face him! What steps could he take towards its recovery? He could not advertise without proclaiming his seeming guilt to the world. He would go to Scotland Yard the first thing in the morning, in the faint hope that honesty and ignorance, combined with the hope of reward, might have induced the finder, supposing it had not been stolen, to take it there. Back at his hotel he sat staring at the untouched food-no going to Russell Square that night-he could not face the old man with this dreadful secret locked in his heavy heart.

After he had done all he dared in vague communications to the police, the next morning found him and Brenda pacing a walk in Kensington Gardens; a line from him had summoned her to hear the dismal news. She was a brave girl, but what could even such courage avail under so dreadful a calamity! "Go back at once to Brynbella Heights," was her instantaneous decision; "for if, by some unforeseen chance, Lord Deira were to return during your absence and miss the book, it would make matters doubly bad."

A carefully worded advertisement was composed by the pair to appear in the papers, and with aching hearts they parted.

Six dreadful weeks elapsed, during which life to Warburton was a burden too heavy to be borne. The light-hearted librarian had changed into a nervous, morose, miserable man. He sometimes felt, as he sat gazing at the empty space in the bookshelf, that, like Cain, his guilt must be visibly branded upon him. He shunned the very servants, who thought "Mr. Warburton was grown mighty high!" Except the housemaid, who was sure "E'd something on 'is mind!" Brenda's misery was as great as his own. Meanwhile Lord Deira was not so far off as they supposed. He arrived in London just at this juncture. "Harold will be surprised at my return; I will telegraph just before I go down," said he.

Whether

London had a strange fascination for this lonely man. the passers by, to whom he need not speak, were company, I know not, but so it was; and several days clapsed and still found him mooning about the dark deserted streets, and shivering in his lonely, spacious home. One morning he was loitering through Soho, and stopped to glance at the contents of a small and shabby bookstall. A lady was employed in a similar manner; idleness made him unconsciously remark her—a slight tall girl, with anxious grey eyes and pale golden hair. Suddenly a sharp exclamation, almost a cry, of delight and amazement broke from her lips as she seized a small poor-looking volume, peered eagerly into its pages, and then hurriedly asked its price of the stall-keeper.

The old man took the book and turned it over carefully, "Well,

Miss, I'd take ten shillings for it; it's been lying here some time, I believe, and no one has taken a fancy to it." Quick as lightning the girl held the coin out to the speaker, and, almost snatching the volume from his hand, walked hastily away. The episode interested the idle spectator-a pretty face, an old book, and evident agitation on the part of the girl. "A romance in a nutshell!" quoth his lordship to himself. He lingered a few moments by the stall, and asked the man the name of the volume he had just sold. Conning over a dirty list of his wares, he held it towards Lord Deira, his grimy thumbnail pressed against "Portiforium seu Breviarium secundum usum Ecclesiæ Bangorensis." Refusing almost to credit his eyesight he asked: "Where did you get this book?”

"It was on the stall, sir, when I bought the business, and that's a week ago. I hardly know the books yet," replied the man.

"Do you know the lady who bought it?"

"Never saw her before, sir."

So no clue was to be obtained here.

But what was he doing

It was, it must be, a was a voice saying,

losing time thus? He must follow her. dreadful nightmare! Ringing in his ears "There are but three copies in the world! One in the Vatican, one at Madrid, and your own." Happily the street was empty, and the girl had gone very slowly, so absorbed was she in looking at her purchase. "I will keep behind her and see where she goes; I cannot stop her and question her in the street." On they walked. She stopped at a telegraph office, and sent a message, and, finally, she turned into Russell Square and let herself with a latch key into No. 102. "So she lives there!" said Lord Deira to himself, as he turned away and made for the nearest stationer's, where he consulted the red book and entered the name of Silas Frauen, 102 Russell Square, in his pocket book. Now to reach Brynbella Heights, and see if this horrible suspicion was false or true! As he sped towards his magnificent home, very bitter thoughts filled his heart. "Was it possible that the lad he had taken to himself, the only creature he had ever sought to bind to him by ties both of love and gratitude, could have played him so false, have deceived him so basely? If so, was this the only theft? How many more of his priceless volumes had gone the same road? What could have so demoralised the young fellow?" Just as he paused at this point in his reflections, a still, small voice that generally kept itself, or rather was kept out of hearing, would make itself audible. It said, "Why did you leave the young fellow there month after month with no healthy employment to fill up his days, and no proper companions to speak to? If he has

gone astray whose is the fault? Neglecter of your own duties, mere cumberer of the lands you neither enjoy yourself nor permit others to profit by, you only reap what you have sown! And the man, who was not a bad man, only a very selfish mortal, felt a pang of remorse seize him.

Lord Deira's heart never beat faster than it did when the fly in which he had driven from the station (for he had sent no word of his advent) drew up at his own hall door. No abode of the dead could have looked more gloomy or deserted; every shutter shut and every blind drawn down; no cheerful light to be seen welcoming the returning traveller. Nor was any alacrity shown to give him admittance by the inmates of this "Moated Grange." Three times had the bell been set pealing before advancing footsteps were heard, and the heavy doors were unbarred by a frightened-looking maid, supported by a small boy behind her. "My Lord!" escaped from her lips in wild astonishment; while the boy, after a stare of amazement, fled below stairs to give the alarm. By this time, however, the housekeeper had appeared on the scene, a profusion of apologies mingling with her surprise.

"Where is everybody, Mrs. Meesum?" asked her master.

"They have all gone, milord-never, of course, expecting we should see your lordship to-night-to a servants' ball at Bulstrode House. Being so near, Mr. Pilgrim thought they would just look in." Mrs. Meesum evidently considered she ought to apologise for any of the Deira household consorting with those of Sir Hanmer Hamper's establishment. This worthy person being a contractor of much wealth but little breeding, who had squatted down and built himself an edifice resembling a Hydropathic Establishment, exactly opposite one of the entrances to Brynbella Heights.

"It is of no consequence, Mrs. Meesum-have lights taken to the library, and-where is Mr. Warburton?"

"Mr. Warburton was here this morning, milord, but a telegram came for him about two o'clock, and he went off by train directly."

"In-deed!" quoth his master, whose last lingering hopes died away as he slowly walked to the back-room. He waited till he had got rid of the servants, and then went straight to the book-case. No need of a key to unlock the door-through the brazen bars the empty place of the Bangor Breviary stared him in the face! He knew it would be so, yet the certainty came upon him with cruel force. Harold was a thief-the girl his accomplice. Yet why, in the name of all that was wonderful, did Warburton steal-ah! the ugly word was out!-such a book, only to let it be selling for ten shillings on a

mouldy book-stall? What should he do? Wait quietly where he was and see what happened, or go up to town the next day and confront the pair in Russell Square? The night brings counsel. He would do nothing till the morning.

A restless night had done but little to assist Lord Deira as to his course of action. It appeared Harold had only taken a hand-bag with him, so he clearly did not intend to be long away; he would probably return in the course of the day. Meantime, the news of the master's arrival brought him occupation in the shape of obsequious bailiffs, keepers, and such like folk, all equally anxious to report their own deeds of virtue if they did not dwell on the shortcomings of their fellows. Lord Deira at all times detested this kind of thing, and only his habitual good-breeding-and nowhere is this quality more conspicuous, either by its presence or its absence, than in the demeanour of the superior to the inferior-enabled him to listen and reply with tolerable patience to the long-winded histories of these worthies. Time passed on, and he decided to pass another night where he was.

It was well he did so. Dinner was over, and he was sitting over the fire, in company of a cigarette, a French novel in his hand, when the door opened and the missing librarian walked in. He came towards his master with outstretched hand, a glad smile of welcome lighting up his face; no craven look of fear or contrite blush of shame clouded his open countenance. But no answering smile met With an icy bow Lord

his, no hand took his in friendly grasp. Deira glued him to the spot he stood on, while he said, "I regret to say, Mr. Warburton, that, before there can be any interchange of cordialities between us, I must ask you for an explanation of the fact that one of the most valuable books in my library is missing."

Silence reigned for some moments between the two men ; then Harold, with an accent of pain in his voice, and placing a small parcel on the table between them, replied:

"Here, my Lord, is the missing book; and I have to express my deep regret that circumstances did not permit of its being replaced before your return."

"I, on the contrary, am rejoiced that 'circumstances,' as you are pleased to call them, did so intervene," rejoined Lord Deira; "for it is well I should know the risk my library runs during my absence."

A hot flush overspread the young man's face. "I acknowledge, my Lord, that this book has run very great risks, and that I have suffered the deepest anxiety on its account; and, for these risks, I express to you my sincere regrets."

Taking no notice of the apology, his master, with a sneer, demanded:

"Pray, are any more of the Deira Collection to be picked up for ten shillings at a street bookstall, Mr. Warburton ? "

Harold staggered back with astonishment.

"You seem surprised !" continued Lord Deira. "You, no doubt, will be more surprised to hear that I was standing beside your accomplice when she made the said purchase."

"My Lord, you have no right to speak in such a manner of that young lady! My fault in taking the book up to London was great, but if you had taken the trouble, before condemning me so harshly, to listen to the motives that induced me to commit so rash an act, you would, I believe, admit there was a good excuse for my conduct."

"There can be no justification for such a breach of trust," fell from Lord Deira's lips in icy accents. A torrent of words seemed about to break from the librarian, but he checked himself, and, taking the book in his hand, tore off the wrapping of paper, and, handing it to his master, requested him to see that it was intact. Lord Deira glanced at the volume, while he said, "I am waiting, Mr. Warburton, to hear what reasons you have to give for your conduct!

"None, my Lord! or, rather none that could possibly interest you. You see that your book is safe and uninjured; and here" (opening an iron safe at his side) "are the keys, so that you may satisfy yourself that your library has not suffered at my hands. If you have anything further to say to me, I shall be leaving early to-morrow morning. I am well aware of all that I owe you, but you have cancelled my debt by regarding me as a common thief." After a moment's pause the librarian, with a slight bow, turned on his heel and left the room.

The solitary man sat on by the dying fire, anger and regret struggling together in his heart, while Harold Warburton prepared to shake the dust of Brynbella Heights from his feet by packing his clothes.

It was with a sad heart he found himself the following day in town. He had quitted what had so long been his home, without seeing his employer again; a servant, as he was starting, brought him a scaled envelope, containing a cheque with the amount of salary due to him. How gladly he would have exchanged it for one word of pardon and peace!

The journey up, on this occasion, was solaced with no agreeable forecasts for the future. Harold was now adrift on the world with a few pounds in his pocket, and what little he had saved in the bank. He had no idea of going to his home in disgrace; no, he must find