"Perhaps I shall. It is quite possible that you should murder me. But you will not get any money by that."

"Murder you! You ain't worth murdering." Then they sat in silence, waiting another hour and a half till the steamboat came. The reader will understand that it must have been a bad time for Mr. Peacocke.

They were on the steamer together for about twenty-four hours, during which Lefroy hardly spoke a word. As far as his companion could understand he was out of funds, because he remained sober during the greater part of the day, taking only what amount of liquor was provided for him. Before, however, they reached St. Louis, which they did late at night, he had made acquaintance with certain fellow-travellers, and was drunk and noisy when they got out upon the quay. Mr. Peacocke bore his position as well as he could, and

accompanied him up to the hotel. It was arranged that they should remain two days at St. Louis, and then start for San Francisco by the railway which runs across the State of Kansas. Before he went to bed Lefroy insisted on going into the large hall in which, as is usual in American hotels, men sit and loaf and smoke and read the newspapers. Here, though it was twelve o'clock, there was still a crowd; and Lefroy, after he had seated himself and lit his cigar, got up from his seat and addressed all the men around him.

"Here's a fellow," said he, "has come out from England to find out what's become of Ferdinand Lefroy."

"I knew Ferdinand Lefroy," said one man, "and I know you too, Master Robert."

"What has become of Ferdinand Lefroy?" asked Mr. Peacocke.

"He's gone where all the good fellows go," said another.

"You mean that he is dead?" asked Peacocke.

"Of course he's dead," said Robert. "I've been telling him so ever since we left England; but he is such a d― unbelieving infidel that he wouldn't credit the man's own brother. He won't learn much here about him."

"Ferdinand Lefroy," said the first man, "died on the way as he was going out West. I was over the road the day after."

"You know nothing about it," said Robert. "He died at 'Frisco two days after we'd got him there." "He died at Ogden Junction, you turn down to Utah

where city."

"You didn't see him dead," said the other.

"If I remember right," continued the first man, "they'd taken him away to bury him somewhere just there in the neighbourhood. I didn't care much about him, and I

didn't ask any particular questions. He was a drunken beast, better dead than alive."

"You've been drunk as often as him, I guess," said Robert.

"I never gave nobody the trouble to bury me, at any rate," said the other.

"Do you mean to say positively of your own knowledge," asked Peacocke, "that Ferdinand Lefroy

died at that station?"

"Ask him; he's his brother, and he ought to know best."

"I tell you," said Robert, earnestly, "that we carried him on to 'Frisco, and there he died. If you think you know best, you can go to Utah city and wait there till you hear all about it. I guess they'll make you one of their elders if you wait long enough." Then they all went to bed.

It was now clear to Mr. Peacocke that the man as to whose life or death he was so anxious had really died. The combined evidence of these men, which had come out without any preconcerted arrange ment, was proof to his mind. But there was no evidence which he could take back with him to England and use there as proof in a court of law, or even before the Bishop and Dr. Wortle. On the next morning, before Robert Lefroy was up, he got hold of the man who had been so positive that death had overtaken the poor wretch at the railway station, which is distant from San Francisco two days' journey. Had the man died there, and been buried there, nothing would be known of him in San Francisco. The journey to San Francisco would be entirely thrown away, and he would be as badly off

as ever.

"I wouldn't like to say for certain," said the man when he was interrogated. "I only tell you what they told me. As I was passing along, somebody said as Ferdy

Lefroy had been taken dead out of the cars on to the platform. Now you know as much about it as I do."

He was thus assured that at any rate the journey to San Francisco had not been altogether a fiction. The man had gone "West," as had been said, and nothing more would be known of him at St. Louis. He must still go on upon his journey and make such inquiry as might be possible at the Ogden Junction.

On the day but one following they started again, they started again, taking their tickets as far as Leavenworth. They were told by the officials that they would find a train at Leavenworth waiting to take them on across country into the regular San Francisco line. But, as is not unusual with railway officials in that part of the world, they were deceived. At Leavenworth they were forced to remain for four-and-twenty hours, and there they put themselves up at a miserable hotel in which they were obliged to occupy the same room. It was a rough, uncouth place, in which, as it seemed to Mr. Peacocke, the men were more uncourteous to him, and the things around more unlike to what he had met elsewhere, than in any other town of the Union. Robert Lefroy, since the first night at St. Louis, had become sullen rather than disobedient. He had not refused to go on when the moment came for starting, but had left it in doubt till the last moment whether he did or did not intend to prosecute his journey. When the ticket was taken for him he pretended to be altogether indifferent about it, and would himself give no help whatever in any of the usual troubles of travelling. But as far as this little town of Leavenworth he had been carried, and Peacocke now began to think it probable that he might succeed in taking him to San Francisco.

"Now," said he, "if you don't come away from the door I shall fire one barrel just to let them know in the house what sort of affair is going on. Put the knife

down. You know that I shall not hurt you then."

After hesitating for a moment or two, Lefroy did put the knife down. "I didn't mean anything, old fellow," said he. "I only wanted to frighten you."

"Well, you have frightened me. Now, what's to come next?"

"No, I ain't;-not frightened you

a bit. A pistol's always better than a knife any day. Well now, I'll tell ye how it all is." Saying this, he seated himself on his own bed, and began a long narration. He would not go further west than Leavenworth. Whether he got his money or whether he lost it; he would not travel a foot further. There were reasons which would make it disagreeable for him to go into California. But he made a proposition. If Peacocke would only give him money enough to support himself for the necessary time, he would remain at Leavenworth till his companion should return there, or would make his way to Chicago, and stay there till Peacocke should come to him. Then he proceeded to explain how absolute evidence might be obtained at San Francisco as to his brother's death. "That fellow was lying altogether," he said, "about my brother dying at the Ogden station. He was very bad there, no doubt, and we thought it was going to be all up with him. He had the horrors there, worse than I ever saw before, and I hope never to see the like again. But we did get him on to San Francisco; and when he was able to walk into the city on his own legs, I thought that, might

be, he would rally and come round. However, in two days he died;-and we buried him in the big cemetery just out of the town."

"Did you put a stone over him?" "Yes; there is a stone as large as life. You'll find the name on it, -Ferdinand Lefroy of Kilbrack, Louisiana. Kilbrack was the name of our plantation, where we should be living now as gentlemen ought, with three hundred niggers of our own, but for these accursed Northern hypocrites."

I

How can I find the stone?" "There's a chap there who knows, guess, where all them graves are to be found. But it's on the right hand, a long way down, near the far wall at the bottom, just where the ground takes a little dip to the north. It ain't so long ago but what the letters on the stone will be as fresh as if they were cut yesterday."

"Does no one in San Francisco know of his death?"

"There's a chap named Burke at Johnson's, the cigar- shop in Montgomery Street. He was brother to one of our party, and he went out to the funeral. Maybe you'll find him, or, any way, some traces of him."

The two men sat up discussing the matter nearly the whole of the night, and Peacocke, before he started, had brought himself to accede to Lefroy's last proposition. He did give the man money enough to support him for two or three weeks and also to take him to Chicago, promising at the same time that he would hand to him the thousand dollars at Chicago should he find him there at the appointed time, and should he also have found Ferdinand Lefroy's grave at San Francisco in the manner described.