Then My Forwa wrned-be did not want to be garnions; ka tengdu, marklı debe in the official roota, vaa ke vill someling va di pre good-zartze.

"There's only a very intle time to be apponted for," be said, slowly unsying the strings of his time serge bag, and wwing that the eyes of the wesei man watched his bands with curiones interest. -There's only a very linle time to in accounted for. Bonaparte used to say that he lost or won all Lis battle-won I think it was; for he only lost some very great ones, after all-by a short quarter of an hour. I don't recollect the French, or I'd give it your worship. Well, these little jobs that we are asking about don't take long. Probably, much shorter than a quarter of an hour-so frail is human life. People don't do beating, and cutting, and hacking; an angry blow, or a stab, your worship"-here the old gentleman affected to find the knot of his bag a difficult one"or a stab, your worship," he reiterated, "generally finishes the matter."

During this little speech-in making which Mr Forster felt that he was taking a great liberty-Old Daylight kept his eyes on the prisoner. Philip certainly started when he said “stab,” because Forster jerked out the word in a spiteful and sudden manner; but beyond that, he still watched the old fellow as if all the world were on its trial rather than himself, and he were a quiet and unconcerned witness.

By this time the bag was undone, and Old Daylight had plunged one brawny, brown arm and hand in it. At the door stood the Inspector, quiet, impassible, and like a statue, save that his eyes moved and glittered. It was plain to Philip that the interest of all three was fixed intensely upon him, but still he said nothing.

Mr Horton arranged and rearranged his notes.

"They generally do this kind of work abroad with a stab. Here they knock you down, and beat out your brains; which, in my opinion, after a good deal of experience, is much the nicer and more British fashion."

"There's a fashion in murders, then," thought the silent Philip to himself; "and this rude old gentleman seems to be a connoisseur of the proprieties of the trade."

In spite of himself, he could not help allowing a smile to slightly curl his lip: a smile not unmarked by the magistrate -nor, indeed, by either of the three.

“Well, he is a cool hand!” thought Inspector Stevenson. "He knows how to carry it with a high feather in his bonnet."

On the other hand, Old Daylight was puzzled.

"He is as cool as if he had committed a dozen murders," he muttered to himself.

"The time to be accounted for," said the magistrate-making his own deductions from the behaviour of the accused—“ is, let us say "-here he consulted his notes-" from half-past six of the evening until nine o'clock P.M.: two hours and a half. The Widow Estelle Martin was seen alive at half-past six on that day."

"And spoken to," ejaculated Mr Forster. "At half-past nine, or something about that time, she was struck down by some person unknown, and stabbed in the back with a sharp, narrow instrument-such as this."

Here the old gentleman quietly took out of his bag the broken end of a foil.

Even Mr Horton started.

Philip seemed to regard the foil without curiosity, and without emotion.

"That is my property," he said, coolly.

"It's the property of the Crown now," returned Daylight, curtly. "Also, here is a light pair of gloves, the presence of which Mr Horton will understand. Also a boxing or fencing glove, the thumb of which is torn; some cigars, a cigar-holder, and a pair of boots, soiled, but scarcely, I think, with London mud."

"All of which you took from Chesterton House this very morning," said Philip, coolly. "They belong to me. Of what use is their presence here?"

"Will you tell me," again asked the magistrate, "what you were doing during that short time on the twenty-ninth." Philip said, shortly, without waiting to consider

"I cannot."

"My duty," said the magistrate, "is then to remand you on the charge of murder. These matters here are very important in the chain of evidence; but I will, out of consideration to yourself and family, give you time for thought, and also for consulting your solicitor. You must, of course, remain here in custody. Inspector Stevenson will take charge of you. Have you no one with whom you wish to communicate?"

The unhappy young man rose and looked around him, but said nothing for a moment. Then, remembering the advice of the Inspector, and glancing at his honest face as that of a friend, he said—

"The solicitors of my family would be of little use in such a case, I presume. I know of no one to whom I could apply. I will think over this in the seclusion you send me to. But, perhaps, Mr Horton, as you may know Mr Edgar Wade, you will kindly ask him if he will defend me? And now, sir, I am ready."

So saying, Lord Wimpole quietly followed Inspector Stevenson to the lock-up.

"Phew!" whistled Old Daylight. And then he whispered to the magistrate, “Well, that is cool! He wants Edgar Wade to defend him! If I were

"Mr Edgar Wade will act as an English barrister always does," said Mr Horton, sternly. "If he accepts his retainer, he will do his best for him. I will see that he is communicated with."

"What will the world come to?" asked Old Daylight of himself, as he packed up his blue bag and prepared to go home.

CHAPTER XXI.

AT CHESTERTON HOUSE.

THE magistrate had remained alone in his room, revolving, like the pious Æneas, many things in his mind, while Philip Stanfield was led quietly across the yard, upon each side of which stood a series of small closets, that looked as much like the tool-houses of a country house as anything else, Inspector

Stevenson was much struck with his prisoner's behaviour. Here was to him a great question. Was this swell a rogue or fool? As regarded Old Forster, it was certain he could not make a mistake. Mr Forster was too clever to be taken in ; he had got the right man, he had. Well, then, what on earth did this swell mean by not having an alibi ready, and not pressing for bail, and having his old governor up?

His old governor! Poor man! the bitterest feeling, which came every now and then with recurrent force, was that which told Philip that his father would soon find out the new disgrace that had befallen him.

In the meantime, the whole basement of Chesterton House was revolutionised by the news. We, who live in the parlours, think that our servants know nothing about our private affairs; and that we can do this or that without being observed. How loftily we say, "Oh, those people take no interest in us. We can discuss these matters before them quite easily; they are beyond their comprehension." And all the while Jenny knows more than her mistress; and Joseph, the page boy, with his smooth face, is in possession of one or two secrets which, if you knew that he knew, your ears would tingle.

Chesterton House was as well ordered as any house in the three kingdoms, especially below stairs. The servants, who reflect the habits of their superiors, as, indeed, most of us do, if we be not superior ourselves, were thoroughly orderly and good; indeed, the steward's room was a pattern to many a gentleman's house.

Mr Roskell, when he creaked back again, in his pumps and Scotch cap, after his morning's walk, quietly read the Morning Pillar and Mr R. Coaster's "News of the Aristocracy."

"Let me see," he would say, "what is doing. Is Lord Splinterbar going to sell his stud yet? Is young Lord Boohoo coming of age?-because we are going down there when he does do so, to assist at those festivities. Bother festivities! say I, from my point of view. What's old Mother Sark going to do? Thé dansant! is she-a mean old wretch. Whenever Lord Wimpole goes to one of them thés dansants, he comes home as hungry as a hunter."

In the steward's room, the company, duly waited upon by

the lower servants, consisted of the Earl's valet, out of livery; Mr Roskell; Mr Gurgles, the butler; and young Mr Checketts, Lord Wimpole's valet, also out of livery. These gentlemen were honest, honourable, good servants; quite content to do their duty, and doing it, too, very much better, and with very much less noise and fuss, than some upper members of society. Mr Gurgles, the butler, had good wages and certain perquisites. These he strictly adhered to. Out of these perquisites, he furnished his friends with a very good bottle of wine now and then; and he and Mr Roskell drank as good wine as did the Earl. Mr Gurgles did his duty thoroughly. His master, he took care, never had a bad bottle of wine at his table; and, indeed, never bought a bad bottle of wine-which is more than many a nobleman, or many a king, can say ; nor did any one take away or waste a bottle. Mr Gurgles was severely honest, read the "Gospel Magazine”—which he called the "Gorspel Mag"-quoted it upon occasion, and tried to improve the morals of the servants below him.

The Earl's man, Mr Slates, was a good, quiet, solemn man, with no observation, no penetration, no smile nor laugh nor fun about him at all-one who did his work well, was always at his work; who was thoroughly absorbent of jokes, talk, or anything else. Whatever he heard never came out. He was, however, a capital man to listen; and, next to the Earl, he loved and admired-in the quiet manner that an orderly old cow or a walrus might love and admire-Mr Roskell.

We have said that he was absorbent: he was so, in more ways than one. Now and then, when he was left at home, and when the Earl went out, as he often did, attended only by Mr Roskell, or when he had asked permission to go to the theatre, Mr Slates would get quietly and thoroughly drunk ; and then, with a headache, a pale face, and a languid gait, would go on with his work next morning as well as ever. Upon these occasions, Mr Gurgles would quote the "Gorspel Mag" to him, with the weight and authority of the Bible itself. Indeed, it must be said that Gurgles, who apparently read the Scriptures very seldom, usually quoted St Paul, or David, or St John himself, as the editor's own words.

"Now, my dear friend Slates," he would say, "why do you