I saw the look of abject terror upon her face as her eyes fell upon the man lying dead upon the carpet before us.

She realised the terrible truth at once, and giving vent to a loud, hysterical scream, rose and threw herself on her knees beside the man whose wide-open eyes, staring into s.p.a.ce, were fast glazing in death.

Edwards bent, and asked in a low voice whether I wished to give her into custody for the attempt upon me.

But I replied in the negative.

"The a.s.sa.s.sin has received his just punishment and must answer to his Maker," I replied. "That is enough. This scene will a.s.suredly be a lesson to her."

"She falsely accused Miss Shand, remember," he said. "She knew all the time that Cane struck the poor girl down."

"No," I replied. "Now that the stigma has been removed from the one I love, I will be generous. I will prefer no charge against her."

"Ah! dearest," cried Phrida, "I am glad of that. Let us forgive, and endeavour, if possible, to forget these dark, black days and weeks when both our lives were blighted, and the future seemed so hopeless and full of tragedy."

"Yes," I said, "let us go forth and forget."

And with a last glance at the dead man, with the woman with dishevelled hair kneeling in despair at his side, I took the arm of my beloved, and kissing her before them all, led her out, away from the scene so full of bitterness and horror.

To further prolong the relation of this tragic chapter of my life's history would serve no purpose.

What more need I tell you than to say Mrs. Petre disappeared entirely, apparently thankful to escape, and that at St. Mary Abbots, in Kensington, a month ago, Phrida and I became man and wife, both Edwards and Fremy being present.

As I pen these final lines I am sitting upon the balcony of the great Winter Palace Hotel, in Luxor, within sight of the colossal ruins of Karnak, for we are spending a delightful honeymoon in Upper Egypt, that region where the sun always shines and rain never falls. Phrida, in her thin white cotton gown and white sun helmet, though it is January, is seated beside me, her little hand in mine. Below us, in the great garden, rise the high, feathery palms, above a riot of roses and poinsettias, magnolias, and other sweet-smelling flowers.

It is the silent, breathless hour of the desert sunset. Before us, away beyond the little strip of vegetation watered by the broad, ever-flowing Nile, the clear, pale green sky is aflame with crimson, a sunset mystic and wonderful, such as one only sees in Egypt, that golden land of the long-forgotten.

From somewhere behind comes up the long-drawn nasal song of an Arab boatman--that quaint, plaintive, sing-song rhythm accompanied by a tom-tom, which encourages the rowers to bend at their oars, while away still further behind across the river, lays the desolate ruins of the once-powerful Thebes, and that weird, arid wilderness which is so impressive--the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings.

Phrida has been reading what I have here written, and as I kiss her sweet lips, she looks lovingly into my eyes and says:

"It is enough, dearest. Say that you and I are happy--ah! so supremely happy at last, in each other's love. No pair in the whole world could trust each other as we have done. I know that I was guilty of a very grave fault--the fault of concealing my friendship with that man from you. But I foolishly thought I was acting in your interests--that being your friend, he was mine also. I never dreamed that such a refined face could hide so black and vile a heart."

"But I have forgiven all, darling," I hasten to rea.s.sure her! "I know now what a clever and ingenious scoundrel that man was, and how full of resource and amazing cunning. You were his victim, just as I was myself--just as were the others. No," I add, "life, love, and happiness are before us. So let us learn to forget."

And as our lips meet once again in a long, fond, pa.s.sionate caress, I lay down my pen in order to press her more closely to my breast.

She is mine--my own beloved--mine for now and evermore.

THE END.

Butler & Tanner Frome and London

WARD, LOCK & CO.'S

New and Recent Fiction.

Finished

H. RIDER HAGGARD.

Here we have Mr. Rider Haggard at his best. The book is alive with adventure, and characters black and white.

Mr. Haggard makes all his characters interesting; they live for us, no matter how extraordinary the circ.u.mstances, and these circ.u.mstances are described in such a way, so vividly and yet so quietly, that we accept them without question. "Finished" is indeed as full of good points as it is of adventures.

Thorgils of Treadholt

MAURICE HEWLETT.

This new work by the author of "The Forest Lovers" is told with the wealth of detail and vivid actuality which have made the author's excursions into primitive Scandinavian history and legend as fascinating and as strongly human in their appeal as the mediaeval romances which first made him famous.

Carmen's Messenger

HAROLD BINDLOSS.

Mr. Bindloss is an author who can deftly use sensationalism to his purpose without forcing it for mere effect, and who can also depict the character of a strong man as honest as determined in love with a sweet woman. He tells a story with rare skill.

Lonesome Heights

HALLIWELL SUTCLIFFE.

A thoroughly enjoyable story, without a dull page, and in the front rank of the author's work. Plot and characterisation are equally good.

The Just Men of Cordova

EDGAR WALLACE.

An adventure story dealing with another episode in the career of the "Four Just Men" who have appeared in several of Mr Wallace's most popular novels.

The Rattlesnake

KATHARINE TYNAN.

A strong knowledge of human nature, for which Katharine Tynan is famous, is well portrayed in the pages of this novel, and this, in conjunction with the interesting nature of the plot, renders it particularly successful. The book will be appreciated by novel readers.

Adam