'MY DEAR SON,-If you have survived to the age which will entitle you to read this letter under the tuition and management of that dogged and straightforward old wild-fowler whom you have been taught to consider as your father, you will have gained sufficient common-sense and knowledge of the right way for a man to live to enable you to read this letter with a calm and open judgment, and to handle those small possessions which, being my own private property, I have the right to will that you shall inherit-namely, my oyster-beds, standing, as you know, on the shore of the estuary. Even paying a foreman to manage these, they have yielded me rather over £200 a year; but you, of course, will be by now fully qualified to manage them yourself. It is my wish, however, that in the working of these you will continue to employ only people of the neighbourhood who are true marshland stock-that is, my tenants, and not any outsiders. There are, I know, but few of this old wild-fowling stock left, but my forefathers have always held themselves more or less responsible for their welfare, and I would have it so after my death. I would point out to you that with the oyster-beds go certain rights as to the shore and water appertaining, which I have, as it were, bought from my estate, which rights

will allow you to permit the people to shoot or fish on shore or estuary, as they have always, though really illegally, done. I need hardly remind you, my dear son, that I never married, and that you cannot inherit my estates; but your mother was of true marshland stock. I have seen to it that your foster-father has been suitably and properly recompensed for his task of rearing and training you in a manner that would fit you to enjoy with discretion the small property I had to leave you.-Your affectionate Father

Young Fowley put down the letter with a gasp; and well he might, for it was signed by the late squire of the parish, and underneath

a postscript referring him to the late squire's family solicitors, who had been fully instructed in the matter.

And that, I think, is about all; or, rather, it is only the middle, but the rest of the story is so obviously the private concern of Young Fowley and of Kate-who is now his wifethat there is no need to set it down here.

1

THE WHITE ELEPHANT.

THERE
HERE is one thing harder than buying

a great diamond, and that is to steal it; and, provided it be big enough, there is one thing still harder than stealing a great diamond, and that is to know what to do with it when you have got it. Once stolen, it is a marked stone until it is cut, and nobody will buy it from you, not even a 'fence,' even at a 'cutthroat' price. And to be cut it must go out of the country; and to get it out of the country, as many have found to their cost, is a most unhealthy speculation-practically an impossibility.

Now, Andrew Catherington was a man who knew what to do with great diamonds when other people had stolen them. It was his profession—nay, his art-but not his trade, for by trade he was an oyster-merchant.

Frederick Golder Green, the black-andwhite artist, took The Wilderness because it was near Harbourmouth, the great seaport, was on the main road, and near a bit of life.' You know what a bit of life' means. We all know. Just so. Golder Green's wife was

a stout lady, who swore she would pine to death anywhere where she could not see 'a bit of life,' and she forced Golder Green to take The Wilderness, which was a miserable, damp rabbit-warren, because of the necessity for this same bit of life.' Golder Green had four young children, and—well, he had to give way. All good fathers who have young children will understand what I mean. But Golder Green, being, for all his fine illustrating, rather a poor personality, took no pains to hide his loathing of The Wilderness, all the same; for Golder Green hated a bit of life.' He rather hated life in any form, I fancy-even his own; but his enemies said that he had led a wild youth, and seen all the life he wanted to then. Golder Green said nothing. He 'grouched' under his breath.

Now see how strange is Fate! Andrew Catherington was worth a good deal, by any standard, and no man, or woman either-not even his wife-knew what Golder Green was worth; but I can tell you, in private, that he had, in the dining-room of The Wilderness, when all were in bed and he was supposed to be finishing some illustrations, taken a furtive peep at his pass-book, and found that he was worth just seventy-one pounds and tenpence. Golder Green swore. I may not tell you

what he said, but he swore in French, as being more vivid.

Now it happened that Golder Green was at that time doing the illustrations for a series of burglary and jewel-robbery stories in a certain magazine, and he was, therefore, interested in anything in real life dealing with such matters. Wherefore he kept his eye upon the papers, and what he saw in the paper that night when he peeped at his pass-book, and wondered how the hell he was going to pull through the next three months, was an account of the robbery of the great 'White Elephant,' the king diamond of the East (not the east), weight 197 carats, and worth untold, and the announcement that one thousand pounds was offered as reward to any person who could give information that would lead to the recovery of the 'White Elephant.'

'Gad!' grunted Golder Green, leaning back in his chair and staring at the warm light of the inverted incandescent. 'If only I could spy on these chaps who have stolen this "White Elephant," what ripping illustrations they would make !'

Even as he spoke, a tiny, tiny, ambercoloured money-spider let itself down from the ceiling, straight down on an invisible thread, past his nose, within an inch of his staring eye,