"Then, what do you mean, sir, by calling yourself an executor with no will to warrant you?" interrupted Mellis. "Get out of this house. If there's no will, I administrate." "But there is a will," roared Mr. Crellan, shaking it in his face. "There is a will. I didn't say we hadn't found it yet, did I? There is a will, and here it is in spite of all your diabolical tricks, with your scoundrelly hypnotism and secret holes, and the rest of it! Get out of this place, sir, or I'll have you flung out of the window! Mr. Mellis shrugged his shoulders with an appearance of perfect indifference "If you've a will appointing you executor it's all right, I suppose, although I shall take care to hold you responsible for any irregularities. As I don't in the least understand your conduct, unless it is due to drink, I'll leave you." And with that he went. Mr. Crellan boiled with indignation for a minute, and then turning to Hewitt, " I say, I hope it's all right," he said, "connecting him with all this queer business?" "We shall soon see, replied Hewitt, " if you'll come and look at the pivoted plank." They went to the small staircase, and Hewitt once again opened the recess. Within lay a blue foolscap envelope, which Hewitt picked up. "See," he said, " it is torn at the corner. He has been here and opened it. It's a fresh envelope, and I left it for him this morning, with the corner gummed down a little so that he would have to tear it in opening. This is what was inside," Hewitt added, and laughed aloud as he drew forth a rather crumpled piece of white paper. "It was only a childish trick after all," he concluded, "but I always liked a small practical joke on occasion." He held out the crumpled paper, on which was inscribed in large capital letters the single word "SOLD." THE QUEEN AND THE WINDSOR MAGAZINE. Our readers will be interested to know that Her Majesty the Queen has been graciously pleased to accept a copy of the first number of the WINDSOR MAGAZINE. THE HE stormy March is come at last, With wind and cloud and changing skies; Ah, passing few are they who speak, thee; Yet though thy winds are loud and Thou art a welcome month to me. UNKNOWN LONDON. III. THE ITALIAN COLONY IN SAFFRON HILL. By H. D. LOWRY and T. S. C. CROWTHER. Fonly one were writing for time, which would make the place But this description must be enlarged upon if it is to be of use. The streets, then, are very quiet and rather empty. They are roughly paved; all sorts of vegetable rubbish lies underfoot. The lights are few in number and singularly ineffective. The houses have closely shuttered windows, and the doors stand open, revealing nothing but the blackness of utter darkness. Out of this darkness picturesque figures of men and women come with the suddenness and silence of apparitions, and when they disappear into it, one stands and wonders what they find in there. See ing that the quarter is almost wholly inhabited by Italians, and these organgrinders and their families, it is strange to hear the familiar music now and again, and to see a crowd of pretty children dancing upon the greasy pavement. They are not like the London children. For one thing they are all picturesque, though dirty, and they can laugh as children should laugh. In other regions where the poor of London herd together, nothing strikes the visitor more quickly than the fearfulness and distrust of strangers which exist among the children. They are lamentably inured to harsh treatment, and |