Oh," she broke out, "how do you bear it? It's always like this to youyou're very, very brave. I feel as if I were going mad. Oh, mayn't I come and hold your hand? We're buried alive and I'm not going to behave like a coward or a fool-but it would be easier to behave properly if I weren't all alone over here."

Then he came across to her and held her in his arms, coldly, as one holds a frightened child whom one does not love. And she clung to him and said :

"I do love you-I do. You don't believe now that I was deceiving you? It was always I who loved you. She didn't. She doesn't know what love means. And you never loved her. It's me you've been loving all these months."

"Hush, hush!" he murmured.

"No-I'm not mad. If we're going to die here together you shall know. She never cared. She couldn't even be bothered to write to you. I wrote all those letters. All the letters you wrote were written to me, to me, to me. Oh, won't you forgive me, in case we're going to die?"

"We won't die," he said, and his voice was changed. "Those letters ? It was you who wrote them? But the letters"

They do count for something, don't they? she urged. "They were half of it, weren't they? Didn't the letters count for as much as-as what Bessie gave you? Don't the letters count at all, then?"

"But they do," he said; the letters are almost all-at least- Oh, I don't know --it's all like a mad dream, but don't let us lose our heads. Let's hold on to each other. After all, neither of us is alone." And he held her more closely, for indeed the clasp of her hand round his neck had a magic of its own that reinforced the magic of her soft voice--so like Bessie's, so very like, and yet with a note in it that he had longed for in Bessie's voice and had never heard. Bessie, and her kisses-the fleet, brief hours. The letters-the long, slow weeks and months.

"Thank you for caring like this," he said, found her hand, and kissed it.

And then you came," she said, "and I knew she did not care-and-but I've told you all that. Listen! Can you hear anything-anything different?"

They held their breath and listened. And it was the sound of picks and shovels they heard.

"We aren't going to die," he said. "My brave lady of the letters, we're going to have life to learn to know each other in."

"You're going to forgive me?" she said low in his ear. For indeed all this time they were very close together.

“I'm going to adore you," he said; “it is you I love-you who showed me your heart in your letters-you who- Oh, bravest girl in the world-but what a life for you, to be the star of a blind man's night."

It's the life I'd have died for a day of," she said, for indeed she was, as he had said, brave.

So they held cach other very close and were silent and waited. And her eyes were blind with tears. And at last, quite suddenly, he leaped up, putting her from him, and cried out, in a strange, hoarse, croaking voice :-

"Light-there's light!

And she opened her eyes and there was light--the light of the lanterns of the rescuers--and they were saved. (The doctors said a great deal about the effect of sudden shocks on the nerves. He and she believe in miracles.)

And when they had crawled along the narrow earthy passage and come out of the tunnel to the good light of day they faced cach other, dusty, disordered, with faces streaked with her tears--and not hers only --and gazed upon each other as the first. man and woman must have gazed upon each other in Paradise.

"And this is you!" he said; "but I've never seen you before!"

"I never dared to let you see my real face before," she said, and their eyes embraced.

"You all right?" said the doctor over

his shoulder as he bustled past. "Come on, then, and help these other people."

So their new life began in joint service to those who had been hurt and broken in the shock that had brought to them only Love and Light

T

HE season was over at Challis Bay; the boarding houses were deserted; in the old-fashioned Queen's Hotel only two visitors remained. But

it was a wonderful October in its calmness and mildness, and Mr. Bask, the genial host, was given to impressing upon these two that they were favoured with the weather of the year.

Strangers, they had arrived together, travelling, as it chanced, in the same compartment, ten days ago; and it had seemed natural enough to exchange remarks on the marvellous sunset that greeted them when they met later in the doorway of the hotel. There was nothing obtrusive about Harold Lugar, a man of thirty or so, with a finely-cut shaven countenance and grave grey eyes; and Mildred Elmore had been a journalist long enough to accept the situation without affectation of shyness. was a dark, pretty girl, still frail-looking after the serious illness-a breakdown due to overwork that had held her prisoner in London all the summer. Without near relatives, and with all her friends now on duty, she had dreaded a lonely time of recuperation at Challis Bay, and she was by no means sorry to meet, as fellow-guest, a man who had travelled much and who was interested in books and writers.

She

A pleasant friendliness developed, and when three days had passed they ceased to take their meals at different tables, the discreet host having privately sounded each on the question and arranged a table in the window accordingly. They walked on the

cliffs, did some boating and a little mild golf together, and in the evenings they found enough to talk about. And all the time Mildred Elmore had the feeling that she had seen Harold Lugar before. But the idea was so vague that she had refrained from mentioning it; besides, to have done so would have suggested curiosity on her part, and she had noted the fact that he never spoke of himself or his affairs. Still, she wondered a good deal about the man, as she admitted to herself.

She was wondering now, in the privacy of her room, whither she had gone to put on her hat and a wrap. The night was lovely with moonshine, and after dinner he had asked her, for the first time at such an hour, to walk with him on the sands. She had hesitated, then assented. Her time at Challis Bay was nearly over. She must get back to London and work, for those four months of enforced idleness and extra expenses had seriously drained her resources. But she would enjoy the holiday hours while they lasted, and afterwards

departure from London, thinking what a useful sum it would be to herself just then. It was offered by the enterprising Daily View for information which should lead to the apprehension of one Anthony Lindsay, who was "wanted" in connection with the Burnham Mansions tragedy. Mildred had given little attention to newspapers during her convalescence, but she had learned the main facts of the case-namely, that Leonard Hastings, a wealthy bachelor and man-abouttown, had been found dead in his flat, and that he had evidently been severely handled before being shot through the heart. The murderer was supposed to have gone to France by aeroplane, and the Continent was being searched for him.

"£500 Reward !”

It was as though the mere feel of the newspaper had stimulated imagination. As if compelled, she unfolded the paper, and forced herself to look at the portrait of Anthony Lindsay, the wanted man. It was the reproduction of a photograph of what is known as three-quarter face-not a satisfactory sort of likeness for identifying purposes, unless to a familiar. But for a week, at every meal, Mildred had sat at rightangles to Harold Lugar, and--

The paper slipped from her hands. She sank back, feeling sick and faint. "It can't be!" she whispered, and her intelligence answered, "But it is!" The moustache in the portrait went for nothing. The countenances of Anthony Lindsay and Harold Lugar were identical. The man who was wanted on the capital charge and the man now waiting to escort her on the sands in the moonlight were one and the same! It seemed far too horrible, yet she had no hope that she might be mistaken. Her only hope was that by some evil chance this Anthony Lindsay had been wrongly suspected. In her heart she could not hold Harold Lugar guilty of murder, and yetand yet she must somehow make certain. What was she to do?

Ο

UT on the landing a clock struck nine, and she started up. He had been waiting for her a whole hour! What was he thinking-suspecting? Fear came upon her. Would it not be best to remain where she was, leave early in the morning, and see him no more? Ah, but she wanted to see him again, if only for the last time, if only to save or slay that faintly lingering hope of hers.

Aware of her pallor, she splashed cold water on her face and dried it harshy. At the last moment, thinking to spare him and herself, she took in her hand the paper, refolded, exhibiting only the heading, £500 Reward." Then, summoning all

her self-control, she left the room and descended.

At the turn of the stair she felt Ike retreating. He was standing in the doorway gazing seawards, an unlighted cigarette between his fingers a weli-set-up young man, with nothing furtive about him. Setting her teeth, crushing the paper in her hand, yet holding it prominently, Mildred continued the descent. She had reached the level before he turned. At the critical moment she could not meet his eyes, and so she missed the look of pained understanding that flashed across his countenance. could she find a word to say. He, too, was silent.

Nor

He held the door open, and they passed out into the silvery night. Without speech they crossed the road and took the path leading to the beach. Arrived on the firm sand he lit his cigarette, and when they had covered a hundred yards he said, quietly

"Well, Miss Elmore, what about that five hundred pounds reward?"

She was not prepared for a question so direct, and her response was a cry: “Oh, don't say it was you who killed him! !"

Leonard Hastings deserved what he got. The earth is a cleaner place without him," was the reply.

It was a still world save for the soft laughter of the wavelets on the beach. Horror was upon the girl, yet she did not shrink from the man. At last she said :

"But you did not mean to kill him."

"Does that greatly matter? I thrashed him and then "-a pause-"then I ran away; took aeroplane to France, came back to England by the first ste. mer—simple but unexpected. So they are looking for me on the Continent. Still, I'm bound to be discovered before very long, and-well, I'd rather you had the five hundred pounds than anybody else."

Please don't!" she murmured.

You told me yesterday that with five hundred pounds behind you, you could drop newspaper work for a year and get that fine book written."

off helplessly.

It seems that you wish to think the best of me, and I thank you," he replied, with barely-concealed emotion. "I did not imagine that you would willingly apply for the reward, though I'd sooner you got it than a stranger-and a stranger is bound to get it before long. In this little town, this afternoon, a man seemed to recognize me, and, when you come to think of it, thousands of people all over the country must be on the look-out. Five hundred pounds is a fair sum-almost as good as a football competition prize! faint laugh.

He gave a

Yes! Tell me how ! "

They had come to a halt, both very pale in the cold moonlight.

Thank you again," he said; " but I must take my chance. Let us go back, lest

I say more than I ought."

They had retraced their steps a little distance when Mildred, controlling her voice, said:

"You must have hated the man. He must have injured you terribly.”

I hated him intensely. He was making a woman's life unbearable, and she was my --my oldest friend. He had some secret hold over her, and was attempting to get her away from her husband, a good fellow dying of an incurable disease. He threatened to hand certain letters to the husband

The beast!"

In desperation the woman appealed to I went to his flat in the evening. His man, who was just going out, admitted me. I did what I had come to do and left the flat, and-well, I'm afraid that's all."

'But-but did you go there with the intention of shooting him?”

But you have said it! Tell me how I can help you. I will do anything

Dear," he said, there is only one possible way of escape, and it is not in your hands nor in mine. I have not told you the whole story-I must not tell it-but since you care a little, I will tell you one or two things. I did not kill Leonard Hastings

"I knew it !"

"I had just left the building after thrashing him when a taxi drove up to the door. A man got out, went up in the automatic lift, rang Hastings's bell, and when he answered the door shot him with an air pistol, shut the door, and came away."

You knew the man?"

"I can tell you no more. And what I have told you is a secret between us, Mildred." He took her hand and kissed it. Come, let us go. I'm weak, and a man in my situation has no right to dreams."

The young man glanced inquiringly at the detective, who nodded permission, and took the paper. As he read the words his face was grave, though an unmistakable light came into his eyes.

He turned to the landlord, handing him a five-pound note. "I think that will cover the bill for the present. Kindly keep my luggage till sent for." To the detective he said, I'm quite ready." And while the man looked rather taken aback, he went over to Mildred. Good night," he whispered. “I hope the moon will shine again to-morrow night."

A minute later he was borne away in the

car.

Mildred was making for the stairs when the landlord overtook her. The good man was obviously distressed.

"Miss Elmore, I'm downright sorry,' he stammered, "but who'd have thought it of him?"

To his amazement she smiled kindly.