"What have you done with Stephen May-more?"

He turned deathly white. In another moment my hand was at his throat, and we two rolled over upon that quiet hillside in deadly conflict. Merciful Heaven, I was frantic now, - a burning fire of madness in my brain, that is upon me, now - now * * *

Once I saw her, my beautiful Edith, once, as the coach rolled away from the door. They told me -there were two of them, and they held me by either arm, although I tried to shake them off - they told me that she was to go home, that I could not follow just then, not until I got better of the fever. I never shall get better. Not here, in Buenos Ayres, in my counting-room. I call this my counting-room, though people look at me as if they did not believe what I say, - the look, you know. She looked at me, Edith, from the carriage - ah! so sadly. There were tears in her eyes.

"You have been crying," I called.

Then they cried, "Hush!" and led me away.

Why does not Edith Austen come to me? Shall

I never see her again? * * *

CHAPTER VI.Postscript, by Mr. Edmund Austen.

POOR Carl! He has made a very intelligible narrative, for the most part, till the time when he saw me, and declared me Stephen Maymore's murderer; and I had never seen Stephen May-more.

How to explain his sudden delinium on the night of his room-mate's disappearance, I do not know. Supernatural visions there are, unexplained and inexplicable. Of course, one can call it insanity, if one wishes. It is a strange delusion, too, that the poor fellow should imagine himself to be doing a large importing business at Buenos Ayres. But he is kept out doors as much as possible, always with the attendants in sight. It is a small but well-furnished and pleasant house at Manumet Point, near Plymouth, where he lives.

The disappearance of his room-mate - which no one has ever yet accounted for, except to suppose that the poor fellow met an accidental death on the night in question - worked upon him in such a manner that the very sad result ensued. I see by reading his account of the matter that, with the wonderful precision and clearness which insanity sometimes attains, he has given a very clear account of all that happened up to the time of that terrible outbreak on Red Hill. There he burst forth a raving madman. What might have happened had not two other pedestrians fortunately approached, I do not pretend to say. Yet, previous to that occurrence, till within two or three days, at least, no one had appeared to suspect him of not being in his right mind. My poor sister Edith! How she has suffered in this sad affair! It comes to light, however, when all is said and done, that some of his college friends had noted some inexplicable mystery about his conduct, even at the very time of young Maymore's disappearance.

So I have let his story stand. I am surprised to find how clear it is; how grave a case, indeed, he has made out against me. For so "the gods make mock at us," as he himself has said.

THE END.