a little confused at their master's unexpected

entrance.

"What on earth has happened?" he enquired, in a stentorian voice. "Have you all

lost your senses?

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No, sir," was answered from half-a-score

of lips.

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Why is there no light in the drawingroom? and no light in the dining-room? and nothing prepared for supper?"

“We did not think you were coming, sir, to-night. You were to have been down by the last train, and when you didn't come we supposed-"

"What does that matter; does not your mistress want a light ?"

Waining started, "What!" he cried, in a

voice of thunder.

"Mrs. Waining is not here, sir."

"Then-where-is-she?

has happened ? "

What-has

"We don't know, sir."

"Where's Miss Constance ?

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Upstairs, sir, in her room."

"Great Heavens ! what is it-they-theysay?" stammered Waining, for the first time beginning to realise that there might be some truth in what his friend had told him.

"We thought you knew, sir," said a chorus of voices.

“I—I—know nothing."

"She went away, sir, early this morning." Away!"

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"We suppose so, sir. She has not been seen since last night."

"And who-who-who-went-with her ?" "No one knows. We found a letter on her mantel-piece addressed to you, sir." "To me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where is it?"

"On the table, in the library."

"Come, come," said Waining, hoarsely to Bulton, as he seized him by the arm, and fairly dragged him back to the hall, one of the servants following with a light.

"Had I not better leave you ?" asked Bulton.

"No, no, no. The letter! the letter! You must help me to-to-to find her."

They went into the library and found the letter. Waining seized it with trembling hands, and utterly exhausted with fatigue and emotion, sank in a semi-conscious state on to the nearest chair.

On the envelope were the words, evidently hurriedly written :

"For my dear husband, JOHN WAINING. "To be given to him on his return, and to be opened only by him."

Waining turned the envelope every way, and read and re-read the words a dozen times at least. -brandy," he said, falteringly.

"Go, some one, and get me spirits

Bulton sat down beside his friend, and endeavoured to comfort him. "Things may

not be as bad as you imagine," he said; "perhaps Mrs. Waining has been taken suddenly ill, and has gone to the seaside for change of air."

Waining shook his head. "No one goesto-to-the-seaside in winter," he mur

mured.

"But she may have gone on some urgent and important business, and will return in a day or two," suggested Bulton.

"No," he answered, "she will-neverreturn," and there was a strange assurance in his voice.

"Until you have read her letter, you cannot tell," said Bulton, who felt only too convinced that his friend was right, but who, nevertheless, spoke hopefully for his sake, knowing how terribly downcast he must feel. Waining, without answering, handed the letter to Bulton.

"Do you wish me to open it ? "

the latter.

enquired

"Yes-no. Feel it," he said, "and tell me whether any one who only intends to stay away a day or two would write so long a letter as that must be. Feel it," he cried again, "feel it; there are a dozen sheets of paper in that envelope, or-good God, what secrets are therein contained ?"

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'Open it, and see," said Bulton, returning it to him.

CHAPTER XII.

A TERRIBLE CONFESSION.

"My life is like the autumn leaf,

That trembles in the moon's pale ray,
It's hold is frail-it's date is brief,

Restless-and soon to pass away.

*

The winds bewail the leafless tree

But none shall breathe a sigh for me."

RICHARD WILDE.

THE servant brought in brandy and whisky.

Waining poured some brandy into a glass and drank it off. Then he handed the bottle to Bulton, who also took some.

"That will-nerve-me to read her letter," he said, "and yet perhaps it would be wiser not to read it. Its contents are-must be-most unpleasant for-for—”

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Still it is your duty as her husband to read it," said Bulton, who was beginning to get curious to hear the explanation of this most strange disappearance of a lady now no longer young.