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they should be denied her. Yet what eminence-what distinction. was to be had worth the having-without the "almighty dollar "?

Not, of course, that Madame Vandeleur used this expression in her reflections; since, to begin with, her reflections were clothed in the French language, and moreover, the expression was probably not invented at that date. But she knew and recognised the potency of gold just as well as though she had called it "almighty." And seeing. that she had had such slight opportunity of practically testing its value, the way in which she appraised wealth and its advantages proved, to say the least of it, an extraordinary sagacity and acuteness of apprehension on madame's part.

"Millions of dollars"! The papers in the leathern case, he had declared, were worth that to his boy. To a child of three! To one who would have to wait years and years before he could begin to enjoy them. To an infant who might not even live to enjoy them at all. And in that event, in the event of Claude's death, to whom would they belong, those millions of dollars? Probably to some one who did not require them. Possibly to Possibly to some one who had no right to them-no more right than she, Marie Vandeleur, had herself. Why, then, should she not take charge of them in the mean time? Until the child had grown up, or until-. . . . Yes, for a long time she had been the child's guardian-his mother, as it were. Perhaps he would still be left in her care. At any rate, there would be no harm in constituting herself the custodian of his property. In fact, only a simpleton would be willing to part with so much treasure out of hand, without waiting to see whether some advantage was not to be gained from it, whether some share, smaller or greater, might not with safety be appropriated.

But would there be safety in the scheme? Did any one else know of the existence of those papers? Was any one else acquainted with their value? What were the chances for and against detection in case she should retain them?

As these and similar questions pressed themselves upon her excited brain, madame's head grew hot and her temples throbbed. She put up her arm and loosened the heavy coils of her hair, which spread, when she had shaken them out, like a black mantle over her shoulders and down below her waist. Then, resting her elbows on the table, she covered her eyes with her hands (they were rather large hands for her size), and set herself, with resolute intensity, to face the situation. Removing her hands after an interval, long or short she knew not which, Madame Vandeleur found that the oil lamp had gone out, and that the room was lighted only by the moon. The rays, how

ever, from that luminary now fell, as they had not done before, straight into the apartment, rendering every object in it visible, but clothing them with that unfamiliar aspect which we have all noticed as the effect of the pale, semi-weird radiancy.

For a second or two, madame gazed around with a faint expression of surprise, but that expression quickly vanished, and there remained a change in her face which was not attributable to the changed light-a set, determined look, which proved that, whether or not she had solved all her difficulties, Marie had, at all events, made up her mind how to act. That this was the case, was speedily put beyond a doubt. Slipping off a pair of moccasin shoes, Madame Vandeleur rose, and approaching the room where her husband slept, listened for a brief space at the door, and softly drew it after her. Stepping then, across the long, low-ceiled living-room, she unclosed the door of her lodger's chamber, which opened from the opposite end, and passed in. Owing to the position of the window, this chamber was in comparative darkness. Turning, after she had entered, Marie set the door of the living-room more widely open, and as she did so, a ray of moonlight fell full on the white face of the dead man.

Marie started, and a cold thrill passed over her as those still, upturned features appeared for a moment to quiver into life. A few seconds, however, sufficed to reassure her. Madame Vandeleur was not the sort of person to be afraid of a dead man. Taking her courage in hand, she advanced with unhesitating tread into the room, and was presently stooping over the large wooden chest which poor Stephens had pointed to with tremulous finger, only so short a time before. Its contents were of a very miscellaneous character. There were garments belonging both to the dead man and to his boy; there were a number of skins, of moose, red squirrel, and other animals, which had been the young Englishman's property, and which he had meant to have sold. There were toys, too, of various sorts, some of them of very ingenious construction, which the devoted father had spent his leisure moments in carving. There was an old doll, amongst the rest, which the little Claude had carried in his arms when first he had come to the settlement, and which, although the child had long since grown tired of it, Stephens would never permit to be thrown

away.

By no means without sensibility, Madame Vandeleur gave vent to a suppressed sob as she came across these touching mementoes of the deceased's affection for his boy, and her eyes filled with

tears.

Not for a moment, however, did she dream of relinquishing her

purpose. Brushing away the tears, she went on with her task, and having found, at the very bottom of the box, the leathern case of which she was in search, she set it on the ground and carefully re-arranged everything in the chest before locking it.

Then, with her head turned away, so that she might not again catch sight of that rigid white face, she left the room, case in hand. Breathing more freely, now that she had quitted that unconscious presence, which, despite all her courage, had exercised upon her nerves a decidedly trying effect, Marie carried the case to the window and opened it with the key which she had put into her own pocket, after taking it from the dead Englishman's bosom.

As he had said, the case contained only papers. Marie turned them over with her hand, and her first sensation was one of blank disappointment. The papers were so few; and amongst them there was no roll of bank notes ! Until she discovered their absence, she hardly knew how the half-expectation of finding some of those dollars in a tangible form had laid hold of her imagination. But Madame Vandeleur was an eminently reasonable little woman, and she had soon argued herself out of a disappointment which had arisen from what she now recognised as a highly absurd supposition. Still, it was with a slight sense of balked hope, and a perceptible cooling down of her inward excitement, that she set herself to examine these documents which the dead man had declared to be so precious.

The first that came to hand proved to be a marriage certificate. Although in English, Marie knew the form of it-"Ah! c'est çajust as I thought!" she exclaimed, under her breath.

"Mademoiselle Estcourt-mademoiselle, indeed!”

"But what means this?" Madame had been on the point of refolding the paper, when her eye, glancing over a second name engrossed thereupon, was suddenly arrested. The name was that of her late lodger in part-but only in part. "Hubert Henry Ste. ." so far it was correct, but the name when finished did not spell "Stephens." Was the moonlight deceiving her? She smoothed out the paper, and gazed at it long and steadily; but the result was the same. Finally she carried the case and this paper to the table, laid them down, and sought a candle. Madame Vandeleur liked to master facts as she met them. This fact, however, was not to be cleared up or altered through the agency of a tallow candle, or by any amount of deliberate scrutiny. "Ste". . it began; but there was no in the name, whilst there was an o, and a u. No, decidedly the name did not spell "Stephens"!

Forgetting everything else in her temporary surprise, madame sat for some minutes with a puzzled frown upon her brow. Then, placing her finger on that part of the document which contained it, she delivered a sotto-voce verdict. "That was his name-the true name!" And accompanying this conclusion with an emphatic nod of the head, she folded the certificate, and took something else from the case.

This time it was not a written or printed record; it was a likeness-a photographic likeness-of a very beautiful girl.

"Mademoiselle Estcourt, sans doute," said Marie, laying again a sarcastic stress upon the first word. "But, my faith, how lovely she is! What exquisite features! The little Claude, however, he resembles her not at all." She studied the likeness a little longer, then threw it down impatiently, adding, "But, holy Virgin, what a mystery is the whole thing-and how I hate mysteries!

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Once more madame's hand dived into the leathern box, and came forth with what turned out to be the copy of a birth registry— that of the child Claude, who bore, also, his father's Christian name, Hubert, and who, it appeared, had been christened by the same surname as that on the marriage certificate-the name that began with Ste ., but did not end as Stephens.

Here, of course, was corroboration, had she required it, of the judgment whereat she had already arrived. Madame did not feel that she had required it, nevertheless it was always a satisfaction to find her intelligent deductions ratified. She executed a little series of nods as she laid aside this paper, but, at the same time, her countenance fell. So far, although she had made discoveries-discoveries which might perchance prove very important ones-she had come across nothing relative to property. And there remained in the case now only one other paper. Marie had left it to the last because it was the largest and most bulky. With eager fingers she drew it forth. But alas ! she could make nothing of it. Of the other documents she had been able to comprehend the purport, but of this no part proved intelligible. It was a MS., closely written, and neatly stitched together. The penmanship was that of poor Stephens (so much she did know), but the language in which the manuscript was written was English, and she could not read two words of it in sequence. What were they all about, these close pages-these tiresome, undecipherable signs? Did they contain some occult secret respecting the acquisition of wealth-some directions for the discovery of hidden treasure? Marie smiled at the fatuous notion. Still, she felt convinced that it was upon this writing that the

possession of those "millions of dollars"-or of that which poor Stephens had spoken of as "worth" them-depended.

What would she not have given to be able to read the writing! It was no use wishing, however-wishing would not help the matter. But Marie could help herself. She could learn to read that writing. She would learn to read it. And, in the mean time, until she had mastered its secrets, no other eye than her own should ever, if she could help it, catch sight of that manuscript.

Thus resolving, Madame Vandeleur replaced the papers in the case, took up it and her candle, and with her long black hair streaming down her back, passed out of the room by a third door which led down a narrow passage and out at the back of the house. It was some considerable time before she returned; but when she did so, it was empty-handed.

And now a quite exceptional experience overtook Madame Vandeleur. She began to feel, not exactly frightened, but decidedly nervous and uncomfortable. Now that her deed was done, she realised that it was an ugly deed. She had (yes, she would be candid enough to confess the plain truth to herself), she had robbed the dead! And she meant to injure the living. At least, she was afraid she meant that, if it could be done with impunity. To put her action in the very mildest form, she had broken a sacred trust. Marie could sit still no longer in this lonely room, with that door, behind which lay the dead man, staring her in the face. She felt cold and a little sick. She pined, somehow, for warm life and human companionship. She would not waken Paul, but she would creep into bed beside him.

This done, Marie slipped her hand under her husband's arm, and nestled close to his side. What a good fellow he was! She had never felt before how good he was-perhaps because she had never been conscious till now of so great a contrast between them in that respect. In her heart of hearts, Marie had always known that she was unscrupulous; but, hitherto, her virtue had been assailed by no very powerful temptation, and, consequently, there had been nothing in her past life to check the comfortable sense of superiority which she had constantly enjoyed. How was it now? Actually, Marie felt herself regarding this big husband of hers-who was all heart and body, with so very small a leaven of mind-with a sort of reverence! Also she felt a phenomenal need of his protection. What had she to be protected against? The consequences of her deed? Perhaps She could not tell what those consequences might be. The thing had been begun-but who could foresee the end?

So.

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