your"
 Her manner IS so strange that Flor cnce pauses before replying.
 "Yes," she says at last. No earthly consideration should keep me from us- ing any knowledge l might by accident or otherwise become possessed of to lay bare this mystery. Dora" she cries suddenly, If you know anything, im- plore, entreat you to say so."
 What should I know" responds the widow, recoiling.
 You loved him too," says Florence piteously, now more than ever con- vinced that Dora is keeping something hidden from her. For the sake of that love, disclose anything you may know about this awful matter"
 "I dare not speak openly" replies the widow growing even a shade paler, because my suspicion is of the bareSt character, and may be altogether wrong. Yet there are moments when some hidden instinct within my breast whispers to me that 1 am on the right track"
 If so," murmurs Florence, falling upon her knees before her, do not hes itate; follow up this instinctive feeling, and who knows but something may come of itl Dora, do not delay. Soon, soon-if not already-it may be too late. Alas" she cries, bursting into bitter tears, what do 1 say? Is it not too late even nowY What hope can there be after six long days, and no tidings?"
 "I will do what I can, am resolved" declares Dora, rising abruptly to her feet. If too late to do any good, it may not be too late to wiring the truth from him, and bring the murderer to justice"
 From him? From whom = what murderer?" exclaims Florence, in voice of horror. Dora, what are you saying?' to-night-this evening let me come to you here again, and tell you the result ot what am now abou to do."
 She quits the room as silently as she entered it, and Florence, sinking back In her chair, gives herself up to the ex- citement and amazement that are over towering her. There is something else, too, in her thoughts that is puzZling and perplexing her; in all Dora's man. ner there was nothing that would lead her to think that she loved Sir Adrian; there was fear, and desire for re- venge in it, but none of the despair of a loving woman who had lost the man to whom she has given her heart.
 Florence is still pondering these things, while Dora, going swiftly down stairs, turns into the side hall, glanc- ing into library and rooms as she goes along, plainly ill search of something or some one.
 At last her search is successful; in a small room she finds Arthur Dynecourt apparently reading, as he sits in a large .fm-chair, with his eyes fixed in- tently upon the book in his hand. See- ing her, he closes the volume, and, throwing 1t from him, says carelessly:
 "PShaw - what contemplate trash they write nowadaysp
 How can you sit here calmly read ing" exclaimS Dora vehemently, "when we are all so distressed in mindl But forgot"-with meaning glance ~you gain by his death; we do not"
 No, you lose," he retorts coolly. Though, after all, even had things been different, can't say think you had much chance at any time."
 He smiles insolently at her as he says this. But she pays no heed either to his words or his smile. Her whole sou seems wrapped in one thought, and at last she gives expression to it. M
 What have you done with him?" she breaks forth, advancing toward him as though to compel him to give her an answer to the question that has been tOrturing her for days past.
 With whom% he asks coldly. Yet there is a forbidding gleam in his eyes that should have warned her to for bear.
 sWith Sir Adrian-with your rival with the man you hate,"' she cries, heI