THE FATAL REQUEST OR FOUND OUT By A. L, Harrla Author of "Mine Own Familiar Friend," etc. Copyright, mi, by Cattail l' >i b l l t h i n g Company. Copyright, l » o 2 , bystreet f the doorway, he saw the pale, narrow, furtive countenance of Per fcins. the housemaid. For a moment there was an intense silence, dur ing which both seemed to hold their brpath and nerve themselves for the struggle that lay before them. ‘The letter!” he cried, advancing towards the other, threateningly. " The letter, or-” "There are five chambers in the revolver still undischarged," was the calm reply. “Is that what you are thinking of?” the other man fell hack a step and his face became ashen in hue. “What do you mean?" he gasped. Who are you. and now do you dare 1 to defy me? You-a thief!—a—’’ "You asked my name this morn ing.’’ was the answer, "and for rea sons of my own. I refused to give it you, Those reasons no longer ex ist. Do you still wish to know it?” The master of the house contem plated the man he had that morning discharged from his service with feel ings he could not have put in words. Such utter fearlessness, such a total disregard of the consequences of the act in w hich he had been caught red- j handed, seemed to point either to the most hardened criminal, or to one i who knows he is possessed of some secret power. His voice failed him, 1 and once more, with a mingling of suppressed fury and incomprehensible -apprehension, he gasped, "The letter —I insist—and your name!" The young man advanced a few «teps. "My name,” he said, “is-” j and he whispered the rejst in his ear. j No need to ask whether he knew 1 such unmistable physical weakness. "What is that you sav?" tie repeated. “And how can you deny aught in the face of this confession which 1 hold in my hand?” And he a hook the envelope in his face. This action stirred the other power fully. "Give it me!” he cried. *'I com mand!— I implore! That confession —though how you know it he such I cannot tell—is sacred. Or, no”— with a sudden change—"keep it and read it after [ am dead! I am a dying man—no hear me out! Not long ago an eminent physician utter ed my sentence. He gave me a year to live—a year, that, ts, if 1 kept my self free from all excitement and re ceived no sudden shock. To-night. I feel, has reduced my term of exist ence to days or hours. It is not for myself that 1 ask this—it is for my child.” He had touched the one responsive chord. Ted laid the envelope which contained the secret, down upon the table. “If I consent to spare you the pun ishment due to the deed,” he said slowly, “I must first know all. Your written confession, to lie perused after death, will not satisfy me. How shall I know then that you have not lied? I must have it from your own lips now, or——" “And have you not already had it from my own lips?” exclaimed Mr. Ferrers, with sudden passion. “Have I not declared to you that l am not your father's murderer? Am I not ready to swear it. however much ap pearances may be against me? 1 swear I never murdered him!” The young man put Ins hand to his head, bewildered. “Do you deny that you are the man who wrote the letter which summon ed my father to Dover?—or that you are the other passenger who traveled by the 4:30 train aud occupied a com “Cruel, cowardly, cold-blooded murderer!” it. No need for further explanation. With a sudden cry. his hand press ed to his heart, and a ghastly grey ness settling down u|>on his face, j Mr. Kerrers dragged himself to the nearest chair. • The medicine—the medicine! ” he whispered, in a dreadful tone, point ing with one baud towards the man tlepieoe. The other, following with his eyes the direction of his gesture aaw a bottle and glass. Ted made a couple of strides in the direction signified and was back again with the medicine bottle and glass. He read the directions on the labed, measured out the proportion prescribed and held the same to the lips of what seemed the almost dying man. Mr. Ferrers, apparently revived by the draught he had swallowed, partial- | ly recovered his voice. "Lock the door!” he said to his old friend's son. lie obeyed, and the two were left atone face to face, i They confronted each other in silence, the one still seated, the other stand ing opposite to him, with folded arms, looking down upon him. • What liax e you to say to me?” asked the former, in a feeble, broken voice. • What have I to say to you? re- ; peated the latter never moving his | eyes from the face of the man before him. "What should a son have to say to his father's murderer?" Mr. Ferrers rose from his seat as the infamous title was hurled at him, ami, despite his pallid eounteuane and evident weakness, there was a natural dignity about him now as he faeed the furious and menacing coun tenance opposed to him. "This is not the first time you have applied that shameful word to me," he said. "This must not be. ' ‘What!" cried the young man. “After having once admitted the crime, do jou now seek to deny it? Then hear me repeat it again.” and rising his right hand, he emphasized •w’h word by pointing with his fore finger—"Murderer! Cruel, cowardly, c«1d blooded murderer!” The other man staggered as though struck, and supported himself with one terembling hand on the back of his chair. "It is false." he said —“false! I gm guiltless—in thought if not in deed!” lie spoke with difficulty, and again his hand was pressed to his side. “What is that you say?" asked his opponent, who had not caught the last worti^ hut who involuntarily : lowered ki* voice In the presence of , Ipartment In the fourth carriage from the engine?" The other man bent his head. "I | do not deny it." "And you deny lhat the bullet that was discovered in the padding of (he same compartment, which the fire only partially consumed was dis charged from Ihe one empty chamber , of the revolver which lies yonder?” ”1 do not deny it,” was the same monotonous answer. I "Then tell me," cried the young man, in a frenzy, "tell me. whose , was the hand that fired that shot?" Mr. Ferrers raised his head and I answered clearly, and without hesita I tion, "Mine!” The effect of the answer was elec I trical. "What!"—in a tone that thrilled j through the hearer—"you admit all I this, and yet, in the same breath deny that you killed my father?” “I never denied that I killed him,” was the calm reply of the elder man, as his eye encountered that of his inquisitor without flinching, and he seemed to have cast aside for the moment ail agitation and alarm. Kdward Burritt tried to frame the next question and failed. His lips moved, but no voice proceeded from them until “Mar!” lie muttered, hoarsely, with his eyes glaring, "to try and fool me like this! How can you have killed my father and yet not he his mur derer?” "Because," said the other, "I shot at his own request!" CHAPTER XXV. The Narrative. These remarkable words were fol lowed by another silence, during which the younger man seemed turn | ed to stone, and the other, who ap peared completely exhausted by the | strain of the last few minutes, let : himself fall back into his chair and breathed heavily. Then the first, recovering himself, and speaking in a hoarse, strange voice, which even lo his own ear sounded unnatural, asked— "What do you mean? What horrible story is this? What foul lie-" The other man pointed to the let ter lying on the table between them. "Read It,” he said, with an effort, and. even as he spoke those two words, the grey ness began to return and deepen, and his race seemed to fall In. Thus adjured, Ted stripped off the outer cover. Within war* several sheets of pa per, covered with writing. In the' hoavy scrawling hand, walch he now knew well. THE TRUE NARRATIVE AND CONFESSION OK MR JAMES FER RERS, OF TilF. STRANGE TRAG EDY OF THE 2,'iTH OF APRIL. "I arrived in England on the 2!tli of April, alter having been absent twenty years. The reasons for that prolonged absence I do not propose to enter Into at length. Suffice it to say that 1 had committed an act which brought me within reach of the law, and. hut for the influence of friends, 1 might have expiated the deed by transportation. "Reckless extravagance, betting and gambling, with a mad attempt to re cover ray position by speculating w ith money which was not my own, brought me to this shameful pass. The matter was allowed to blow over—to be hushed up and the actu al sum made away with was reim bursed. Hut I was a Pariah—an out cast—shunned and despised by all but one. One friend stood by me. one man still gave me help of hfs countenance and extended the right hand of fellowship towards me, and he was my old friend, Silas Burrltt. He alone was there to bid me fare well as I left England, a disgraced man. He alone hade me hope for bet ter tilings and look forward to re trieving the failure of the past in the promise of the future. So 1 set sail for America, with the expressed re solve of not returning until many years had elapsed and those who were acquainted with my shameful history were either dead or else had forgotten it ami me. "At last the term of years which I had set as the limit of my voluntary exile having all but expired. I ven tilled to return. 1 lingered puriiose ly on m.v journey, so that when 1 landed at Dover, it was twenty years to the very day I had first set sail. “At Dover I waited the arrival of my old friend. "He came, and the meeting was a painful one on both sides. "After so long a parting, there was a sense of restraint between us. sn-'b as there could hardly have failed to be. But. after a while, this feeling became less noticeable. We had much to say. and I. for my part, had many questions to ask and much to learn. One thing I did learn—the most im portant of all—which was that, with one exception, 1 might consider my self free from the leaf of any wit nesses of the past appearing to blight the prospects of the future. "It was agreed that 1 should spend the next night under his roof, and make the acquaintance of his wife and family, and we agreed to travel by that ill-fated train known as tlie 4:30 express. (To he continued.) WILL SHAKE NO MORE. Savage Handgripping Now the lrad in English Society. I have made up my mind absolutely, to shake hands no more. The stupid custom never appealed to tne, but I have complied with it, hitherto, iu order to avoid hurting people's feel ings. Now that the “grip” has become fashionable, however. I shall have to be callous. After an, it is far better mat I should hurt someone’s feelings a little than that they should hurt my hand a great deal. At a reception I attended the otlipr night, there were three acquaintances of mine sitting in a group. I went up to them and shook hands all round. The first man ground together all my knuckle hones. The second squeezed my fingers until they were reduced to a mere pulp. The third, not to he baulked, twisted my wrist anJ almost jerked my elbow out of the socket. I cursed them, root and branch, and hurried away to the far end of the room. When 1 looked back, they were regarding each other with open mouthed astonishment. 1 could see that they had meant well; the new fashion was to blame. A few years ago, you will remem ber, it was considered rather smart to hold your hand high in the air and wave it to and iro in gentle contact with the hand of your acquaintance. That fashion, too. was idiotic enough, but it was infinitely more civilized than this furious, insensate grip.— Sketch. Made Speech to Amuae Wife. A great many speeches have beer delivered in the house of representa tives without any apparent excuse at all, so the New York member who spoke merely to entertain his wife undoubtedly had ample Justification. The New York member was in the gallery with bis wife,, but the lady grew tired of the humdrum proceed ings and announced her intention of departing. He coaxed her to stay, but she was insistent, until her bus band made a proposition. “If you will stay an hour," he prom ised, “I will go down on the floor and make a speech.” She agreed to stay and the New York member kept his promise, mak ing, in fact, a very creditable argu ment about something in which he had not the slightest interest. Might Be Worse. Biffbang—They say Meeker leads a regular dog’s life at home. Cumsoe -Unhappily married, 1 sup pose ? Biffbang Well, not exactly: but his wife shares her affection equally be tween hint and her poodle. Brief, But Pointed. “Say, pa,’’ queried little Johnny Bumpernteitle, “what’s a fool-killer?’* “A fool killer, my son,” replied th« old man, “is the gun he blows io.” THE FATAL REQUEST OR FOUND OUT By A. L Herrin Author of "Mine Own Familier Friend.” etc. Copyright, t • ‘ l , by C a s » » l I Publishing Company, Copyright, t t> o S , by Strsst & Smith. CHAPTER XXV—Continued. "The train started on the Journey which was to end in its destruction, and mile after mile sped away in si lence. Once more the feeling of re straint had settled down upon us. and this time heavier than before. "Then I remember a sudden, awful, never-to-be-forgotten crash followed by cries and shrieks such as have rung In my ears ever since "I found myself flung violently for ward against the opposite side of the compartment amid the smashing of woodwork, ami with the presentiment of some awlul doom ii|K>n me. I was half stunned, but recovering myself, found that 1 was not much hurt. Then I remembered my companion and turned my attention to him. " Silas!' I cried. Are you hurt?* "But before lie could reply, another sound was added to the awful babel of i rios a lid groans all around. “'Kire! fire!' we heard shrieked in voices mad with terror, mingled with agonizing cries for help. The atmos phere became stifling, a sickening, in supportable odor was wafted towards us and clouds of thick, black, suffocat ing smoke began to drift past. “'Silas!' I shouted. In mad terror, to my friend; 'come! exert yourself, it you wish to escape instant death!’ “And I caught him round the body and tried to compel him to move; but in vain; he only gave a scream of agony*. ' Save yourself.’ he groaned. ’I can not stir: and I think my leg is broken.’ “I was almost demented, and tore at the shattered woodwork which made his prison, with my fingers; but only fo increase his agony, without freeing i him from his horrible position. And ; already the atmosphere was like that of h furnace, and hell itself seemed to be open. 1 could not save him, but I might save myself. I knew the door \ on the other side was unlocked, so that I might attempt to escape that way. 1 the face of the revelation which had burst upon him. “My God! To think that 1 should know the truth at last! But how marvelous! How utterly be yond the realization of my wildest dreams! ” Not for an Instant did it oentr to him to think the narrative false. It was too astounding and, what was more, it agreed so exactly with all the strange, and hitherto mysterious, cir cumstances which had attended the tragedy. And tin* man he had wrong ed—the man he hail hunted down and would have betrayed to death, believ ing him to be the vilest of his species —whose whole nature be had read falsely by the light of his unjust sus picions! His eyes were closed—he seemed to lie hardly breathing. Had he fainted—or was this death? Was he to be left alone, and in the dark, with a dead or dying man? He rushed to the door and dashed out of the bouse iu search of a doc tor. James Ferrers was not dead; hut the nearest medical man. on being summoned to the house, shook his head over the case. "Heart!” he said, briefly. "Get him to bed. I do not think he will ever need to get up again." By this time the whole household was roused, and the sick man's daugh ter was hanging in speechless grief, over her father's unconscious form. At one time it was feared that he would pass away unconscious, but the untiring application >of restoratives was ai last productive of some effect, and two or three hours later the dy ing man opened his eyes. He saw his daughter kneeling be side his pillow; and. not far away, his old friend's son. who, by some means, had asserted and maintained a right to remain in the sick room. Tlie doctor, seeing tliat the patient had regained consciousness for a while before the end. stood aside, so as not "I have nothing to forgive," wee the broken answer. “I prepared for flight, but before 1 had taken the first step i was stayed by my friend's voice— " ‘James,' be cried—and the roaring of the flames almost drowned his voice, which was sharp and shrill with horror—'put me out of my misery. Save yourself, but shoot me through the brain first! Quick! quick!' "ft was the most merciful death, and, without pausing a second—which on that awful day might have meant a human life—l drew the revolver, placed it to his temple"—(“My God!” from the reader)—"and pulled the trigger. Even as I heard the report a thin tongue of flame curled upward through the splintered flooring, and without even looking back — without even a glance at the face of my friend. I forced open the door and sprang front the now burning carriage with tlie smoking weapon still grasped in my right hand. In doing so i trod upon I some smouldering timber and | wrenched my ankle severely, so that for a long time I was lame. “A few hours later and I was con veyed to town, together with a com pany of the other survivors, and as soon as I reached my destination my streugth forsook me and I was pros- j trated for days by a nervous illness, j the result of my late terrible experi- ■ ence. “When I recovered, it was to find j that there was a hut* and cry already | after me—that the partially consumed ' corpse of a first class passenger ltad ! been discovered shot through tin* head, i and that ail the evidence pointed to j the crime having been committed by a j fellow traveler who had made his es- ; cape during the terror and confusion - of the catastrophe and who was being ' eagerly sought for. “Since then, 1 have had to submit to the ordeal of seeing myself confronted by the reward of one hundred pounds offered for my detection; and have lived in daily and hourly fear of being charged with tne committal of this crime—if crime It can lie called—of which 1 was guiltless, in thought, if not in deed. It is this which is kill ing me, and I do not regret it. “Sometimes I regret nothing; not even the shot which took my best friend's life and branded me with the brand of Cain!” CHAPTER XXVI. Dr. Jeremiah's Little Bill. This was all. The reader drew a long, shuddering breath “My God!” ha whispered, voice and. everything seeming u. faU turn fee the motion t, in j lo interfere with those last solemn moments. The dying man’s gaze rested upon the young man—who. in obedience to a gesture, approached and ben! over him—with a strange intensity, and his lips moved. "Do you forgive?" he murmured dose to the other’s ear, so that the words might lie heard by none but him for whom they were intended. "I have nothing lo forgive,” was the broken answer. ' You aoted for the best, and 1 bless you for ft." A look of peace fell u|h>ii the corps'** like countenance upon the pillow, and he turned his eyes again upon his daughter. "Don’t grieve much for me, my child," said he; "and when 1 am gone-" He gave a d«*o sigh, his eyes closed, and his head fell a little to one side. The doctor pressed forw ard. “This Is the end," he said, "and a very peaceful one. Bui it was not quite the end. Once more the dying eyes opened, and fixed themselves upon the pale, remorseful face of the young man who had once hoped to see him expiate his deed upon the scaffold. Then he turned them 'rom him to tiie bowed head of the girl who knelt, with her face hidden, upon the other side of the bed, and back again. His lips moved for the last time, but no words issued from them. He tried again, and this time— though there was no sound—it seemed to the other, who had his eyes fixed upon them, and his ear strained to calch the lightest whisper, that the motion of the lips might be translated into the words, "Keep my secret!" "I will—I will," he answered, and even as he uttered these words the end came. The next day Ted Burrltt returned home unexpectedly. Tlie first thing he did was to write a brief summary of events to Dr. Jere miah Cartwright, who. in spite of the very short time which had elapsed since his last *islt, again made his ap pearance at. magnolia Lodge—osten sibly to bear further details, but more particularly to carry out a deep laid scheme of his own. “And what do you mean to do—eh? I mean, about the yot ng lady? Oh, you needn't look as though you don't understand what I am talking about! I'*e not forgotten what you told me about her. What a beautiful blush!” And the little gentleman chuckled; then, all at once, became preterna»ur ! ally grave. "By Hw by," be said, slow ly. and with a noticeable tendency to avoid his friend's eye, "about that bill of mine.” Ted looked surprised. "Rill?” he repeated "Yes, hill," continued the doctor. "You didn't suppose I was going to let you off. did you? You haven't forgot ten what I said a little while back about sending one in, have you?” The young man looked and felt non plussed. "I have made up my mind to taka it in kind. What l mean Is," continued Dr. Cartwright, "that instead of receiving payment for whatever services I may have rendered, in ready money, I am willing to take it out in some other article." "And what might that article he?" was the natural but stiil perplexed in quiry. "Your sister,” was the brief and much to the point response. "By Jove!" was the exclamation It called forth—followed by, "you don't mean It?" "Don t I, though!” w as the deter mined reply. "I’ve been meaning it for some time past. Wliat’s more, I've sounded the young lady—I don’t mean with a stethoscope-—and sh» wasn’t half so much surprised as you seem to be.” The brother of the young lady !t» question burst out laughing. "I suppose I shall have to give in. and I may as well do it sooner than later.” • * m m * * About three months later a gentle man In the most irreproachable attire called at the residence of the late James Ferrers, Esq., of Belmont House, Hampstead, and requested to see Miss Ferrers. That young lady, who had descended to encounter her visitor quite in ignor ance as to his identity, was confounded beyond measure to discover, iu the supposed stranger, none other than that same individual whom she had first met at the Royal Academy and who had afterwards occasioned her the greatest perplexity of mind by doub ling the part of the young man who waited at table and cleaned the plate. Only—he had grown the loveliest moustache and it seemed perfectly im possible to imagine for a moment that he had ever done such a thing as polish the forks and spoons and make himself generally useful. Ted plunged at once into the object of his visit. "I should have called much sooner," lie remarked with a compassionate glance at her deep mourning, "but was afraid of intruding upon your retire* ment. I have a statement to make—* an explanation to give, which I cannot withhold any longer." He came nearer to her and—oh. the presumption of the creature!—actually ventured to take her hand. "Do you remember being at the Academy, one day last June, and drop ping your catalogue?” Did she not? But she made no audible reply, and the explanation thus propitiously commenced was continued without any interruption beyond au oc casional stifled exclamation on tha part of its recipient. It is not necessary, however, to re port the whole of what passed during the Interview. A certain portion only of it need be referred to as being of some interest. "And you really mean to say,” said Miss Ferrers to the young man, "yon really mean to say that you fell in love with me then and there, and took the situation, and put up with everything, just for the sake of being under the same roof with me?” He looked at her strangely for a moment before answering. "What other reason could there have been?” he asked. She clapped her hands together in delight. "Whatever will the girls at school say to t hLs?” (The En3.) Beecher’s Deacon Went to Steep. “Pew sleepers are one of the bug bears of preachers," said the Rev. Robert Collyer, the veteran New York minister. “I can speak feelingly from experience. On one occasion when Henry Ward Beecher asked me to go to Plymouth Church to talk to his people, he remarked—jokingly, let us hope—that most of theni were hard working folk who needed plenty of rest on (Sunday, anil he felt that a ser mon from me might be gratefully re ceived. "In the course of my talk I men tioned this, and said that It was. how ever. a matter upon which my feelings could not be hurt, and that 1 owed this impervionsiiess to Mr. Beecher him self. I told them that, one Sunday, years before, when I was attending a service at old Plymouth and Mr. Beecher was thundering forth. I saw one of his deacons asleep in a tront pew. "1 went on to say that always after this, whenever 1 saw a man slumber ing peacefully through my most stir ring efforts in the pulpit, I would say to myself: ‘Well, let him sleep; even the great Beecher can’t keep ’em all awake.”—Success. The Vogue of Pantalets. Pantalets came into vogue about 181!0. They were loose, flapping frills tied on under the knee and hangihg over the foot. The strings generally broke or slipped down, and one learns of a young mother’s trials with those horrid tilings In a letter quoted by Mrs. Earle, which says: "My finest dimity pair, with real Swiss lace, Is quite useless to me, for 1 lost off on* leg. I saw that mean Mrs. Spring wearing it last week for a tucker. My help says she won't stay if the has to wash more than seven palra a week for MyrtlUa."