The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE STRAND MAGAZINE
An Illustrated Monthly

EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES

Vol VII., Issue 38.
February, 1894

[Between the Acts]
[Crimes and Criminals.]
[Giovanni]
[Zig-zags at the Zoo]
[Actors' Make-Up.]
[Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of Their Lives.]
[Stories from the Diary of a Doctor.]
[Illustrated Interviews.]
[Beauties.]
[From Behind the Speaker's Chair.]
[Singing Bob.]
[How Composers Work.]
[The Land of Youth]
[The Queer Side of Things.]
[Pal's Puzzle Page.]
[Transcriber's Notes]

"SHE WAS CLUTCHING THE FATAL TELEGRAM."

(See page [116].)

[BETWEEN THE ACTS]

Translated from the French of M. Blowitz.

It was in 1870, when war had just been declared.

MacMahon had received orders to cross the frontier, and strike a decided blow against the combined armies of North and South Germany.

In Paris, as indeed throughout the whole of France, everyone was in a state of feverish anxiety; but in the gay capital, the Parisians endeavoured to make the days of suspense pass more quickly by féting the expected victory.

One could hear the clinking of glasses at the out-door restaurants, the music of the cafés-chantants, and the carriages filed incessantly along the broad avenue of the Champs Elysées.

The theatres, too, were well patronized, particularly one on the Boulevards a certain evening when Mlle. Jeanne de Bolney was to make her début.

The papers had foretold a most brilliant success for the beautiful young actress, who was so marvellously gifted, and who would no doubt become the star of the season. She had chosen for her début "La Dame aux Camélias," which was at that time in the height of its popularity, and the author himself had said that the rôle of Marguerite might have been written for this talented young actress, so admirably did it suit her in every respect. From the very first act it was quite evident that her beauty and her talent had not been overrated.

The sight of her even had won all hearts. A faultless figure, a delicate, refined face, with lips which were at once proud and tender, eyes of deep blue with the most frank expression, a perfectly shaped head, and a carriage which would have done honour to any queen.

At the sight of this exquisite creature a murmur of approbation ran through the house and interrupted, for a few seconds, the dialogue.

At the end of each scene the ovations increased, and after the second act there was a perfect explosion of applause. Among those who were most delighted at Jeanne's triumph was a young man who belonged to the theatre—Louis Belcourt. It was through his influence that she had succeeded in making her début, for the manager of this theatre always preferred pupils from the Conservatoire.

Louis had known and loved Jeanne from boyhood, and there was something infinitely noble and touching in this devoted yet hopeless love. It was, indeed, of a kind rarely seen in any man, for it had not blinded him, and he could see and admire the good qualities of his rival—the man to whom Jeanne had given all her love.

It had been very romantic, the engagement of the beautiful young actress. A short time before, at the Longchamps races, she had been glancing at the grand stand, where Napoleon III. and the ladies of the Court were seated, when suddenly she became aware of two handsome dark eyes fixed upon her. She looked away, but, as though fascinated, a few minutes later she glanced again at the place behind the Court ladies, and she saw a military-looking man, whose face was bronzed by the southern sun, and who had risen from his seat and was gazing earnestly at her, as though he too were fascinated by some spell.

Not long after, Roger de Morfeuille, officer in the Emperor's regiment, had discovered who Jeanne was. It was an extraordinary engagement; no word of the future had been spoken between them. Roger knew that he would have to leave, for war had been declared, and that until the result of that war should be known he could promise nothing. The subject of the future was not even broached between them. Jeanne knew only that their path in life must be together: she felt that it must be so, and there was no need for words. Only when the terrible parting came, when Roger had to leave to join his regiment, he slipped a ring he always wore on to her finger and took from hers one for himself, and still no words were spoken as to the future.

After the second act of the "Dame aux Camélias," when the curtain had been lowered for the sixth time, and Jeanne had for the sixth time answered to the enthusiastic recalls, she went slowly up to her room. She felt overwhelmed: perhaps it was the excess of happiness at her good fortune which weighed on her like this. Roger knew that it was the day of her début; she felt certain that, even amid the smoke of the battlefield, he would not forget it. She hardly dared own it even to herself, but all day she had expected some little souvenir from him, some sign or word of sympathy; for was she not too fighting a battle, one of those battles which decided the life of individuals just as much as his did that of nations? On opening her dressing-room door a flash of mingled triumph, love, and pride came over her as she caught sight of a telegram on her table.

She closed her door quickly, not noticing that Louis Belcourt was following her quietly along the corridor.

Suddenly, through the thick doors and curtains, in the silence of the empty corridor, Belcourt heard a fearful cry. It was so wild and passionate that a shiver ran through him. He opened the door and was just in time to catch Jeanne in his arms. She was livid with horror, and was clutching the fatal telegram in her hands.

Just as he was wondering what to do for the best, Jeanne's pallor gave way to a rush of colour to her cheeks. She read the telegram to him: "We have been defeated at Woerth. They are taking me to a house near by. Amputation probable. Pray for me. My love, darling.—Roger." Belcourt glanced at the telegram and saw that it was unintelligible, but a kind of alphabet on the table showed him that it had been written by signs agreed upon.

He stood as though thunderstruck. Suddenly Jeanne put on a hat and threw a long brown cloak over her stage dress.

"What are you going to do?" he exclaimed.

"I am going to Roger!"

"But, in Heaven's name, Jeanne, stay a little while. The curtain will be going up. Think what you are doing. You will be ruined—you will spoil your whole life. Wait till to-morrow!"

"Listen," said Jeanne, in a clear, decided tone. "It is now a quarter to ten. I know there is a train from the Gare de l'Est at eleven, for I have sent my letters by a friend of Roger's who is going by it. If you prevent my going by that train, you see this dagger; well, I will kill myself with it!"

Louis stepped back, dazed and horror-struck. Jeanne opened the door, went quickly out by a back door, and Louis followed her, watched her hail a cab, and drive away.

When Belcourt re-entered the theatre he found everyone behind the scenes in a terrible state of excitement.

Mlle de Bolney could not be found. The house was impatient, and the manager desperate. He was sending for the police that she might be found and arrested. Suddenly Belcourt, at the idea of the possible fatal consequences of Jeanne's flight, determined on a bold move.

He stepped up to one of his friends who had been taking part in the play, whispered to him, and appeared to be begging him to consent to what he asked.

Finally the friend yielded, opened the door and walked towards the stage. Then Belcourt, pushing away the director and stage manager who attempted to stop him, gave the signal to lift the curtain, and appeared himself before the house. A deep silence ensued.

"SHE IS OVERWHELMED BY THE NEWS."

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Belcourt, "Mlle. de Bolney has received a telegram announcing that there has been a disaster on the German frontier and our army has sustained a defeat. She is overwhelmed by the news, and we must ask you to have patience until she feels able to continue her rôle."

A dismal silence followed these words. Belcourt's friend now stepped forward and executed the order he had received:—

"We, too, are surely as good patriots as Mademoiselle de Bolney! Surely the play ought not to be finished before a French audience, who have just heard that our army is defeated!"

Cries of "Bravo!" were heard, and, unanimously, the whole house rose and prepared to leave the theatre.

Belcourt had saved the honour of Jeanne and of the theatre.

The rumour of the defeat of Reichshoffen, which the Government was keeping secret, was soon spread abroad in Paris by the spectators who had heard it from Belcourt, and the news caused a fearful calm in the gay capital.

Belcourt had been congratulated by all the authorities of the theatre on his happy idea, but just as he was preparing to leave the theatre that same night he was seized by a police official and conducted to the Mazas prison on a charge of "having divulged a State secret," a crime always punished at least by hard labour, and, in time of war, by death.

For more than a month Belcourt had been in Mazas prison, with nothing to look forward to but dishonour or death. He had been questioned over and over again as to how he had discovered the secret, but in vain; nothing could induce him to give any details, for he did not know whether Jeanne would forgive him for having said so much as he had. The next day sentence was to be passed upon him.

Successive defeats had embittered the minds of his judges, and it was pretty sure that he had little chance of getting off without paying the full penalty of his crime. Belcourt was thinking sadly of his hopeless love for Jeanne, which had caused him to act as he had done in order to save her, when suddenly the door of his cell opened and the porter announced: "Madame the Countess de Morfeuille." It was Jeanne herself, dressed in the deepest mourning.

Her beautiful hair had some silvery threads, her face was cold and severe as marble, her beautiful mouth was rigid, her eyes seemed to be gazing at some invisible object, and she had a deathly pallor—such as one sees on the faces of those who have received some mortal wound.

It was pathetic to see so fair and so young a girl in such hopeless despair, and Belcourt was deeply touched by it.

"You are free, Louis," she said, gently but sadly. "The Empress herself has asked for your release. Thank you so much, my friend, for all you did for me. I came directly I heard of your imprisonment. My husband had only just been brought home and buried at Morfeuille."

"'YOU ARE FREE, LOUIS,' SHE SAID."

Very soon after, Jeanne returned to her husband's stately home, that she might visit daily the tomb of him she had so dearly loved, and who had married her on his death bed.

When Louis had tried to console her and gently hinted that she was too young to go through the rest of her life alone, she had answered, decidedly:—

"Do not ever speak to me of anyone else. I will live and die the widow of Roger, and will certainly never be anyone else's wife."

It was thus that a great artiste was lost to the French stage, but the memory of that début will never be lost to any of those who witnessed it.

[Crimes and Criminals.]

No. I.—Dynamite and Dynamiters.

It is not intended that the series of articles we propose publishing in these pages under the above title should in any way give rise to alarm, or be an incentive to disturbed and restless nights. On the other hand, a better knowledge of how crimes are concocted and ultimately carried into effect may, perhaps, provide a course of much-needed lessons usually omitted in one's early education. It is said that the public seldom trouble to protect themselves, and for a very good reason, they don't know how; and it is only by becoming on a more familiar footing with the manners and customs of those enterprising individuals who seek to shatter anything between our nerves and our residences, either by relieving us of our purse or planting a dangerous species of explosive at our front doors, that we are the better able to take care of ourselves, our relatives, and our belongings—ourselves, perhaps, for choice.

At New Scotland Yard a large apartment is devoted to the exhibit of ten thousand and one records of crime, in the shape of the actual weapons, and what not, associated with particularly notorious, and, in some instances, almost historic, deeds. A visit to this place is the finest and most complete nerve-tester in the world! The authorities at New Scotland Yard have kindly placed this room and its contents at our disposal; and each of the separate cases, which severally contain exhibits of some distinctive branch of punishable offences, requires a chapter to itself. The most recently arrived exhibit is one which, at the present time, possesses a peculiar interest. In the centre of the room is a glass case, which provides a resting-place for mementos of the more important outrages and attempts and suspicious cases of discoveries of explosives which have called for the attention of Her Majesty's Inspectors of Explosives for the last fifteen or twenty years—Colonel V. D. Majendie, C.B., H.M. Chief Inspector of Explosives, and Colonel A. Ford; whilst Dr. Dupré has throughout been associated with these gentlemen as chemical expert. As an expert in explosives, no name is better known than that of Colonel Majendie, a man in the prime of life, of indomitable energy and immovable disposition; who may be singled out as being engaged in the two extremes of business and pleasure. His business: dynamite, gunpowder, and all the kindred blasting operatives; his pleasure: the "Children of Paules," as the choir boys of St. Paul's Cathedral used to be designated. In his room at the Home Office slabs of American dynamite, infernal machines, and detonators; in his rooms at home walls covered with portraits of these tuneful youngsters, many of them in the whitest of white surplices; while the drawers of his desk are brimming over with youthful letters from the past and present choristers of the great Cathedral. Colonel Majendie never destroys a dynamite relic—or a child's letter. Both are too precious.

COLONEL MAJENDIE

From a photo by Webber, Canterbury.

Such is Colonel Majendie, the sworn enemy of dynamiters; and it was in company with him that the writer visited New Scotland Yard and examined, one by one, the contents of the case already referred to, and associated them with the various incidents in which they were designed to play—and, in some instances, succeeded in playing—so prominent a part.

FIG. 1.—EXPLOSION AT DUBLIN CASTLE.

FIG. 2.—"BABY'S BOTTLE?" FIG. 3.—EXPLOSIVE COAL.

It may be said that the more serious attempts to devote dynamite to the very reverse purpose from what it was intended for commenced in 1881, when, on the 14th January of that year, an attempt was made to blow up the barracks at Salford. Very little damage was done to the barracks, but a lad was killed and another injured. In all the subsequent attempts to destroy life and property, only one other death has occurred. On the Christmas Eve of 1892, an infernal machine exploded outside the Detective Office in Exchange Court, Dublin Castle, when a detective officer was killed (Fig. 1). Without including minor explosions, the numbers of important dynamitic efforts from the year 1881 to 1892 are as follows:—In 1881, 9 attempts; 1882, 5; 1883, 10; 1884, 12; 1885, 8; 1886, 4; 1887, 15; 1888, 2; 1889, 3; 1890, 5; 1891, 6; and in 1892, 7 outrages. It is not necessary to say that the initial explosion at Salford, in 1881, greatly alarmed the public. Anything found of a suspicious character was at once associated with dynamite, and the earliest relic treasured at New Scotland Yard is a strange-looking object which was found in a tram-car, and owing to the excited state of the mind of the British public at that time, was immediately put down as an infernal machine. There is, however, some reason to believe that it was nothing more than a model for a new idea in babies' feeding-bottles (Fig. 2). Its inventor never put in a claim for it, but it still remains at "The Yard" for anybody who can justify his or her claim to its possession. By its side is an imitation piece of coal—(Fig. 3)—a most deadly weapon when used, for it is intended to be filled with explosive and thrown in the stoke-hole of vessels, in the hope that the stoker may shovel it into the furnace with some of the other fuel. Another relic of this year is one of four machines which were found on the 2nd July at Liverpool in the Bavaria (Fig. 4), six other infernal machines having been found in the Malta two days previously. They were discovered in barrels of cement. They contained lignin-dynamite, with a very cheap clock arrangement for firing it. The machines proper were in leaden boxes about nine inches long by four inches square. A second machine of the 1881 period is of the clockwork pattern (Fig. 5), and is controlled by a small knife, which falls at the set time, cutting a string, releasing a spring which falls on a percussion cap, and so brings about an explosion.

FIG. 4.—INFERNAL MACHINE FOUND ON THE "BAVARIA."

FIG. 5.—MACHINE OF THE 1881 PERIOD.

An 1882 relic is a most interesting one, and its surrounding companions are equally curious. Here is the revolver with which O'Donnell shot Carey (Fig. 6). It is of an American pattern, and marked 147A in the catalogue. A most ingenious contrivance also in this part of the collection is a tin can, made in two compartments (Fig. 7). It was used for conveying contraband gunpowder to Egypt. It is so made that when it is probed by the Customs' officials to see what it contains, the probe used comes out covered with oil.

FIG. 6.—O'DONNELL'S REVOLVER.

A few samples of a not particularly choice brand of cigars are also shown (Fig. 8). A gentleman who has no great love for you, and who fully appreciates the weakness of human nature of the male persuasion in seldom refusing a cigar, offers you one out of his case:—

FIG. 7.—CANISTER FOR SMUGGLING GUNPOWDER.

"Something very choice, sir, I assure you," he says. He is a perfect stranger to you, but—well, a cigar's a cigar, and you accept his kind offer. The benevolent cigar proprietor sees you light up, and you puff away in peace. He is suddenly called away. The cigar explodes! It contains an explosive, which is wrapped up in a piece of blue paper, and is placed about half-way down the cigar.

FIG. 8.—EXPLOSIVE CIGARS.

But the most interesting relic of 1882 is a little canister very much resembling a diminutive milk can (Fig. 9). It is supposed to contain dynamite, and has never been opened since its receipt at the House of Commons in that year, addressed to Mr. Forster, then Chief Secretary for Ireland.

FIG. 9.—CAN SENT TO MR. FORSTER.

It was not, however, until 1883 that the authorities were fully aroused. The Explosives Act of 1875 had controlled all substances of this nature; but it was not designed to control the criminal use of explosives, although it is true that certain clauses were found available to some extent. But the Act of 1883 was passed by the House of Commons in a single sitting—a most important and far-reaching Act, which deals with every possible phase of the question of explosives. No wonder this Act was passed.

Before the New Year of 1883 was many days old a series of attempts was made which, together with the two subsequent years, afforded more trouble and anxiety to Colonel Majendie and his colleagues than any trio of years since these more serious efforts were made. Glasgow was the scene of operations, and on the night and morning of the 20th and 21st January three explosions occurred, in all of which lignin-dynamite was used. The first was at Tradeston Gasworks on the 20th, the remainder at Possil Bridge and at Buchanan Street Station on the 21st. No lives were lost, though considerable damage was done. Photographs are of the greatest possible use to the expert when engaged in making his experiments, in order to find out the probable cause of any explosion, and through the courtesy of Colonel Majendie, we are enabled to show a number of these.

The picture of the explosion at the Glasgow Gasworks was taken in the interior of a holder, and shows the perforations of the plates by projected débris on the side of the holder opposite to that on which the explosion occurred (Fig. 10). It is fortunate that the perpetrators of this deed—ten persons were convicted—possessed but a very crude knowledge of the best method of blowing up a gasworks. They adopted the same method as at the siege of Paris, but not with the effect desired. There is a common belief that it is an easy matter to blow up a gasworks; but the only condition in which a holder is really dangerous is when it is empty. If the holder is full of gas there is no air present—and gas must have air mixed with it if it is to assist the explosion. In this case the dynamite was applied, but it only blew great holes in the gasometer, the gas was consumed, and part of Glasgow was for some time in darkness. In the Possil Road Canal Bridge incident—the idea being to let the water out and do no end of damage—a miserable failure was the result. The detonator did not go off!

FIG. 10.—THE GLASGOW EXPLOSION—INSIDE THE GASHOLDER.

Colonel Majendie tells a good story in connection with the Glasgow affair. He went to Scotland in a great hurry, only taking one suit of clothes. After spending a considerable time in the gasholder, his clothes—not to put too fine a point upon it—smelt. Indeed, the next morning at breakfast Sir John Hawkshaw comforted him with the assurance that he "smelt like a rat out of a hole!"

When paying his bill in company with the engineer, one of the restaurant assistants turned to a companion and exclaimed:—

"Good gracious, Jessie, there's a dreadful escape of gas!"

"Then here goes for the escape of the engineer," cried that gentleman, rushing out of the place.

The Glasgow occurrences were followed up by two explosions on the 15th March—one outside a window at the Times office, and another causing considerable damage at the Local Government Board Office, Whitehall (Fig. 11). The explosion at the Times was abortive, and Colonel Majendie found the stuff used, together with a tube. This tube was a silent witness. It was ascertained that it was similar to that used in the Glasgow explosion, and of a similar pattern to those found on the men who were convicted.

Now came a very serious business; in Colonel Majendie's opinion, the most serious he ever had to deal with. It created the greatest possible excitement at the time. This was the discovery at Birmingham, on the 5th April, 1883, of a factory of nitro-glycerine, and of a large amount of the same substance brought thence to London. It is due to the Birmingham police to state here that they kept their heads magnificently, laid their traps with consummate skill, and communicated with the authorities at the Home Office just at the right moment. Some of the nitro-glycerine found its way to London, the Birmingham police actually travelling up to the Metropolis with a man whose luggage consisted of a pair of fishing stockings, containing some 70lb. of this terrible explosive agent! He was arrested, the explosive was lodged at a special magazine near Woolwich, and subsequently made into dynamite and then destroyed.

Whitehead and his accomplices had opened premises as a stationer's shop. Colonel Majendie, in company with Dr. Dupré, found that at the back they were carrying on a snug little business in the manufacture of the most deadly explosive. In a copper was a quantity of sulphuric acid, with nitro-glycerine floating on the top. The experts carefully skimmed the nitro-glycerine off, when they were faced with a still more serious trouble. In another room they discovered a large number of carboys, one of which contained no less than 170lb. of nitro-glycerine. It was by no means pure, and the question arose, What was to be done? Colonel Majendie and Dr. Dupré were forced to go down to Liverpool that night to give evidence. The nitro-glycerine they dared not remove as it was. If it were left it might possibly explode—while if the discovery were announced it would cause a fearful scare.

FIG. 11.—EXPLOSION AT LOCAL GOVERNMENT BOARD OFFICE.

It was decided to get a large quantity of ice and pack it round the explosive in order to keep it as cold as possible. So with this terrible load on their minds the experts left for Liverpool, and returned to find that they had done the right thing. They had kept down the temperature sufficiently to ensure the safety of the nitro-glycerine. With the aid of kieselguhr—an infusorial earth of a very porous character and the inert ingredient of dynamite, and considered by Mr. Alfred Nobel the best vehicle to use as an absorbent of nitro-glycerine—the experts caused the nitro-glycerine to be made into dynamite. It was conveyed to an isolated site near Birmingham, spread out on a tract of land, burnt, and so got rid of.

The occupier of the "stationer's" shop and others were subsequently convicted and sentenced to penal servitude for life.

October of 1883 brought about two explosions—both on the Metropolitan Railway. The first of these occurred between Charing Cross and Westminster, fortunately resulting in no personal or serious structural injury. That, however, on the same night at Praed Street resulted in three carriages being practically smashed, whilst sixty-two persons were injured by the broken glass and débris. An important discovery was made on the 16th January, 1884, of some slabs of Atlas Powder of American make in Primrose Hill Tunnel, and it is surmised that these were thrown away by a conspirator as being of no use for the moment, seeing that it is probable that everything was cut and dried for the somewhat alarming events which occurred in the following month—a quartette of attempted outrages at four London stations, one of which was tolerably successful. On the 26th February, 1884, an explosion occurred in the cloak-room of the London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway at Victoria Station (Fig. 12); whilst on the 27th February, 28th February, and 1st March, discoveries of bags containing Atlas Powder, with clockwork and detonators, were made at Charing Cross, Paddington, and Ludgate Hill stations respectively.

In all these cases the clock was used—and that here reproduced is the one found at Paddington—which was left in various cloak-rooms in a portmanteau. The authorities were for the moment at a loss to discover how the explosion occurred, until the police communicated the fact that a portmanteau had been seized at Charing Cross Station.

FIG. 12.—EXPLOSION IN CLOAK ROOM AT VICTORIA STATION.

The following extract from the official report will be read with interest, seeing that it also describes how an infernal machine of the clockwork pattern works:—

"The portmanteau, which had been deposited between 7 and 9 p.m. on Monday, the 25th February, was fastened with two straps and was not locked. On being opened it was found to contain some packages or slabs of a peculiar description, and the searcher at once reported the matter to the police, who rightly concluded that the slabs were probably an explosive of the dynamite order. The police caused the portmanteau to be at once conveyed to the Royal Arsenal, Woolwich, and a telegram was sent requesting our attendance.

"An examination of the portmanteau showed that it contained (in addition to one or two rather worthless articles of clothing) forty-five slabs of the material which had excited suspicion. They consisted each of a paraffined paper packet 6 in. by 3 in. by ½ in. (thick), containing a substance which proved to be a description of lignin-dynamite not used or licensed for use in or importation into this country, but largely manufactured and employed for industrial purposes in America. Each packet had the words 'Atlas Powder A' printed on it, and was open at one end, and weighed rather under half a pound. The packets were carefully packed into one side or compartment of the portmanteau and surrounding what proved to be a box of tinned iron, measuring 6 in. by 5 in. by 5 in., and having the exterior lacquered yellow. The box had a hinged lid and the junction of the lid and box was roughly luted with a material of the character of cobbler's wax.

"We proceeded to remove the box and to open it with suitable precautions. In the interior was a circular American alarum clock, face uppermost, and with the alarum bell removed. The clock subsequently proved to be one made by the Ansonia Clock Company of New York, and of the pattern designated by them 'Peep of Day.' These clocks can be readily purchased retail in London for 10s., or even less. On taking out the clock and turning it over we found that the metal back had been removed, and that a small nickel-plated vest-pocket pistol (the woodwork of the stock of which had been removed) was fastened by means of copper wire to the movement, and the winding handle of the clock had been turned down and so fixed (also by copper wire) that when the alarum ran down one end of the handle, as it travelled round, would impinge upon the trigger and fire the pistol. This, in fact, had actually been accomplished so far as the impact of the winder and trigger was concerned, the trigger had been pulled, and the hammer of the pistol was resting upon the copper rim-fire cartridge with which the pistol was loaded, and which, on being extracted, proved to have missed fire. The alarum was set to run off at 12 (at which hour the pistol hammer had presumably fallen); the clock itself had stopped at about 4.14.

"Opposite to the muzzle of the pistol, inside the tin box and resting against it, was the greater portion of one of the slabs of 'Atlas Powder,' into which, immediately opposite to the pistol's mouth, were embedded seven powerful detonators, mouths outermost, and by way of further insuring the action of the machine a piece of ordinary quick-match had been bent into several of the detonators, which, on examination, proved to contain an exceptionally heavy charge (over 13 grains) of fulminate of mercury and chlorate of potash.

"This slab was intended to act as the primer, and its function would be to produce (through the agency of the detonators) an initial explosion by means of which the mass of dynamite with which the tin box was surrounded would be exploded.

"It may be interesting to note that the use of a clockwork apparatus as a means of effecting a deferred explosion is no novelty. Thus the idea was applied in the infernal machines which were surreptitiously imported into Liverpool from America in 1881, and Thomas's machine, which exploded with such terrible effect at Bremerhaven on December 11, 1875, was fired by a similar agency. There exists also in the Museum of Artillery at the Rotunda, Woolwich, a model of a clockwork apparatus attached to a flint lock for firing a submarine mine or torpedo, which was designed by Sir William Congreve, probably in the early part of the present century. But the particular combination adopted in the present instance is, so far as our knowledge goes, original."

FIG. 13.—CLOCKWORK MACHINE FOUND AT PADDINGTON.

After Colonel Majendie had seen this clock he was enabled to attach a special significance to a piece of metal which he found in the débris at Victoria Station, and which proved to be a particle of steel spring. This is an admirable example of the usefulness of the magnet, which is always employed when searching débris. It is a curious fact that the Charing Cross clock went off, that the trigger of the pistol was released, but the cartridge had not exploded. On dissecting the cartridge, it was found that the fulminate had been omitted from the particular part of the rim on which the trigger had fallen. At Paddington the hammer had also fallen, but the cartridge did not go off. Upon testing a score of these cartridges nine went off at once, six did not explode until the vital part was touched by the trigger, and five refused to explode at all.

A still more remarkable circumstance associated with the Paddington discovery must be recorded. When the clock was found it was ticking away merrily (Fig. 13). The dynamite had not exploded owing to the fact that the winder had caught against a little knob which failed to release it.

Colonel Ford expressed a desire to take the clock home with him to show it to his wife. On his way, the jolting of the cab was sufficient to partially release the winder, and the hammer of the pistol descended during the night. Of course, the cartridge and dynamite had been previously removed by the Inspectors.

Before referring at length to the next important event in the history of dynamiters for the year 1884, we would remind the reader that we have only dealt in detail with two types of infernal machine: the clock system, which may be set in advance to act some hours later; and the burning fuse, which was employed in some of the earlier explosions alluded to. The infernal machine found at Cork and preserved at New Scotland Yard shows this method of working very clearly (Fig. 14). It is a wooden box about a foot square and separated into divisions. One compartment is fitted with clockwork, to which a fuse is attached and which passes through to the other part of the box filled with gunpowder. This box would hold about 8lb. of powder. When the lid is removed the clockwork starts, the fuse is fired, and the gunpowder explodes. A fuse is a series of strands of hemp with a column of gunpowder running through. There are many varieties, and every manufacturer has a special mark on the fuse he makes, so that the authorities can always trace it. We lit a fuse and found that it burnt at the rate of a yard a minute; it can, therefore, easily be adjusted to any time required.

We now, however, come to the most deadly of all weapons used by dynamiters—the bomb, which explodes instantly on falling. These bombs—as the shrapnel shell, used in artillery—can only be designed for one purpose, the destruction of human life: they are essentially man-killing infernal machines. On April 11th, 1884, three metal bombs, containing dynamite, were found in the possession of Daly, at Birkenhead, who was subsequently sentenced to penal servitude for life.

FIG. 14.—INFERNAL MACHINE FOUND AT CORK.

The old-fashioned bomb was of a shape resembling an egg, with nipples like gun nipples and percussion caps. It was weighted at one end to insure its falling on the point intended. The Barcelona bomb was spherical, but similarly fitted with nipples. This is the Orsini type.

But the Daly bomb was a far more delicate piece of mechanism. Inside the bomb was a little bottle containing sulphuric acid with a small piece of lead, so that when the bomb was thrown the weight of the lead caused the bottle to break and the acid came in contact with a composition, which immediately ignited. This ignition fired a detonator, which in turn fired the dynamite. Although the various moves in the interior of the Daly bomb were many, yet we were assured by Colonel Majendie that in some experiments he made, from the moment the bomb struck the ground to its explosion there was no appreciable interval of time. The deadly wrecking powers of this bomb were proved by Colonel Majendie at the trial of Daly. The Colonel took a bomb and exploded it in an iron room, which is used for testing shells at Woolwich. A dozen dummy wooden figures—of the size of living men—were placed round the apartment. The bomb was exploded by electricity, and the twelve figures received no fewer than one hundred and sixty-eight wounds!

Fig. 15.—THE DALY BOMB.

The relics of the Daly case, at New Scotland Yard, are amongst the most treasured of such items in the possession of the police. Some of them are reproduced here. There is the bomb (Fig. 15), and a very formidable weapon it appears, though it would easily fit in an overcoat pocket; the written instructions found on Daly are fairly legible (Fig. 16), though in the case of one or two words the sulphuric acid has partially obliterated several of the letters. However, its intention is sufficiently intelligible. Furthermore, there are set out a number of pieces of metal—any of which would be capable of killing a man—which were extracted from some of the dummy figures experimented on at Woolwich (Fig. 17).

FIG. 16.—DALY'S INSTRUCTIONS.

It should be stated that Daly, at his trial, suggested that these bombs might be used for killing fish.

FIG. 17.—PIECES TAKEN OUT OF DUMMY FIGURES.

"Yes," said Colonel Majendie pointing to those found on Daly; "but nobody would care to fish with those."

FIG 18.—SIR WATKIN WILLIAMS-WYNN'S—EXTERIOR.

In this same year—1884—no fewer than three explosions occurred on the night of the 30th May, whilst on the same evening a bag was found in Trafalgar Square containing Atlas Powder, with fuse and detonators. The first was at the Junior Carlton Club, St. James's Square, where about fourteen persons were injured. The second—which occurred about fifteen seconds after that at the Junior Carlton—at the residence of Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn, St. James's Square (Fig. 18), which the perpetrators evidently mistook for a part of the Intelligence Office. It is probable that the charge used was thrown over the area railings, but it accidentally lodged in a window recess of the morning room, where the most serious effects of the explosion were felt, although the windows of the house were much shattered. As the official report states:—

FIG. 19.—SIR WATKIN WILLIAMS-WYNN'S—MORNING ROOM.

"Although a party were assembled in the morning-room at the time the explosion occurred, they fortunately escaped injury with the exception of one lady, who had her hand slightly cut by some broken glass. This remarkable escape (as it must appear to anyone who had an opportunity of examining the room before the débris had been disturbed, or who has seen the photographs of this room) can only be attributed to the fact that the party did not happen to be seated directly opposite to the window under which the explosion occurred, but rather in the other part of the room, where they were to some extent sheltered from the effects (Fig. 19). Two servants who were standing on the front doorstep were also injured, one of them somewhat severely, making a total, so far as is known, of three persons injured by this explosion."

FIG. 20.—EXPLOSION AT SCOTLAND YARD.

The third explosion of this eventful night took place at 9.20 p.m., at Old Scotland Yard. The charge was placed outside a room used by some of the detective staff. The explosion brought down a portion of the building, doing considerable damage to some carriages standing there at the time and to neighbouring buildings, and injuring several persons (Figs. 20 and 21).

FIG. 21.—EXPLOSION AT SCOTLAND YARD.

The last explosion of 1884 was on December 13th, and took the form of a considerable charge of dynamite or other nitro-compound under London Bridge. Very little damage was done, but there is no reasonable doubt that the perpetrators of this deed were themselves killed, and Colonel Majendie found what he believed to be the remains of a human being who was blown up with the boat employed in the transaction. Curiously enough, just previous to this outrage, circumstances led the authorities to believe that some of the bridges which span the Thames required special protection, and Her Majesty's Chief Inspector of Explosives was directed to visit them, and advise as to the precautions to be taken. Colonel Majendie found that London Bridge contained certain gully holes which were used for the purpose of draining out water. These gully holes possessed peculiar advantages for the secretion of an infernal machine. Accordingly, upon Colonel Majendie's recommendation, strong iron bars were placed over these holes, so that it was impossible to place the dynamite in the required position. The would-be perpetrators—and there were three of them—bungled so much that, as has already been hinted, little damage was done save to themselves. The facsimile of the bent bars and hooks (Fig. 22), much reduced, will give a good idea of the force of the explosive used on this occasion, and some idea of what the effects upon the bridge would have been if the bars had not been affixed and the charge had acted within the gully hole.

FIG. 22.—RELICS OF LONDON BRIDGE EXPLOSION.

The last of the three bad years was 1885, in which year a brass tube or fuse for firing nitro-glycerine compound was found at Liverpool (Fig. 23): a very ingenious contrivance (here reproduced), in which sulphuric acid is used, the time at which the acid will act being governed by the number of folds of paper stuffed round the hole allowing the fluid to escape through, and so firing a detonator in conjunction with the explosive proper. Similar tubes had undoubtedly been used at Glasgow, at the Local Government Board Explosion, and at the Times office.

FIG. 23.—BRASS TUBE CONTAINING NITRO-GLYCERINE, FOUND AT LIVERPOOL.

Again came a trio of events. On the 24th January, 1885, an explosion occurred at the Tower of London, doing serious damage—scattering the stands of arms and playing great havoc with other implements of warfare. Great was the wreckage in the old Banqueting Hall (Fig. 24). There is every reason for the belief that the man who introduced the explosive did so in an apron fitted with pockets and worn under his greatcoat. On the same night a charge of Atlas Powder, similar to that used at the Tower, created no small havoc in Westminster Hall; while the third explosion was the well-remembered event at the House of Commons. Fortunately, the House was not sitting at the time. The Strangers' and Peers' Galleries were severely injured, and to give an idea of the wreckage, the Estimates of the following year provided a sum of £6,125 for repair of damage done to the House of Commons, and £2,500 for Westminster Hall. Two men were convicted and sentenced to penal servitude for life.

FIG. 24.—EXPLOSION AT TOWER OF LONDON—THE BANQUETING HALL.

We give a reproduction of the Salisbury infernal machine discovered in this year—a machine of exceptionally rough make (Fig. 25). A series of minor events had taken place in Wiltshire and Hampshire, which caused the police some trouble for a couple of years. They were not believed to be of any political significance, but done simply out of pure mischief. Still, this sort of fun does not pay, as the two ringleaders found when they were sentenced at the Salisbury Assizes to twelve and two months' hard labour respectively.

The year 1886 was fairly clear; but 1887 brought about the discovery of a conspiracy between Callan and Harkins to commit an outrage by means of dynamite. The police found at 24, Brixton Road, some 28lb. of explosive in the dust-bin and garden, which had been left as a legacy to Callan. Callan's empty portmanteau—also left him by the same person who bequeathed him the dynamite, a man named Cohen—condemned him, for on a microscopical examination by Dr. Dupré and the Government Inspectors, the tell-tale kieselguhr was found.

FIG. 25.—THE SALISBURY INFERNAL MACHINE.

There was little of serious moment in 1888. The most important event of this kind in 1889 was on November 18th, when an effort was made to blow up the police and bailiffs engaged in carrying out evictions on Lord Clanricarde's estate in Co. Galway. The charge was intended to be exploded under the ground, and 25lb. of powder was to be used. The mine was to be actuated by opening a door. As the officials entered—the door having a string connecting it with the machine in use—the mine would be exploded. Happily, it failed to go off. The infernal machine used on this occasion was of a type to be found amongst the accompanying illustrations—showing a knife and string, the knife cutting the cord and releasing the trigger of a small pistol, which was designed to fire the necessary detonator.

There is little to note in the two following years until 1892, when March 24th brought about the conviction of persons at Walsall who were in possession of explosives which could only be used for a wrongful purpose. The sample of bombs shown (Fig. 26) was photographed from those which convicted the prisoners, and which are now at New Scotland Yard.

FIG 26.—THE WALSALL BOMBS.

On Christmas Eve, 1892, an infernal machine exploded outside the Detective Office, Exchange Court, Dublin, which resulted in the death of poor Sinnott. As he was proceeding to the office he saw a parcel. It is probable that he examined it—not kicking it, but handling it—for one of his fingers was blown into an upper window. Only a very small charge was used—about a pound—but it did some damage and cost a life.

The last two events of any importance at the time of writing were the explosion at the Four Courts, Dublin, in May, 1893, which Colonel Ford investigated, and considered very similar to that of the previous Christmas Eve; and that at the Aldboro' Barracks, Dublin, towards the end of last November.

[GIOVANNI]
A Theme with Variations,

By James D. Symon.

I.

"Nothing more to-night, thank you, Robert; I shall require nothing more, except to be left alone."

"Very well, sir."

The old servitor withdrew, and Arthur Dalziel threw himself into his lounging chair with a weary look in his eyes. For a long time he gazed into the fire, muttering now and then between his teeth: "If—yet, no, it is impossible, impossible! Yes, Arthur, my boy, you'd have to give it all up, lands, position, prospect of a title—that London life you love so much—and go back to dreary Scotch law. But you're a fool to think of such things, a confounded fool!"

He rose, and going to a side table poured out a glass of wine, which he drained hastily.

The wine seemed to relieve him of his disturbing thoughts. He glanced more cheerfully round his luxurious sanctum—half library, half music-room—and strolled up to the piano, where he stood carelessly fingering the keys.

One or two chance chords evidently awoke some old memories of half-forgotten melody, for he turned to a canterbury and searched among the heterogeneous mass of music it contained. Music is somehow always hard to find, but at length Dalziel drew out a single leaf of faded manuscript, which he set on the stand and, seating himself, began to play.

It was a wonderful melody, so simple, yet so full and thrilling in its harmonies. The player's face grew softer as he touched the keys, and he looked almost youthful again in spite of his worn appearance. It was not age, however, that had grizzled Arthur Dalziel's hair. He was but two-and-thirty, though he looked like forty-five. Again and again he played the melody, and an unwonted moisture gathered in his cold grey eyes. The music seemed to affect him strangely. Pausing for a little, while his fingers rested caressingly on the keys, he sighed: "Poor Jack! Poor Jack! Would that I knew—would that I knew! Still, would it make me any happier to know? And then—perhaps it might mean ruin—it's better as it is."

Once more he played over the fragment, scarcely glancing now at the music, for what we have once known is easily learned again. The wind howled in strange unison with the plaintive air, but was it merely the wind that made the musician start and drop his hands nervelessly on his knees?

"No, no," he exclaimed, "you are an imaginative, nervous fool! That air is known to yourself alone of living men—it is impossible—impossible—"

Some sort of fascination seemed to chain him to the instrument. Mechanically his fingers sought the keys, and the self-same air came trembling from the strings. He seemed scarcely to believe, however, that his former fancy (whatever it was) had been all imagination, for he struck the opening chords softly, and with the air of one who listens for a response he is but half certain of receiving. Clear above the notes of the piano, above the wild piping of the wintry gale, rose the wail of a violin. Very gently and tenderly Dalziel continued to play, but his face was ashen pale, for the mysterious performer out there in the storm answered him note for note.

"Strange," he muttered, as the strain ended; "but, ghost or no ghost, I'll test him with the unwritten part." He sprang up and turned out the gas. Then flinging open the window, heedless how the gusts of night-wind scattered his papers about the room, he seated himself once more at the instrument, and dashed into a variation on the same theme. Curiosity had taken the place of fear, and his playing was bold and clear.

Again the violin rang out, and in perfect accord the intricate variation was rendered. Dalziel suddenly abandoned the air and dropped into an accompaniment, but the player held on undismayed to the end. It was a weird but exquisite performance.

"Marvellous! Correct to the minutest particular!" Dalziel cried. "I shall fathom this, come what may."

He went to the window and peered into the square, where the gas lamps shivered in the blast and threw an uncertain glimmer, that was not light, on the deserted pavement.

"DALZIEL STOOPED OVER THE PITIFUL LITTLE BUNDLE."

No living soul was to be seen, but a voice came out of the darkness: a child's pleading voice:—

"Please, sir, don't be angry; but do, please, play that accompaniment again. From the beginning this time, please: I'd like to remember it all. Just once, please, sir, and then I'll go away."

"Who are you?"

"Giovanni."

"Some clever Italian brat. Heard me once or twice, I suppose, and picked up the air," Dalziel thought; "but then, that variation! I must sift this, as I said, whatever is the upshot."

"Would you like to come in, Giovanni?" he said presently, as he began to make out the dim outline of a form huddling against the railings; "you must be cold out there."

"Come in there, to the firelight and the piano? Oh, it would be like Heaven!"

"I don't know about that," Dalziel muttered, adding, however, in cheery tones, "Yes, Giovanni, come in here—go up the steps and I'll open the door for you. He's got a pretty dash of an Italian accent, this mysterious little Giovanni," he continued, as he stepped into the hall, "I'd like to see him, at any rate."

He opened the hall door and the warm light streamed out upon the steps, out upon a pallid little face and a heap of shabby clothes lying there motionless. Dalziel stooped over the pitiful little bundle, and gently disengaged a violin from the nerveless hands. Swiftly laying the instrument on the hall table, he returned and bore the child to the sofa in the study. He re-lighted the gas and rang the bell.

Robert appeared. Accustomed as he was to "master's fads," he seemed to receive a severe shock at the sight which presented itself; but none of Arthur Dalziel's servants, even the oldest and trustiest, dared ask any questions, so Robert awaited orders in silence.

"Send Mrs. Johnson here, Robert."

The ancient butler obeyed.

"Mrs. Johnson, here's a little street-musician that's been taken ill just outside. Help me to restore him."

"Bless him, he's a bonny little man," was all the worthy housekeeper dared to say. "We'll soon bring him to, sir. Some brandy, sir, so. Now you're better, aren't you, you poor little dear? You're nigh frozen; and hungry, too, I believe. You're hungry, aren't you, now?" she cried, as the child's eyes quivered wonderingly open.

"So hungry!"

"Well, you'll have some supper soon," interposed Dalziel. "Get him something hot, Mrs. Johnson. You just lie still, young man, till it comes, and don't talk. I'll play to you till your supper's ready, if you promise to hold your tongue."

He resumed his place at the instrument and played anything and everything that occurred to him, while Giovanni lay back on the sofa in quiet enjoyment of the music. His eyes grew very large and bright as the player proceeded, and once or twice his lips moved as though he would say something, but remembering the injunction to keep silent, he invariably checked himself.

So the two new friends passed the time until the supper appeared. The child ate eagerly, but with evident self-restraint, and Dalziel noted with the instinctive satisfaction of a gentleman that Giovanni was not at all ill-bred.

When the supper had at length disappeared Giovanni said: "May I speak now?"

"Certainly."

"Please, where is my violin?"

"All safe and sound, my man; I'll fetch it for you."

Dalziel stepped out and returned with the instrument. The child clasped it eagerly, ran his thumb lightly over the strings, and glancing up at Dalziel, said, mechanically, "'A,' please."

His companion, thoroughly determined to humour and observe the strange child, struck the required note. In a second or two Giovanni had brought his instrument to perfect tune. Then he looked up and hesitated.

"Well, my man, what is it?" queried Dalziel.

"That tune again—do, please, play it, sir: the one I heard out in the square before I grew so dizzy."

Dalziel at first seemed reluctant to comply, but the child's pleading eyes overcame him, so he turned round to the piano and struck the opening chords.

Giovanni crept over to his side and began to play, hesitatingly at first, but gradually gaining strength as the spell of the music possessed him. Dalziel looked from time to time at the boy's pathetic face with a questioning, almost frightened glance, but played steadily to the end.

"Thank you so much, sir," said Giovanni, when they had finished.

"You are a wonderful player, child. Who taught you?"

"Mother," he replied; then he burst into tears, crying, "Oh! I must go—I must go; poor mother will be wearied to death for me. I am selfish to stay, but I was so happy with the lovely music that I'd forgotten her. I must go; poor mother is so ill."

He moved towards the door.

"Come back, Giovanni; you can't go out in the rain. Tell me where mother lives and I'll go to see her at once, and let her know you're safe."

With difficulty he persuaded the child to stay indoors, and taking the address Giovanni gave him he left the house, first directing Mrs. Johnson to put his protégé to bed.

Ere he had gone half way on his mission the worn-out little brain had for a season forgotten its troubles in sleep.

II.

Arthur Dalziel took his way to 5, Sparrow Alley, the address Giovanni had given him, and after sundry ineffectual attempts, succeeded in discovering it. The house was a wretched, tumble-down tenement in a shabby quarter, one of those quarters that seem never far removed from fashionable neighbourhoods, as if set there by Providence to keep the children of fortune ever in mind of the seamy side of life.

The visitor was admitted by a dirty old woman, half idiotic with sleep and gin combined, who conducted him to the room where "the furrin laidy" lived, mumbling the while maudlin compliments to Dalziel with unmistakable intent.

In a miserable den, upon a still more miserable bed, Arthur Dalziel found the wreck of a lovely woman. He was a novice at visitation of the sick, but a glance showed him that the end could not be far away. The patient was speechless, but as he approached her, her eyes dwelt on him with a yearning, pleading look which his rapid intuitions interpreted rightly.

"Your little boy, your Giovanni, is safe," he said, "and will be well cared for always."

The worn but still lovely face lighted up with a gleam of satisfaction as her mute lips strove to thank him. Feebly she drew a sealed packet from beneath the pillow and gave it into Dalziel's hand. After another effort she contrived to whisper, "This will tell all. You are good, kind; so like him, too. My love to Giovannino—oh, so dark, so cold——"

Her head sank back—Giovanni's mother was dead.

For a few seconds they stood in silence in the majestic presence of Death: then the old woman broke into tipsy lamentations while her eyes wandered greedily over the room.

"SHE GAVE IT INTO DALZIEL'S HAND."

"Hold your peace, woman," Dalziel cried, irritably, for the contrast between the sweet, pure image of the dead and the vileness of his companion jarred harshly on his delicate sensibilities. "Here," he continued, thrusting a coin into her dirt-grimed palm, "fetch the key of this room, quick!"

"It's in the door, sir," muttered the other, sulkily, as she clutched the money.

"Leave me, then," said Dalziel: "I'll see to everything."

The old woman grumblingly retired.

The room was lighted by a single guttering candle, now almost burned to its socket. There was light enough to show the visitor that beyond a small leather travelling-box the place seemed to contain nothing belonging to its late occupant. The box was unlocked, so he opened it and drew out a dressing-case, which he looked at narrowly with a sort of trembling curiosity. He attempted to open it, but it resisted his efforts. Then he bethought him of the sealed packet, which he opened and examined. It contained several papers, which he glanced at hurriedly. As he read, his face grew ashen pale and his hands shook violently. He perused one paper and was taking up a second, when the candle with a spasmodic sputter went suddenly out. Through the dingy window, for a single moment, one clear star shone between a rift in the driving storm-clouds. By its faint light he groped for the door, and was quitting the apartment when he suddenly bethought himself and returned to the table for the papers and the dressing-case. He then left the room, the door of which he locked, and pocketing the key he sought the congenial companionship of the tempestuous night.

One afternoon Dalziel and Giovanni stood by a humble grave. The child scarcely realized his loss, and clung to his new protector's hand with passionate intensity. When all was over, as they turned slowly away, Giovanni said:

"Shall I really always stay with you?"

"Yes, always."

"And learn to be a great musician?"

"Certainly, if you work very hard."

"I shall work very hard, then, to please you and——" he paused and sobbed violently.

"And whom, Giovanni?"

"And mother. She will know, will she not?"

But Dalziel gave no answer.

The same night Dalziel had another fit of musing. It followed a lengthened perusal of the papers he had brought away with him from the chamber of death. One paper, however, was missing. He had left it behind the night before and could obtain no trace of it. The landlord denied having entered the room overnight with a pass-key, but Dalziel did not believe him, though strangely enough he instituted no inquiry regarding the missing document.

"It is as well," he said to himself; "it is as well it should go. Nothing can come of it, and when the boy is of age justice shall be done. Till then, things are best as they are." Then he took up the faded scrap of music and locked it into the secret drawer of his writing-desk, again muttering: "Nothing can come of it. It's quite meaningless to an outsider; no, nothing can come of it. Arthur Dalziel, your position is secure; besides, you're his proper guardian in any case—his legal guardian."

III.

Lord Alison was dying. Society knew it, and was languidly interested in the fact. One fact, however, afforded it far greater interest and satisfaction. That fact was the succession to the title. Everyone said the heir was a lucky fellow; and if everyone was poorer than the heir would be, he uttered the words enviously. If, however, he had greater possessions, he affected to be condescendingly glad at the luck of the lucky fellow in question.

"SO FORTUNATE, YOU KNOW."

"So fortunate, you know, my dear," said the afternoon tea consumers; "Arthur Dalziel may propose at last with good hope of success. Lady Hester could never refuse; besides, her father would never permit her to."

So they settled it in Society.

But Society, though generally infallible in its deliverances on such nice points, had a few rude shocks in store for it in this instance.

Lady Hester Trenoweth did not love Arthur Dalziel, but she loved Arthur Dalziel's ward, a young violinist who had begun to create quite a furore in the fashionable world. In fact, Giovanni had become the rage, and though some said it was preposterous that a young man in his position should adopt music as a profession, they were nasty, old-fashioned creatures who knew nothing of the nobility of a life lived for the sake of art. That is quite a modern notion, by the way, so these ancient gossips must be pardoned. They did not know of Lady Hester's appalling preference, or their venom would have been seventy times more virulent. They did not know of Lady Hester's preference, and consequently they permitted themselves to talk freely in Giovanni's hearing of the projected match between her and his guardian, dwelling on Dalziel's well-known attachment and the barrier that his lack of a title had placed upon the union.

Giovanni heard, turned slightly pale, and tuned his instrument for the next number on the programme. A string broke with a harsh snap. He had overstrained it. "Never mind," he said, "it can be easily replaced." No one observed the emphasis on the it. Perhaps excitement caused the accentuation of the monosyllable.

In another part of the room Arthur Dalziel, slightly older-looking, but handsomer, stood talking with Lord Trenoweth.

"The boy plays marvellously," said the old peer; "he's a credit to you, Dalziel."

"He'll make his bread by it, easily, if need be," returned Dalziel.

"You have not decided, then, whether he's to come right out as a professional or not?"

"Not quite; but it's more than likely he will."

"Most providential he has the gift. He'd have been a sad burden to you otherwise. You picked him up most romantically, I remember——"

"Telegram for Mr. Dalziel," said a waiter.

Arthur glanced at it hastily and handed it to Lord Trenoweth.

The old lord read it carefully. Then he shook hands warmly with his companion, saying, in an undertone: "She's yours, my lord; she's yours."

Thereupon Dalziel quietly withdrew, and Society heard from Lord Trenoweth that Lord Alison was dead. Society smiled and awaited further developments, feeling quite certain what these would be, and, for once in a way, grievously miscalculating.

Giovanni would be twenty-one the next day, the day on which Dalziel had determined that justice should be done: but that night Giovanni and he each attended a funeral. Neither funeral was Lord Alison's. Dalziel interred, dry-eyed, an old, good resolution; Giovanni buried, with one or two bitter tears, his young heart's first love.

"I owe him everything I have," said the young man: "it is little that I should sacrifice something for his sake. Doubtless she cares nothing for me, the humble artist. I shall try to be happy in my benefactor's happiness."

"He can easily win fortune and a name with his music," Dalziel told himself: "he has nothing to lose, and he owes me his training. Besides, I cannot give her up. She must accept me. No woman in her senses could do otherwise. Justice—faugh! it's all on my side."

Such were the dirges at the two funerals.

Courtesy to Lord Alison's memory demanded the postponement for a time of the celebration of Giovanni's coming of age, so that birthday of his was a somewhat dull one. He said he would go out of town for a little. Dalziel consented, and his ward left early in the morning.

Among the letters at breakfast-time Dalziel observed one for Giovanni—a dirty, greasy, plebeian-looking thing. He turned it over curiously and then, scarcely knowing what he did, opened and read it. It contained an offer to restore to Giovanni, for a consideration, a document that would disclose the mystery of his origin. Dalziel did not hesitate what course to take. He arranged an interview with the unknown correspondent, and in a few hours was put in possession of the lost paper.

Giovanni's chances of justice were small enough now. Blind to Lady Hester's indifference, Dalziel persisted in his wooing, and Lord Trenoweth was only too proud to countenance a match with the new Lord Alison. At last the girl yielded to her father's commands and her admirer's entreaties. She fancied it was the common lot of women to be sacrificed so; then, too, Giovanni had spoken no word of hope to her. She would submit and do her duty. Society smiled very sagely over the engagement, and said: "I told you so: she is too sensible a girl to resist long."

The time of mourning was over. Lord Alison was to give a very select musical evening. It still wanted some weeks to the wedding. Giovanni, Lord Alison's nephew ("though he's not his nephew, really," said the knowing world), was to play twice. His second piece on the programme was left without a name. "He will improvise, most likely," said the writers of Society gossip, and they whetted their pencils for praise.

That blank number was intended as a surprise for Alison. Since the night when Giovanni was found on the doorstep, he had never seen the scrap of old MS. music from which his protector had played the air that brought them together. Dalziel declared he had lost it, and though seemingly shy of mentioning the fragment, would sometimes regret that he could not properly recollect it.

Giovanni recollected it perfectly, however, and had been familiar with it since ever he could remember, though how or where he had learned it he could not say. Latterly he had a dim suspicion that Dalziel must have composed it, and was consequently shy of speaking about it. His memory was marvellous, and he had written in full the piano part that his benefactor had played to him so long ago. Lady Hester was to be his accompanist, so he took her into his confidence, fancying, poor boy, that she would be delighted at the surprise in store for her betrothed. She gave him a look that he could not understand, and murmured something about the subtle spell of old melodies. Giovanni, for answer, took up his instrument and the practising proceeded. Loyalty to his friend made him purse his lips very tight that afternoon. It was their last meeting before the concert—before the wedding, in fact. They had been boy and girl friends, and such ties always get a wrench when marriage comes to one or other and leaves one stranded. It is a wrench where there has been nothing but friendship; where love is, it is a very rending of the heart-strings. Giovanni at length rose to go.

"Good-bye, Hester; it's the last time I may call you so."

"Good-bye, Giovanni."

"GOOD-BYE, HESTER."

They would meet again in the crowded saloons of Lord Alison's mansion, but this was to be their true farewell. Something in her tones, in her look, thrilled the young man. He gazed into her eyes and read her heart.

"Hester!"

"Giovanni!"

"But I must not," she said, at length; "I have promised to marry Lord Alison."

"And, Hester, it's a strange request; but you must promise me to marry no one but Lord Alison!"

"I know what you mean, Giovanni; I fear it must be so, now that my word is pledged. Oh, if we had only discovered sooner!"

"We meet again at the concert. Good-bye, Hester!"