The Joy of Living
■i
CHAPTER XXV—Continued.
—12—
"By all means, Inspector,” said Ber
trnnil yawning. “I am a mere nmateur.
All caves look alike to me. Mind the
briars; they prick most accursedly.”
Arkwright’s inspection of the cave
was brie/
“It is eftipty, but the place has been
used, arid recently,” he reported.
"Strange they should not have chosen
It; it is the best hiding place in the
pit.”
“Perhaps they otdy recently discov
ered this desirable residence, and were
about to shift their quarters,” suggest
ed de Jussac. “No doubt, if a few
watchful policemen ambush themselves
efficiently during the dark hours, they
will catch the amiable consort of that
cutthroat yonder. One hopes so. It is
painful to the law-abiding to know that
malefactors are at large. Particularly
when they are females.”
Inspector Arkwright looked at him
dubiously, and made no reply. Billy,
also, when the two rejoined him, eyed
de Jussac with extreme thoughtful
ness, and had some difficulty In sup
pressing his emotion. He was still
mounting guard over Joke, who lay
upon his improvised stretcher and
gazed up at the sky with a singularly
beatific smile. De Jussac offered him a
cigarette, which lie accepted silently.
“I think,” said Inspector Arkwright,
“I’ll call on you two gentlemen to as
sist me and we’ll get him out of this. I
want the place cleared.”
It was not an easy matter to carry
the gate and its burden out of the pits.
By the time they had achieved it, the
car arrived from Jervaulx and wound
its way over the Hat turf. Jake was
lifted into it.
“I must trouble you to accompany
me, Mr. Spencer," said Arkwright.
“Anything to oblige the police," said
Billy, squeezing himself into the front
of the car. . It was a tight fit.
Tlie journey to Stanhoe was made
almost in silence. When the car ar
rived at tlie police station Jake was
duly disposed of, while Billy cooled his
heels in a dingy wailing room that had
been whitewashed some time during
tlie period when Sir Robert Peel was
reorganizing the force. Presently In
spector Arkwright joined him. The in
spector closed tlie door, and regarded
Billy with a* sphinx-like but faintly
humorous eye.
t “I think, Mr. Spencer,” he said
quietly, “that you have no very high
opinion of my intelligence?”
“Wrong there," said Billy, politely.
“I don’t know that I’d class the Stan
hoe staff with the world’s great think
ers. But I've heard a lot about Scot
land Yard, and, if I may say so, you
come fully up to sample.”
"There Is no harm now in my tolling
you that I know precisely what your
movements have been, Mr. Spencer. I
know that it was you, and not the pris
oner. who stayed at Ivy cottage as the
tenant of Mrs. Sunning. I know that
your companion, at the same time,
stayed next door. I have also a fairly
accurate comprehension of tiie reasons
which led you to accept temporary em
ployment in the Jervaulx abbey house
hold. I did not, till now, know who
you were. But the papers you gave n>o
establish your identity. And that
makes all the difference.”
Billy was silent.
‘I am, you see, in possession of the
facts.”
"There’s one recent fact,” thought
Billy, “that you're not wise to.”
“Your affairs, Mr. Spencer, though
somewhat complicated, do not call for
the intervention of the police,” said
Arkwright, with the ghost of a smile,
“and no official cognizance will be
taken of that matter; unless something
unforeseen occurs. I am a thief hunter
aiwl not a castigator of rash young
men. What I know, I shall, doubtless,
keep to myself.”
Billy felt an enormous sense of re
lief, combined with a sharp twinge of
conscience.
lne irresponsible couple who en
sconced themselves at Ivy cottage,”
said Arkwright, with a dry smile, “made
a good deal of trouble for themselves.”
“Inspector,” said Billy, “did you ever
do a fool thing?”
Inspector Arkwright twinkled.
"A good many, when I was your age.
And, sometimes, even now. However,
I wish you good fortune. I am not un
grateful to you for your share in the
running to earth of Mr. .Take, It is the
duty of the civilian to assist the police.
Tlie woman will still be brought to
book. And I shall call on your formi
dable employer before I leave. Good-by,
Mr. Spencer.”
Billy walked out of Stnnhoe police
station and made his way back to the
abbey on foot.
“Gee!” he said pensively. “But that
last stunt was awful dangerous! Of
course, I see well enough what hap
pened. But it was just a lucky acci
dent neither Almee nor that blamed
nuisance of a woman was seen getting
away. The luckiest sort of accident.
Inspector Arkwright isn't the fool I
took him for, by a long way. I wonde;
how much he knows? But he can’t
know’ that.”
He shook his shoulders.
“It came near being a real crash—
just when everything had come right.
It put the wind up me worse than any
thing yet. But thdre’s nothing to be
scared at now.”
Despite the excellent turn afTairs
had taken, Billy’s mind was troubling
him. He had the air of a small boy
whose raid on the jam cupboard Is
about ,to be discovered. When tr
k
By Sidney Gozving
Illustrations by Ellszvorth Young
Copyright 1*22 by Sidney Gowing
!—
rived at the abbey there was no sign
of his partner. After lingering for
some time near the most likely haunts,
Billy sighed and retreated to the
garage.
He had not been there long when
Aimee’s face appeared furtively round
the angle of the door.
“Hello!” she said, stepping Inside.
She halted, and they looked at each
other dubiously. Aimee was decidedly
pale, her eyes pathetic and rather
frightened.
“I couldn't help it, Billy!” she said
suddenly.
"Couldn't help what?”
“You saw us getting away, didn't
you? And the girl—and the Sphinx?
lias Monsieur de Jussac explained to
you ?”
“1 haven't seen him,” said Billy,
quietly, “but I guess it isn't hard to see
how things were. You might ns well
tell me, though.”
Aimee, very gloomily, described her
encounter with Calamity Kate.
“I know.” she concluded, shakily,
“you’re thinking me an idiot. I’d no
right to take such a risk—with the po
lice there and everything. I—I sup
pose she's a thief. But she's done such
a lot for that man, and she was so mis
erable. He's her husband. And 1
couldn't help thinking about you and
me, Billy, and how I should feel if you
—you—”
She broke down and began to cry
quietly.
"That’s how it was. Are you very
angry with me?”
Billy gasped and, stepping quickly to
Billy Pulled Aimce’s Hands Away.
her. pulled Almee's hands away from
her face.
“Angry—with you?” he exclaimed,
holding them tight. "I was afraid you'd
he mad with me ! You ought to. Why,
I did the same thing, and I'd no ex
cuse! I ought to have made sure that
woman was run in.”
“Y’ou—did the same thing?” said
Almee, staring. *
“Vos! Of course, I never dreamed
you were in the pits, or I wouldn't have
done it. That crippled crook in the
cave got over me. They've got him for
five or ten years; and he's earned it.
But he was all broken up about his
wife. Neither of them deserve a sAap
of sympathy. But—the poor devil was
in such a state, that somehow I fell for j
it. He never whined on his own ac
count ; he was thinking of Ids wife. It
got me on a raw spot. He knew I must
have tracked him through her—he
begged me to say nothing about her.
“And I didn't. I gave him that much
rope. Never told the police I'd seen
her cl0"0 by. Running down women is
their job. If it's got to be done, let
them do it. They haven’t any choice—
but I hud. All the same,” said Billy, “if
I’d dreamed for a moment you were in
the pits. I’d have chased fifty female
thieves sooner than you should take a
chance! I ought to be horsewhipped
for riskin’ it.”
“I think it was fine of you, Billy!"
cried Aimee with sparkling eyes.
“No!” he said. “It’s you that were
fine.”
“This," said Aimee, “is what comes
of growing sentimental. Neither of us
would have dreamed of making such—
such fools of ourselves a week ago.
What will become of her? Will she
get away ?”
"I don't know or care. If she made
the road, there’s juice enough in the
Sphinx to take her a hundred miles
from here. I only hope they don’t find
her with the machine. But I’ll bet they
don’t. She’ll get clear and cover her
tracks—she’s the sort that does.”
“But the Sphinx," said Aimee, with
-intense remorse, “our Sphinx, Billy!
I’ve lost her for you!”
. Billy laughed.
“We’ll mighty soon have another—
i theie's two hundred landed at the
: docks last week—same model; and a
factory being equipped to build the new
i model over here. Mass production.”
’’Wlmt! You never told me It had
got as far as that! But—I wanted the
old one, Billy—our Sphinx.”
“Maybe you’ll have her yet. Only
I'm not going to let her make trouble
for you. We’re pretty near done with
trouble.”
"But bow—”
“Never mind. I’ll tell you some time.
Gee! how you’ll lnugh! But I’m giv
ing you the cinch—it is so.”
“Billy 1” she cried, “isn't that splen
did ! Though I—I—”
"Well?”
“I haven’t been worrying so much
about it lately,” said Aimee swiftly.
“But it’s good to know. And what’s
going to happen now?”
“I know one thing that's going to
happen now,” said Billy, and he kissed
her with—ns de Jussac would say—
empressement.
"Billy!” said Aimee a little breath
lessly. “Aunt said we had to be
decorous!”
“So we are,” replied Billy. He kissed
her again.
Half an hour later Billy, passing the
main porch, encountered Lady Ery
thea.
’Spencer,” she said, “I was about to
send for you. The person from .Scot
land Yard, who has just left, informed
me that he had not only captured one
of the thieves, but that you hud ren
dered him invuluable assistance. It
really seems u remarkable ending to
the affair—but it does not surprise me
in the least! I said from the lirst that
you were more likely to muke a suc
cess of this problem than all the po
lice in the. country, if they would only
consult you. I was perfectly right—
my judgment, in fact, is never wrong.”
“Yes, my lady.”
• 1 um quite capuDie or reading De
tween the lines,” said Lady Erythea
with suppressed triumph. “It is my
conviction that tlie capture of this
abominable thief was due entirely to
you. The police are imbeciles.”
Billy shook ids head.
“On tlie contrary, Inspector Ark
wright is an uncommonly clever man,
my lady,” be said respectfully. “As for
me, I had—luck. Luck’s a queer thing.
Even cleverness won’t always beat it.”
Lady Erythea looked a little out of
her depth.
“In any case,” she continued, "I am
very pleased that this absurd suspicion
of the police regarding you is cleared
up, and that you come out of the affair
with such credit. It confirms my opin
ion of you.”
Lady Erythea contemplated Billy’s
tall figure and serenely handsome face
with a certain regret.
"I am sorry,” she said, “that you are
leaving Jervaulx."
Billy smiled.
“The week I have spent in your lady
ship’s service,” he said gently, “has
been the happiest time of my life.”
Lady Erythea was not given to ex
pressing her emotions. But her aus
tere face positively tinged a faint pink
color with pleasure.
CHAPTER XXVI
“Where Is My Daughter?”
“Why can’t we stay on for another
week, Billy?” said Aimee, leaning a
little farther out of the study window,
duster in hand. “Go to Aunt—the
Missus, I mean—and ask her to let you
keep the job. She’ll jump at It.”
“Nothing doing!” said Billy sternly.
Aimee sighed. The hour was nearly
noon on the day following the Odyssey
of the crag pits. No news had been
heard of Calamity Kate, who appeared
to have drifted out of history on the
Sphinx. A brief interval of peace had
settled upon Jervaulx.
“There'll be a vacancy for a parlor
maid an' chauffeur,” announced Billy
with decision. He was standing on the
gravel just outside the window. “All
the bother with the police is wiped off
the slate. It’s only a fool that backs
his luck too far. And it’s time to quit
the game and turn the lights out.”
“That means Aunt has got to know
who 1 am, and who Georgie is; and—
and all the rest of it.”
“There’s no way out of that, I’m
afraid.”
“I know. But I do rather funk it,
Billy. The worst if it is poor old
Georgie is in a tighter place than I
am.” ,
“We’ll have to see her through it.”
#,Pon’t you think,” said Aimee, dis
tinctly worried, “that it would be best
if Georgina arranged to cut short her
visit and went home-—and Amy Snooks
gave notice, or Just cleared out. You
ns well. Then we—we could explain it
all by letter, or something. I think It
would look better that way.”
Billy looked at her a little oddly.
“I am in a funk, Billy,” said Aimee,
trembling slightly. “I don’t care for
myself, hut it’s awful to think of poor
Georgie having the storm break on her.
She isn’t built for It. I believe if the
thing isn't sprung on us suddenly, and
we manage it at the right time, we—
we might get awny with it.”
“Right again,” said Billy, “but I
shan’t go. I shall stay and put It
through myself."
“No!” said Aimee quickly. “I won’t
hear of that.”
“You just leave it to me,” said Billy,
soothingly, “there’s another way. I’ll
show you—”
V
The whirr of n motor Interrupted
him. A large automobile was np
proaehing up the park road. Aimee
looked at It. Such an expression of
horror onme over her features that
Billy was startled.
“What’s the matter?”
"That's absolutely torn It!” said
Aimee in strangled tones.
"Eh 1"
"It's Dad!”
Aimee dived back into the room like
a rabbit retreating into Its burrow.
The automobile swept tip to the main
entrance; the Very Reverend I.ord
Scroope descended. ,
"Is Lady Erythen In?” he said, al
most curtly, to the butler. “Announce
me at once, piense. Lord Scroope.”
Mr. Tarbeaux showed him into the
empty drawing room. Lord Scroope
deposited his hat among n cluster of
Dresden ornaments. His brow, usually
White and serene ns alabaster, wns
clouded. Lady Erythea entered mn
jesticnlly.
“Anthony!” she said.
Lord Scroope, omitting any greeting,
regarded her fixedly.
“I received your letter by last n.'ght's
post, Erythea, announcing Atmee's en
gagement to Alexander. I borrowed
the bishop’s car, and I have been trav
eling from Closemlnster since seven
this morning."
Lady Erythea received the news w Ith
a smile of approval.
“The silly child wished me to delay
announcing her betrothal. But that, of
course, I could not consent to. I wrote
to you at once, Anthony. I commend
the energy you have shown in hasten
ing to congratulate them—and me. One
so seldom sees you in u hurry.”
Lord Scroope deliberately placed a
pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez on his
nose nnd stared at ills sister-in-law.
“The news of this engagement,” he
said earnestly, "is unwelcome to me.
Entirely unwelcome.”
Lady Erythea stiffened in every limb.
Her ear-trumpet was presented in one
hand; with the other she raised her
lorgnettes and directed them at Lord
Regarded Each Other Glassily.
Scroope. The two regarded each other
glassily.
“I do not understand you,” said Lady
Erythea with frigidity. “Alexander Is
a young man of unexceptionable char
acter and prospects. Jervaulx will be
his. The Scroope estate is entailed, and
I am sufficiently an fait with your af
fairs to know that when your two sons
in the Service are provided for there
will be no overpowering fortune left
for Aimee. It appears that if there Is
any complaint, It should come from
me.”
"The financial aspect of the question
does not weigh with me," said Lord
Scroope with asperity. “I object to
the match itself. If Alexander is to
marry at all—”
"If he is to marry !” interrupted Lady
Erythea \tarmly. "Of course he is to
marry. Though I confess I was very
much afraid he never would. Permit
me to tell you, Anthony, that In taking
up this attitude as to the marriage of
priests, you stand on a very shaky
foundation. You yourself are a Clerk
In Orders, and an extreme Rltunllst.
Shall I remind you that if you had not
married Delicia—and an excellent thing
it was for you—this situation would
never have arisen!”
“I am not conscious of having ex
pressed any such argument,” said Lord
Scroope very stiffly, but with a certain
pinkness about the ears. “As for Alex
ander, he is in every way an excellent
young man. But if he Is to marry, the
last thing I should have desired is his
alliance with my daughter. Their tem
peraments are so opposed that I am
convinced nothing but unhappiness
could result—in fact, your news seemed
to me almost incredible. I do not know
what to do—the position is very diffi
cult for me, if the child has really be
come attached to him,” concluded Lord
Scroope, with visible distress.
‘‘Good gracious, man, what did you
expect?" exclaimed his sister-in-law.
“It never entered my bend," said
Lord Scroope, emphatically. “I thought
that your influence, and that of Alex
ander, would have a steadying effect
on Ainiee, who was in some need of it.
But this—!"
Lady Erythea showed increasing ex
asperation.
“Vou are talking rubbish!" she ex
claimed, sharply. “Of all the girls
known to me, no more suitable mate
could be found for Alexander. Indeed,
during her sojourn here Aimee has en
deared herself to me scarcely less than
to him. Her piety, her quiet devotion—
the complete absence in her of nil
slanginess—all these speak eloquently
in her favor.”
Lord Scroope gazed at her in bewil
derment.
"I renlly do not follow you, Erythea.
And I am greatly disappointed,” said
Lord Scroope heavily, “greatly disap
pointed. I did not foresee this.”
“I am not responsible, my dear
Anthony, for your lack of foresight,”
said his sister-in-law, acidly. A shadow
darkened tbs window, nnd she turned.
“Put your daughter enn answer for her
self.”'
Georgina stepped in through the
open window, followed by Mr. Lambe.
Suddenly observing Lord Scroope she
halted and became rigid. Every scrap
of color left her cheeks. Alexander
baited also, and slowly turned a deep
plum color.
“Since it is a fait accompli,” said
Lady Erythen to her brother-in-law,
almost with n touch of pleading, “be
amiable, Anthony, and bestow your
blessing on the happy pair.”
She rnised her ear-trumpet ns though
to share in the benediction. Lord
Scroope looked at Georgina dumbly nnd
then stared at Lady Erythen.
“What did you say?” be asked diz
zily.
“The happy pair!” said Lady Ery
then, loudly and irritably.
“Where is my daughter?” exclaimed
Lord Scroope with consternation. “Ery
then, where Is my daughter?”
Lady Erythen started. She glanced
at Georgina's horror-stricken face, nnd
then, with deep concern, moved to her
brother-in-law’s side.
“My dear Anthony,” she said In a
low voice, “come upstairs and lie down.
It will soon pass off. Do not be
alarmed, Aimee. Lean on my arm,
Anthony.”
Lord Scroope shook himself free.
“Are you in your senses, Erythea?
This is my niece by marriage—Geor
gina Berners. What is she doing here?”
"Y-yes," gulped Alexander’s fiancee.
“I’m Georgina. I couldn't help it.”
She collapsed Into an armchair and
burst into tears. Alexander stood over
her like a large and protective dog; he
laid a hand on her shoulder and glared
at the others with defiance.
Lady Erythea turned pale. It was
disconcerting to find two members of
the Scroope family simultaneously
smitten with insanity.
"Where is Aimee?” insisted Lord
Scroope, turning upon her. “Where is
my daughter?"
“Dnd !”
The disheveled parlor maid darted in
through the door. Aimee’s cap was
awry, her face was pale, her eyes very
bright; the top of her apron heaved
tumultuously. She stopped short, as
Lady Erythea glared speechless at this
irruption.
“Don’t cry, Georgie,” said Aimee; “it
wasn’t your fault.”
“Have I been transported into Bed
lam?” asked Lord Scroope, dizzily. “Or
are you rehearsing a charade? What
is she doing in this costume?”
Lady Erythea struggled for breath.
"This,” she said grimly, “is my par
lor maid, Snooks, whom I foolishly en
gaged on your recommendation. She
has engaged herself again, however, to
toy chauffeur.”
Lord Scroope looked at his sister-in
law with commiseration.
“This,” he said, in the soothing tone
with which one would address a de
lirious person, “is my daughter, Aimee.
I am rather glad to find her—in any
costume. I began to wonder what you
had done with her.”
Lady Erythea’s frame slowly stiff
ened. Her fingers clenched the ear
trumpet as though it were the handle
of a club. Her eyes were terrible. Be
fore the storm could break, Aimee in
tervened.
"It wasn’t Aunt’s fault. Dad, she
said breathlessly, “nor Georgie's—nor
Alexander’s. It was all mine. And If
you all want to heat somebody, it had
better be me! I—I’m here to explain !”
“Some explanation,” said Lord
Scroope quietly, “seems to be called
for.”
Aimee, avoiding her aunt’s eyes, ad
dressed herself to the quivering ear
trumpet.
“I didn’t want to come here. Dad
made me. I was—frightened of you.
Anyway, I didn’t think Jervaulx would
suit me, and that you’d hate me. So I
skipped the ear at Burn Ash,” said
Aimee, her speech pouring from her like
a torrent, “and made the chauffeur
bring Georgina on here. And I went
off on my own!
“Georgina arrived here, and you
took her for me. You insisted she was
me. And she didn’t dare explain, for
fear of getting me into a row. That’s
what Georgie is 1 She can’t lie—she
can’t even act—but she'd let you cut
her in .pieces before she’d get me into
trouble 1
“I got here the same night, and
climbed into her room. And Georgie
begged me to own up, and I wouldn’t.
And I came the next night; Georgie
was ready to give it all away—and
tlien the burglars got in. I was nearly
caught, ail the household chased me,
the butier tore a great piece out of my
skirt. But I got away, and at last
right down by the crossroads, I ran into
B1I—Mr. Spencer.”
Aimee paused for breath.
“Who,” inquired Lord Scroope, in the
hush tlint followed, "is Mr. Spencer?”
“A motorcyclist. He had come across
the thieves getting away, had a fight
with them—they were too many for
him, but he got back some of the Jew
els. I told him the awful mess I was
in. Of course, th<^ police were after
me—I'd seen ttrtir ear already. If they
got hold of me, they’d know the—the.
frilly thing I’d done,” said Aimee w1t9»
a gulp. "It would come out that I wn*
your daughter—it would be all over the
country, and in all the newspapers!”
Lord Scroope, very pale, drew a deep
breath, and gave a prolonged shudder.
“I?—Mr. Spencer told me I'd got to
go back and make a clean breast of It
all. He wanted to tell you. But I didn’t
dare. I refused to let him say any
thing—I made him swenr he wouldn’t.
It was my trouble, not his. So he did
what I asked; even though It meant /'
the police would suspect him, too. So
he took the Jewels to Aunt Erythea,
and never said a word about me; and
when she offered him the Job as chauf
feur he took it; so that the police
wouldn’t suspect him—or me! He
came here and drove Aunt’s cars!”
"And you?” said her father quietly.
"What happened to you?”
“I went back to Scroope next day. I
found Amy Snooks was coming here ns
maid—I made her go to Senbridge, and
took her place, Dad. Just to be safe
from those beastly police—in the,hope
they'd catch the thieves, if we gave
them time—and then they wouldn’t
catch me and make me explain. And
it's just what happened; Billy—Mr.
Spencer—caught one of them yester
day, and tlie police have got him. No
body knows anything about me, except
you here!”
Aimee panted like a deer at bay.
"And Billy’s asked me to mnrry him,
nnd I'm going to!” she said desperate
ly. “I love him! There’s nobody like
Billy—he's been splendid ! He isn’t a
chauffeur at all—till Aunt made him
one. And I'd marry him, even if ha
was!” declared Aimee, on the verge of
tears. s
There was a stunned silonf’c. For
once speech denied itself even to Lady
Erythea. Georgina was sobbing gently
in the chair. Alexander still stood over
her and said nothing.
“I seem to find a thread of enlighten
ment in this story,” said Lord Scroope,
slowly. “Yes, I think I know enough
of you, Aimee, to understand. I have
a question to put. You came here on
the day following the burglary. Where
did you spend the previous night?
What were you doing?”
"I was in a cave!”
Lord Scroope passed a long whlta
hand Across his brow.
“A cave?” he repeated, blankly. “Ycu
have reverted, it seems, to the customs
of our Neolithic ancestors—”
“It was a ripping cave,” said Aimee
a little hysterically, “down in the crag
pits. All the little rabbits for company.
It was more peaceful than Jervaulx.
I know it wouldn’t have suited Georgie.”
“May 1 ask when this unknown
young man permitted himself to pro
pose to you?”
“Yesterday!”
“We will not pursue that matter,”
said Lord Scroope, gloomily t “tilts
hardly seems the time or place^%or de
tailed explanations. I feel—”
The door opened and Monsjeur do
.Tussac entered. He gave a slight start
as his eyes traveled rapidly over the
group.
“A thousand pardons! A family
matter, I perceive,” he said quickly, “I
will withdraw—”
“Don't go, Vicomte!” exclaimed
Aimee. “Anyone who’s a friend of
mine is welcome here. You may as w’ell
be In at the death.”
“If I can be of any service—” said
Bertrand. He bowed courteously to
Aimee’s futliei. “Lord Scroope, I pre*
sume.”
“You,” said Lady Erythea to Ber
trand, trembling with wrath, “wero
“You Were Also in This Conspiracy.*
also in this conspiracy! You appear to
know the whole story 1”
“Oh, of course he knows it,” said
Aimee, wildly, “just as Billy knew It,
and Georgina, and Diana, too. They
all did their best for me—right from
the beginning. I wasn’t worth it—but
they did.”
“It seems,” said Lady Erythea, grip
ping the back of a chair, “that every
one in my household knew all about
l)*is—except myself and my nephew*
Who, through his position and his lna»»
cence, now finds himself—”
“I beg your pardon, Aunt,” said Al
exander, pallid but calm, “I, also, kme^r
everything that was to be known—
from the moment Aimee entered this
house. I knew that Georgina-^ja*
Georgina. I am ns eulpnble as any.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Imagination and Memory.
Imagination is not, like memory, hel#
to actual experience. It takes the
mind beyond its own experience, be
yond the present and appareat. It
idealize*.