copper arterwards. They an' their flies! Poof! It was their game, just t' frighten folks an' get at old Mother Angmering's jewels. I don't believe as any o' them flies 'ad plague at all— at all.'

'Good Lord!' moaned Harvey-Dottrell. 'But you've got a head!'

'I'ave. Not like yourn, though. Yourn's full o' uncommon-sense, and mine, 'e's full o' common-sense. I ain't a thief, quite, no more 'n you be, but they do say as there be honour among thieves even. What 'ave I bin a-tryin' t' find ye all this time fer? This, Misterwhat's yer name?'

Harvey-Dottrell.'

'Right, Mister 'Arvey-Dottrell-this.' And, so saying, he drew from the depths of his rusty old coat a cheque. Then, with a considerable amount of important puffing, he read it over, spelling each word with silent-moving lips carefully, as the illiterate do, and handed it to Harvey-Dottrell. 'The 'alf,' he said simply.

Harvey-Dottrell took it, looked, and gave one long whistle. The cheque was signed by Angmering himself, was for one thousand pounds, and the name space indicating to whom it was made out was left blank. 'Oh!' he cried. 'Oh, thank God! Thank you.

Thank'

But words failed him, and he sat staring at it with moist eyes.

The old man laid his hand gently upon Harvey-Dottrell's shoulder. Don't take on, me lad,' he muttered huskily. Ye're worth it, an'-an' so'm I.'

And he leant back chuckling, as the first of the station lights shone upon his little, beady, cunning, sharp eyes, burning in the depth of the cab's gloom. They looked more like the of a rat than ever.

eyes

RA

SHADOWS.

ACTON got out of the '5.39 down,' as he had done every afternoon except Saturdays, Sundays, Bank Holidays, and summer holidays for seven years. He carried a bunch of flowers in his hand, and a small basket of fruit-such things as a man buys (for good or evil) outside a large London terminus-little offerings to his wife, as he had done any day, and nearly every day, all through those years. He rarely forgot. He walked up the short hill leading from the quiet station with his little shambling walk, a quiet, clean-shaven man, quietly dressed, a little flabby, a little weak both ways, but a 'sticker'-and we all know what a 'sticker' means—for all that.

He let himself in at the polished front-door of his little house, which was not far from the station, surveying his little front-garden the while, and seeing that it was good—as he had done any day these many years.

He walked across the hall, hung up his hat, put his bag on a strictly correct, hard hall-chair never meant to be sat upon-as he had done almost every day.

And the dining-room was empty-empty of

all save the company of a little brass kettle on a little, natty brass gas-ring-as it had often been empty any time these many years, for Racton's wife frequently was out shopping, or seeing friends, or-oh, anyway, out.

But Racton, though he was used to it, had never got over a horrible empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, a sort of dread-nameless 'tis true, foolish undoubtedly, but still a vague dread-when he had found the room thus empty on many days these several years. Perhaps it was kismet, tipping him in advance. Some men get warnings in that way, maybe.

Racton laid his offerings upon the table, made and poured himself out a cup of tea, and had eaten half-a-dozen mustard-and-cress sandwiches he grew the mustard and cress all the year round in the attic-before he discovered a note for him lying conspicuously upon the table.

He was an absent-minded man, much preoccupied with his own thoughts usually, and he opened the letter in an absent-minded way. He read perhaps half through the letter before he realised what he was reading. Then he stopped chewing his mustard-and-cress sandwich, and his mouth fell open. It remained open while he finished the letter-it was not a long one-and while he re-read it twice.

Then he stumbled, rather than walked, to the fireplace, and stood there with his head dropped -like the head of a beaten dog-staring at the coals as he had not done once during all those years.

Up to that point everything had been in order, regular, and as usual. From that point everything was new.

He held the letter crushed in his clenched right hand, the letter from his wife, who was his wife no longer, but the beloved of another man-the letter said so, like a bombshell, all in a second, in a few bald words. And she could never be his wife again-never. However much they two might wish it, they could never be as they had been. The house of cards had fallen, and they could never rebuild it even if they prayed till ninety times ninety-he was that sort of man, fashioned that way by the good God, and he knew it. But he knew, too, how to long.

And in that hour Racton died, and-a new Racton was born. But perhaps the new Racton had been there all the time, waiting for the steel to strike the spark out of the flint. It is the same with many men, I guess, though most go to their Maker without the flint ever being struck.

The servant noticed it directly Racton turned