moving. Perhaps they were vainly striving to utter the unutterable prayer of the too full heart.

His wife held the candle so that the light fell upon the child. Child, prattling child when he had last seen her-then baby, just entering on childhood; now child, on the confines of womanhood. Alice was in a deep sleep. Ah me! at fourteen, how little we know of the weary watches of the night! One hand was under her head, and the other, although the night was cold, lay outside. Her hair was streaming over the pillow. The hair feels neither heat nor cold; it is the insensate adornment of the body which, like the moss on the rose, seems to have no other use than its beauty. There was a flush upon her face, and the exquisite repose that the poet cannot describe or the artist paint.

As her father looked upon her he trembled and wept.

"Ann," he whispered, "oh, my dearest. I know her; indeed, I know her. It is my child. Oh, my God, I thank thee that I know her!"

Extremest peril, direst affliction, had not wrung a tear from him. But now he wept as only a strong man can weep.

Alice moved. Her mother set the candle on the table, and, standing before her husband, awakened her with a kiss.

"Alice," said her mother, stooping over her, and kissing her, "I have such news for you-such news! I can hardly tell you the good news, dear. Who do you think has come home at last to make us so happy, so good and so happy?"

The mother stood aside, and Alice, raising herself in the bed, saw her father. She grasped her mother's hand—

"Who is that man?"

"Alice, it is your father. Alice, Alice, speak to him. It is your father."

The mother fell upon the bed sobbing, and, holding her husband's hand, drew him towards the bed.

The father lifted up his voice and wept, and bent over his child to kiss her.

And the child shrank from his touch.

"Alice," cried the mother, "it is your father whom God has sent home to us. Love him as he loves me and loves you."

But the child, holding more tightly to her mother, still shrank from her father. She was alarmed and angry.

"You are not my father. My father is dead. I am sure you are not my father, for you did not come to me when I was sick

and cried for you. Mother, send him away.

father."

He is not my

While the child spoke the face of the father betrayed the anguish of his soul. When she ceased to speak he neither trembled nor

wept.

"I will go from you. I should not have come here. You will not ask me to bear with this !"

Mrs. Clayton held her husband in a strong, passionate grasp.

"She is startled, darling, and knows not what she says. Besides, they told her you were dead. To-morrow, when she sees you and hears your voice, she will know you and love you."

With one hand she held her husband. The other she laid on Alice.

"God forgive your unkindness, Alice. This is your father. As you love him I shall love you."

The father spoke not, and did not look at the child. Led by his wife, he left the room and returned to the parlour.

Mrs. Clayton pleaded for the child with the earnestness and force that is begotten of faith and affection. The conduct of the child was unkind, but who was to blame? The child, in the midst of the night, was awakened from her sleep, and told to look at her father, whom she had not seen for ten years. It was wrong to startle her. Ere long Alice would reproach her mother for not preparing her for the blessed event, so that the instant she saw her father she might have fondled him, as she did in her babyhood. They must not blame the child. The mother only was in fault.

Henry did not contradict his wife. He looked exhausted and weary. Hope, fear, sorrow, passion, even despair, had left him. The act and words of his child had crushed him-not stunned him, for he was fully conscious-but crushed him. The haughty, unyielding spirit that had hitherto upheld him in peril and affliction was for a while prostrate. The strong, fearless, hardened man was as a bruised reed and as smouldering flax.

The night was far spent, and he told his wife to go to bed, for he was tired and would sleep on the sofa. But she would not leave him, and as he lay on the sofa, she leaned her head on him, and when he slept she slept.

Sleep is often likened unto death. Well, sleep, like death, makes all men and all things equal. Prince and peasant, the rich and the poor, the hale and the sick, the captive and the free, the happy and the wretched, are the same in the hours of sleep. Some awaken to sorrow, and some to joy, but in sleep there is an equality of peace.

So, for at least one-third of mortal life, he who is most blessed is no happier than he who is most wretched. Dives has fine linen, purple garments, and sumptuous fare; he has health and strength, and whatever can minister to the comfort of his body or the delight of his mind. Some day, saith the preacher, death will make Dives as poor as the starving and afflicted Lazarus. But, Dives, you cannot live without sleeping; your uncounted wealth, and the adulation of mankind, cannot make you better or happier, should you sleep, than is Lazarus while he sleeps. What wisdom almighty, what love transcending thought, is manifest in the divine ordinance of sleep!

The clock struck eight. The ashes of the extinguished fire were dropping in the grate. The glittering rays of the wintry sun lighted the room in spite of the drawn curtains. There lay the long-parted husband and wife. He with his arm round her waist. She with her head pillowed on his broad chest. Soon the hubbub of busy life will awaken them. What an awakening! After ten years apart to see each other in the light of day.

CHAPTER III.

AN EMINENT MAN-HUNTER.

JEM STOT is a gifted being, or at least he thrives on the assumption that he is a genius. So far as wealth and honour are concerned it does not matter what you are, for prosperity and fame depend upon your reputation, and reputation, especially reputation for talent, is often a fluke. I do not deny that Stot is an immensely clever man. Ex nihilo nihil fit. Fools do not succeed, and Stot is successful. But a man may be immensely clever and yet not be a genius—a light of the world. Where Stot was born, or who was his father, or if he had a grandfather, no one knows and no one cares to know. The youth of Stot, like the youth of Shakespeare, defies the research of the curious. Whether he was destined for any trade or profession he alone can tell, but certain it is he drifted into the police force. I say "drifted" because I never heard of a father dedicating his son to the calling of a policeman, or of a boy choosing that field of labour. Stot did very well in the force. In France he would have become rich, would have been decorated, would have been the lay confessor of the Sovereign, would have been one of the most abused men of his time, and would have figured in history. But wealth, political power, and historic fame are not achieved by the British policeman. Stot is smart and cunning as the serpent, if not as harmless as the dove.

Magistrates and judges magnified his zeal and ordered him rewards. Grand juries, to relieve the monotony of finding true bills, made presentments about the worth and ability of Stot. After a short term of service Stot was promoted to the rank of sergeant, and, without being over sanguine, could count upon an inspectorship. But the soul of Stot soared above dingy blue cloth and regulation boots. He retired from the public service and became a private detective. The papers announced the retirement of Sergeant Stot, and Mr. Fleebight, M.P., questioned the Home Secretary on the subject. The right hon. gentleman replied that he regretted the loss of Sergeant Stot's valuable services, but the Government had no power to compel men to remain in the force. This was an excellent advertisement for Stot, and forthwith he had a flourishing business. For getting up circumstantial evidence Stot is unrivalled. Husbands who are tired of their wives and want to be free to form other alliances resort to Stot, and if they are prepared to pay, the eminent detective will procure them the evidence necessary for a decree nisi, or, as Stot facetiously puts it, for a nice decree. Running down criminals. is not such a sure game as proving a wedded Diana unchaste, but Stot can always account for failure. He knows the really guilty party, but he dare not clear up the mystery. Mr. Stot's offices are near the Strand. His official establishment is made up of three persons. There is a stumpy boy addicted to chewing indiarubber. There is Mr. Dolotski, a Polish gentleman wanted by the Russian police for a non-political offence, and who has taken up his abode in England, the asylum for the persecuted. Then there is Mr. Gouger, an attorney of excellent ability, who has been struck off the rolls for making free with a client's money. Besides his regular staff Mr. Stot retains the services of a score of noted scoundrels, whose information is well worth the price he pays for it. Mr. Stot drives a showy trap, and lives on the other side of the water in a stucco villa of imposing elevation. His establishment would satisfy a gentleman of taste, being elegantly furnished and admirably appointed. Mrs. Stot is the best dressed person in the neighbourhood. When she visits the theatre ladies turn their eyes from the stage to look at her priceless point and her wonderful diamonds. Facilis descensus Averni. But the ascent of the social Avernus is always laborious and sometimes impossible. Mrs. Stot is not received. When Stot wooed and won her he was in the force and she was in the kitchen; and her manners have not improved with her fortunes. But she is not spurned for vulgarity. When the toilette is grand, the jewels precious, and there is no lack of money, vulgarity is not only excused but is

charitably described as interesting eccentricity. Mr. Stot's profession was the bar to social advancement. Society was vexed, for Stot's wines were choice, he paid his cook £75 a year, and Mrs. Stot was prone to profuse hospitality. But how could society receive the wife of Jem Stot the detective, though he combined the reputable business of money lending and the aristocratic business of turf bookmaking with the avocation of thief-catching?

When Henry Clayton landed at the port of London, he forthwith chartered a cab and drove to the office of the lawyer who had defended him, and who would be able to inform him of the whereabouts of Mrs. Clayton; but the Old Bailey worthy had gone the way of all flesh. Henry inquired of the new tenant, who was also a lawyer, but not in the criminal business, whether he knew the address of the deceased lawyer's clerk. The respectable gentleman had been frequently bored with the same inquiry, for men who get into trouble generally stumble again and again, and prefer to consult the same lawyer.

"The person who formerly occupied these chambers has gone to the - ; and I don't know where his clerk is, if he had a clerk." Mrs. Clayton had left her address with the new tenant, and he had faithfully promised to give it when asked to do so, but her husband did not mention her name. Henry was perplexed. There were the agony columns of the papers, but he could not advertise for his wife without publishing her name, and letting her know that he was alive and in the country. Then it occurred to him that a detective would get the information privately, and he looked in the Directory for the address of Stot, whose fame was great in America, and prodigious in Australia.

Stot having satisfied himself that Henry was able and willing to reward genius, undertook the business, and having listened to the meagre statement of his client, began a cross examination that would have made the reputation of a barrister, but which annoyed Henry, who said he did not propose to tell the history of his life.

"Look here, Mr. Clayton, I'll put the matter plain, and there can be no mistake. You are not here by the asking of Jem Stot, and Jem Stot don't mean fooling, or being fooled. Whether it pays or loses, perpendicular is my line. Without the clue-the whole clue, and nothing but the clue-I can't help you; and I shan't draw your coin. If you are confidential with Jem Stot, he is yours to command. If Jem Stot isn't your confidential, he isn't worth. the sweating of a brass farthing to you. Take your choice, Mr.