Evening journal., 1892-10-26

cnce that his tongue refused to do his
bidding,
Pray be seated. Mr. Gray" said the
widow. II have consented to see you
So difference to the wish of your uncle, !
who was my dead husbands dearest
friend, as he is now mine. He tells me
That You have conceived an affection for
my daughter. and that You wish me to
sanction an engagement between your
self and her"
THAT is the dearest wish Of my life,
Mrs. Lumsden."
And do you consider, Mr.. Gray, that
this is fit time to dream of lovemak-
ng and giving in marriage, while the
blood Of my poor murdered husband
cries out from the grave for vengeance
on his assassin? If you think so, l GER
tainly do not"
Gray knew not what to reply. Never
IN his life had he felt so nonplussed.
"Yes. the murderer is still at large"
she resumed, speaking with slow, quiet
intensity; las innocent seeming as you
Or /, mixing with his fellow men, no one
knowing or suspecting him for the vile
wretch that he is Every day that passes
lessons the chances of his detection. Al
ready at Scotland Yard my husbands
death is looked upon as merely adding
another item to the long catalogue of
mysterious crimes which have never
been brought home to their perpetrators.
The task has been given up as hopeless,
other interests have come to the front,
the reward remains unclaimed and soon
the name Of Edward Lumsden will have
faded from the minds of all, save few
who were nearest and dearest to him"
She had risen, and was pacing the
room slowly, with something of the air
Of a Gagged animal, her clinched hands
| pressed tightly TO her bosom, as if to
| crush down the surging emotions at
work below. Gray had no words at
command.
For little while the silence remained
nnbroken; then Mrs. Lumsden stopped
| abruptly in her walk, and fixing her
large. aark eyes, luminous with somber
fire, full on the American, she said:
"You ask me, Mr.. Gray, to give you
my daughters hand. Ny answer to you
is, first do something to prove yourself
worthy of the gift. You are here in
London, idling away your time, with no
| object beyond the amusement of the
hour, and yet the assassin of the father
Of her you would make your wife is still
untraced, his crime goes still unpun-
ished and you have never so much as
] lifted your little finger in the effort to
track him down. Oh, that | were 3
man instead Of the weak, helpless
creature am. Oh, that | had a son
who
But at this juncture the door wa.
! opened.
"Dr, Hynton, ma'am, said the parloi
maid.
| Gray rose as the doctor entered. The
widow gave him her hand, and with z
smile that had in it much of her ole
sweetness, said;
"You will excuse me now, win yoJ
not, Mr.. Gray? You must come and Sc,
me again a few days hence. 1t may b.
that have talked little at random to
day, but if you could only partially
realize what have gone through, yol
would know how to make allowance fo
me-"
Gray bent and touched her finger
with his lips and withdrew. He hal
scarcely been ten minutes in the hous
and had not spoken more than a dozei
words.
Without protesting to be actuated b,
any other motive than one of simpl
curiosity, when Gray related to hi
uncle the result of the interview h
drew him on to talk about the Grim
with a frankness he had never exhibite'
before. Mr.. Orde was by nature
man Of caution and reserve, and no
even TO his nephew had he heretofor
confded the particulars in connection
with Eustace Crake, nor how his sus
picions, unsupported though they wer
by any direct evidence, pointed unequiy
ocally to him as being the criminal
Today, however, he told his nepheV
everything. It was as though the latte
: had brought away from his interview
with Mrs. Lumsden a pass key to tn
secret chamber Of his uncle's mind.
AS he left the house he said to hin
self:
Tomorrow I will seek out and max
the acquaintance Of Mr.. Eustace Crake.