shall not have them." Again he seemed not to be speaking to her but speaking at her, through the medium of some invisible personage. Decidedly this was not one of the outlandish bootmaker's "good days, as indicated by the landlady.

"You seem a little put-out, Mr Foote," said Maud; "is that boot not getting on?"

He turned his eye suspiciously upon her, as if he doubted her intention in putting the question.

"I have been a little put-out for the last thirty years," he replied; then, appearing to recollect himself, he withdrew his gaze. "Do you hear her speak, New York" he said. "My work to be done before sundown, and a woman chattering at my elbow. Do you hear her talk?"

This time Maud saw that he was looking straight at his cat. "What is it you call your cat?" she asked.

"New York," said Samuel Foote.

work. It was not until Maud had repeated her question in several different shapes that she remembered the landlady's words, and recognised one of those attacks of silence which, according to her informant, were deep enough and dogged enough to defy anything short of red-hot pincers. "Evident discomfort at mention of America," went down immediately in Maud's intangible note-book,— "circumstance to be further investigated at convenient moment." In the meantime she wisely dropped the point at issue, and made some harmless remark about bees and flowers, which drew a grudging reply from the shoemaker. In this way a sort of lame conversation was carried on for a little time, Samuel Foote either not answering or addressing his replies exclusively to his cat; Maud cautiously putting out feelers in the shape of personal questions, then hastily snatching at the first subject that came uppermost when she perceived that alarm had raised another of those blank walls of silence. She very soon discovered that, although the blank wall was not to be knocked down by pressure, it was easily circumvented by stratagem, a diplomatic change of topic being all that was wanted. But it was a slow process, and at the end of ten minutes she did not seem to have gained much ground. It was during the fifth or sixth of these silent fits that Maud found herself obliged, for want of a rousing topic, to fall back upon that of her heel-less shoes.

""Twould have saved some trouble," grumbled Samuel Foote, "if she'd used her eyes instead of her tongue. What made her not read the sign? it's writ big enough: Samuel Foote, Man Bootmaker.""

"And yet Samuel Foote must once upon a time have been a ladies' shoemaker," said Maud,"at least, if he made this," and as she spoke she touched the curious cloth slipper which graced the centre of the chimney-board.

"Don't touch it!" shrieked the old man suddenly. "Don't touch it! It is a poisonous thing-it burns, it smells."

"Smells?" said Maud in surprise. "No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does; it smells of badness and cruelty and falseness, of all the wicked women in the world. But it is neatly made," he added, in the same breath; "it is as neatly made as a shoe need be, and yet she said it did not fit." The last words were quavered out in a tone of profound aggrievement.

"And the second shoe," asked Maud "the fellow of this one? Where is it?"

"At the bottom of the sea," said Samuel Foote, promptly; and then, perceiving all at once that he had been addressing himself directly to Maud, he turned sulkily away, and with the handle of his big scissors poked the ribs of the white cat. "New York" had been disposing himself to slumber among the half-finished boots, but feeling himself appealed to in this very tangible manner, he sat up drowsily. No doubt he was used to the various eccentricities which marked his master's "bad days." He seemed to be a cat of a phlegmatic disposition, perfectly satisfied with his personal appearance, otherwise indifferent to the world at large.

"At the bottom of the sea!" repeated Maud. "Was she drowned?"

There was no answer. Samuel Foote's back remained steadily turned, his head bent low over the boot in his hands. It seemed to

be a tough job, to judge from his heavy breathing.

"Was she drowned?" repeated Maud, but with the same result. The dogged fit was on again.

With the true detective's instinct, Maud had come here without any fixed plan in her mind, trusting to the circumstances of the moment for the shape which her cross-examination was to take. Opportunities never fail to those who know how to make them, and Maud, seeing her opportunity here, did not hesitate for a moment. Moving round to where she could get a view of the shoemaker's bent face, she observed in the most matter-of-fact tone in the world, "Then the shoe was not Molly's. after all?"

"And wherefore not?" said Samuel Foote instinctively, his one-sided mind evidently so taken up with the question itself that the oddness of its being put at all did not at once strike him.

"Why? because Molly was not drowned," said Maud, speaking quite as quietly as before, though her excitement was steadily rising at this fresh support of her cherished theory.

"It's a pity it wasn't so," muttered Samuel Foote, still lost in his own train of thoughts; "it's a sad pity indeed that every worthless hussy in the world that drops her shoe into the water doesn't tumble after it herself." He grumbled on for a minute more, oblivious of Maud's personality, and answering her words as though he were answering his own random recollections.

"And so it was Molly who said that it did not fit," Maud observed. "That was unkind."

"She always was unkind," said Samuel Foote, with a whimper that sounded almost like tears; and at that moment, as he groped

for his scissors, they slipped to the ground with a clatter. Picking them up, he met Maud's eyes, and instantly she saw that the spell of past memories was broken, and that he was once more conscious of his surroundings. First there came a look of hopeless bewilderment into his one eye, turned upon the tall figure beside his work-table; then very swiftly there followed a gleam of terror. "It's a lie," he groaned, writhing on his bench. "Who says I ever set eyes on the giddy slut It's a lie." And bending over his work, he once more settled down into that attitude which Maud by this time recognised as the certain symptom of the silent fit. Maud's patience had lasted very well till now, but at this point it gave way. To have got almost within touching distance of the very kernel of the mystery, and then to be brought up short by another of those blank walls, was rather too maddening even for a detec tive. Walking straight up to the chimney - piece, she observed, abruptly, "Where have you hidden away your little copper-mound? I hear it was so nicely gummed."

The blank silence came to an end instantly and rather noisily. Samuel Foote dropped not only his scissors this time, but also his boot; while New York, obviously annoyed by the disturbance, moved disdainfully to one side with an expression which seemed plainly and plaintively to ask whether there really was no spot at all on this table where a respectable cat might hope for five minutes' peaceful slumber.

"It's another of them!" cried Samuel Foote, seizing his head between his hands and rocking his body from side to side. "I might have known it was another of them, and they're all after the

"

He broke off with & shriek, and suddenly tearing off his leather apron, darted towards one corner of the room and fung it over some object which stood there half lost in the shadow. Maud, utterly taken by surprise, had just time to note that this object appeared to be a sack, or two sacks, filled with what might have been apples or potatoes.

Samuel Foote, having shrouded them in his apron, faced round towards Maud. "You're another of them, aren't you?" he panted.

"Another of whom?"

"Another Bevan?" he quavered, abjectly; "there was one here the other day, and you're another, aren't you?"

"I am not a Bevan," said Maud, quietly. The most acute shade of dismay faded out of the shoemaker's face. "But I am a

friend of theirs—a great friend." The uneasiness returned. With one eye Maud was aware of this, while with the other she was curiously measuring that muffled heap in the corner. Behind that piece of leather there must, almost of necessity, be concealed some vital element of the secret, perhaps even the key to that labyrinth in which she found herself wandering with an ever-growing excitement, but also an increasing bewilderment. It was not only because she was a detective, it was also because she was a woman, that Maud irrevocably resolved not to go back to Floundershayle that night without having ascertained the contents of those questionable sacks. For one minute she seriously contemplated the idea of making a rush for it, and trusting to her superior agility of movement for baffling Samuel Foote.

But it was only for a minute. A hand-to-hand scuffle with the crazy shoemaker would have been rather too heavy a

price to pay, even for the satisfaction of this devouring curiosity. From the shrouding apron she turned her eyes to the apronless shoemaker, and a very brief survey of his attitude and expression suggested to her another course of action. From his bench, to which he had dragged himself back, Samuel Foote was hungrily intent upon the momentous corner. His eye dilated towards it; the hands with which he had vaguely clutched his work were nervously jerking, and the fingers were closing and unclosing themselves upon the leather with a grip of meaningless violence. He sat on the extreme edge of the bench, as though strung to the most extreme pitch of readiness, and his trembling tongue passed once or

twice across his lips with an aotion that betrayed the very agony of impatience. "He's all but ready to jump out of his skin to be at it," reflected Maud; "he'll be at it before I've well shut the door behind me." She regarded him steadily for a minute longer; then, with an excellently simulated yawn, she picked up her parcel, and proceeded to observe that the afternoon was getting on, and that since Mr Foote's heart remained ro obstinately hardened against her unlucky heels, she supposed she had better be getting back to Floundershayle. And with this, and with a friendly nod, she stepped briskly to the door, and without so much as once turning her head, proceeded to pick her way among the ruins towards the open hillside.

Having reached the other side of the first convenient bit of wall, Maud stood still. "I will give him five minutes," she said, drawing out her watch; "and in the meantime, let us review the situation. To begin with: how far have we got? What are the strongest points of our case? First, the strong presumptive evidence that this man has a secret; second, the equally strong presumptive evidence that there is some copper mixed up in this secret; third, the all but absolute proof that this man with the obviously coppery secret is indeed one of the victims of the Destroying Angel, from whom it is conceivable that he may hold his knowledge."

So far her theory held well, thought Maud, as she checked off the different points on her fingers. But at number four she paused and shook her head. The one fea

turo of tho case that baffled her was this insensato and obviously genuine terror called up by the name of Bevan. How was she to account for this extraordinary, inconvertible, and apparently isolated circumstance of the case? Until she had succeeded in making it fit in somewhere, it was plain that she had not got the "hangi of the thing. The elements indeed were there, but they would not mix; the links were there, but they would not join.

When Maud had set out for the Tally-ho mine that day, her hopes had not soared to the point of coming home with the answer to the riddle in her pocket. A favourable start on the highroad to discovery had been all she had contemplated. Had it not been for the lucky chance of those sacks in the corner, her visit of to-day would probably have been nothing more than the first of a series; and it is

certain that, even in her most sanguine moments, Maud had never been prepared for the exceeding rapidity and conclusive demonstration of the events which were now about to follow.

The five minutes being concluded, Maud began to pick her way back again towards Samuel Foote's shop-not indeed retracing her former steps, but taking a direction which led her to the further side of the building, which he inhabited. There was no window at that side, and cautiously creeping along the wall she sharply turned the corner, and without a pause or a knock raised the latch of the door. To her surprise, she found herself confronted by nothing but the sleek and dazzling countenance of New York, who still sat squatted in the centre of the table. Of Samuel Foote there appeared in the first instance to be no trace; but as she slowly advanced into the room, Maud noticed an open door which she had not before observed, probably owing to its being papered like the walls, while from some lower region, apparently a cellar, sounds came up which told her that the shoemaker was rummaging about down there. "His secret is a heavy one, at any rate," thought Maud, "from the way he is panting and dragging. Supposing, after all, it is only his potatoes for the winter!" At that moment she perceived that the apron was flung on the floor, that one of the sacks had been removed, but that the other still stood in the corner. Maud walked straight up to it, undid the fastening, and, looking the magnificent New York steadily in the face, plunged her hand in and drew out a handful of small shiny fragments, which she instantly recognised as rough copperore. She carried them to the light and examined them more carefully

to make sure, but she really had no doubt whatever, nor did she experience the smallest surprise, Perhaps she had not clearly told herself that she expected to find copper-ore in those sacks, but there is no doubt that she would have been mightily taken aback if she had found potatoes.

With the copper in her hand, she went and took up her position beside the fireplace, and by the time she heard the shoemaker panting upwards, her plan of action was laid.

He came up slowly, as though exhausted, until his head reached the level of the floor; then at sight of Maud he cleared the remaining steps with one bound, slammed the papered door behind him, and flattened himself breathless against it, in a way which made him look almost like one of the grotesque advertisements pasted there.

Maud surveyed him with a glance of pitying contempt.

"Has nobody ever pointed out to you what a waste of trouble it is to lock the stable-door after the horse is gone, Mr Foote ?" she observed presently. "You've forgotten the second sack."

"It's-it's provisions," gasped Samuel Foote; "it's prunes,—it's hazel-nuts."

"Yes, exactly,-hazel-nuts; but rather hard to crack, as I perceive."

The shoemaker, in dead silence, remained flattened against his wall.

"Since you are so fond of prunes and hazel-nuts," she went on, “I wonder that you don't put yourself in the position of laying in larger stores of such delicacies. Do you know how many sackfuls of hazelnuts you could buy with a hundred pounds in sterling cash?"

There was no answer.

"You can read, I suppose?" said Maud, impatiently.