He saw fresh tears upwelling in her softly flashing eyes, and felt that that time would not be long in coming.

"Perhaps you are right," she said gently, "it will be best to try neither to meet nor to avoid each other. And should-should I change," she caught her breath, “I will be as candid as to-day. Believe me, oh believe me, I am no coquette to play with your happiness. No false shame shall keep me silent. But oh, do not hope too much. I will try-yes, I will try to forget, for your sake, my dear, dear friend."

A strange feeling of admiration of his own highmindedness, and a delicious rapture in the suppliant and apologetic humbleness of this beautiful creature, sent the blood coursing ecstatically through his veins.

"Whether you change or not," he said, in tones vibrating with emotion, "you will find me unchanged-ever longing for your love -ever waiting patiently. And so-good-bye."

He put his hand into hers, and, abandoning herself to a sudden impulse of gratitude, she touched it softly with her lips. Stirred by an equally irresistible impulse he folded her in his arms and kissed her on the mouth twice. She made no resistance, but he put her down immediately and hurried from the room, trembling with the conviction that their love had been sealed beyond all severance.

CHAPTER VI.

NON OMNIS MORIAR.

THE preparations for the funeral of the Premier, which was to take place in Westminster Abbey, had been rapidly pushed forwards, and all was in readiness by the time the inquest was over. The day broke dull and windy, but about nine o'clock the sky cleared, the sun leapt out in triumphant glory, and one of the loveliest of summer days clad itself in all its bright vesture to welcome the melancholy but majestic procession that was soon to defile through the black-draped streets of the great city. For obvious reasons there had been no lying-instate. The murdered Minister lay in his magnificent coffin at his own official residence at Downing Street, where a few of his distant relatives (for his sister's yacht was at the other side of the globe) had helped Tremaine in superintending the last sad arrangements. The oak of the coffin was invisible under a mass of fragrant flowers-wreaths from the Queen and other European sovereigns, from Ministers of every nation, from the noblest families, from every party of politicians, from schools and institutions, from the working men of England, from the women of England, and a huge floral structure from the whole Irish nation, with artistic and emblematic interweaving of sprays of yew

with roses and shamrocks. Poor Floppington, cut off after so short a time from the triumphs of ambition and the selfishly unselfish delights of historic action, what matter to thee the honours heaped over thy unconscious form! Alas! not in life wast thou surrounded with the sweetness and loveliness which encompass thee now. If thou hadst some moments of perfect happiness, how poor, and mean, and bounded must thine earlier life have been to thy restless spirit, pluming for the eagle-flight it was only permitted to begin? After all, was it worth while to live, bereft of the love of her whose face haunted thee in dreams of the night-a vision of angelic purity and high thought-impalpable as a mirage, unattainable as the distant heavens, alternately darkening thy soul with hopeless longing and stirring it to lofty endeavour? Nay, were there not moments when, looking down the barren stretch of the future, it seemed better to thee to die and be saved from the fever and fret of existence? Well, wished for or not, Pallida Mors has knocked at thy door to point anew the olden lesson that the mighty of this world are as shadows on the stream and the glories of their lives as transient as the hues of a soap-bubble.

Outside, in the sunlight that would never more gladden those poor, blind eyes, the procession was forming. Ever since early dawn the great city had been pouring out from its reeking courts and lanes, from streets and roads and squares, dreary or pleasant, from its million haunts of luxury or squalor, from the great termini of its railway lines, a restlessly-surging crowd that pressed into every available nook and cranny of the streets along the route. The continent and the provinces, Wales, and Scotland, and, above all, Ireland, had sent contingents to swell the closely-wedged throngsover and above the official delegates. London, aflame with the splendour of the morning sunlight, alert and astir with an eager and feverish life, was in curious contrast with the darkness and the calm that reigned within the narrow house of the poor dead Premier.

And now the vast procession set out on its slow and solemn journey-through streets, lined with human beings along the footpaths, swarming with heads at windows, black with forms on roofs and galleries and scaffoldings, tier upon tier, and gloomy despite the sunbeams with vistas of crape; past clubs and mansions; along busy thoroughfares whence death had banished their wonted traffic; till the great Abbey came in sight and the great river where the flags were lowered on the myriad masts and where from afar boomed sullenly in the sultry air the cannon which the gray old Tower was firing off from its weather-beaten ramparts. It was an unforgettable spectacle-this funeral pomp, relieved from vulgarity by the sincerity of the emotions which found expression in it, and by the awed silence of the dense multitudes; this procession which took an hour and a half defiling past any given point, with its magnificent bodies of troops, its glittering cavalcade of officials, its hundreds of deputations, its long files of working men, its waving banners, its almost endless array of mourning coaches filled with the élite of society.

The steady, mournful tramp of thousands of feet, mingling with the wail of the music and the tolling of the bells from twenty neighbouring spires, was indescribably affecting. As the colossal car approached, containing the coffin under its mountain of flowers, every whisper was hushed. Amid a profound silence, every one that could get his hand to his hat removed it, and there was a moment of intense sublimity while the body was slowly passing onwards. But there were grander moments when the corpse reached the venerable Abbey that offered it the inviolate shelter of its sanctuary and the companionship of the noble dead who had preceded it, and the body of clergymen in their snowy surplices met it with solemn, simultaneous chanting; or when the vast congregation audibly joined in the Lord's Prayer, while the liberal sunshine streamed through the painted glass and dappled nave and choir and transept, or fell in lines of gold through the glazed glories of the marygold window; or when the great organ trembled with dirge-like moaning or swelled high in triumphant rapture, till groin and vault and pillar re-echoed the sacred ecstasy and the whole mighty Abbey throbbed with the passionate proclamation of immortality, and every cheek was wet with tears.

The service was almost over-the choir was singing the last hymn-when an incident occurred outside that attracted little attention. The entrance to the Abbey had been kept comparatively free from the crowd by the police. All of a sudden a man was seen struggling through the press, and making his way towards the building. Those who saw his face never forgot its ghastliness to their dying day. His hat had fallen off in the struggle, and his scanty, rough, unkempt hair intensified the_grim uncouthness and the corpse-like pallor of his appearance. For the rest, he was respectably dressed, and he had a wild expression which did not seem to be the result of ordinary intoxication. He was evidently labouring under strong excitement of some kind. A jovial-looking policeman laid his hand good-naturedly on his shoulder.

"It's no use, my man," said the genial functionary. "All full inside."

The man shook the arm off roughly, and dashed forwards, but the policeman caught him with his outstretched hand. "Let me go!" gasped the man. "I must go in--I must see him-to beg his pardon and kneel to him—before he is buried. For God's sake, do not stop me."

"Oh, come!" said the policeman irreverently, "you've had a drop too much. You had better go home and get to bed."

Bed!" cried the man wildly. "If I had stopped in bed when I heard it this morning—I have been riding all day, though I have been ill-all day flying to his corpse on the wings of steam--and would you stop me now? Oh, God forgive you for your cruelty!"

The policeman shook his head pityingly. “You ain't the sort of chap to be let go inside," he soliloquised. "Look 'ere," he said, "there's something queer about you. I shouldn't wonder if you've escaped from Colney Hatch. What's your name and address ?"

He

"Ah! you will let me go in when I tell you who I am." bent down and whispered, "I am the Right Honourable Arnold Floppington."

The policeman's brain whirled, but he retained his hold on the man, who had drawn himself up in momentary dignity. An idea flashed upon him that made his breath come thick and fast, and called up a dim perspective of wonderful visions. He collected himself with an effort, and peered into the face of the stranger. Trembling with agitation he tightened his grasp.

"Come round the other way," he said in a low tone; “I'll let you in through a private entrance."

He led the man through the crowd, retaining composure enough to wink meaningly at those of his fellows whom he passed, and conducted him quickly into a deserted back street,

Then he turned upon him suddenly.

"Jack Dawe," he said sternly.

The man shuddered and his cheeks flushed with crimson.

"He was mad, after all, and he's more like Floppy than like his own picture," reflected the policeman, with gleaming eyes, and, slipping the handcuffs on his wrists, he cried triumphantly:

"Jack Dawe, I arrest you for the murder of the Right Honourable Arnold Floppington."

The man burst into hysterical laughter so wild and ghastly that his captor shuddered.

"Yes, yes," he cried, "I read that this morning. But, you see, it's all a mistake. I am the Premier, I tell you. Where is the private entrance? I must go in. Unloose me at once, for the love of God."

He made a dart in the direction whence they had come, his handcuffs clanking dismally. The policeman gave instant chase, and re-captured him at the very corner of the street where a moment's more running would have brought them full in view of the dense multitude that seethed around the Abbey and all about the trailing array of coaches.

With an imperious hand he dragged him peremptorily back a few yards, and held him tightly by the collar. Captor and prisoner stood for an instant glaring at each other and panting for breath. "You're lucky," gasped the policeman, "that I caught you before you had turned that corner. You'd have been a dead man by now, very likely."

"What do you mean?" gasped the man, evidently sobered by the violent treatment he had received, and impressed by the alarmed accents of his captor.

"Mean? Why you'd have been torn to pieces, and all the corps in London couldn't save you. Why, they think boiling oil ain't good enough for you! No, my man, if you've got the least bit of sense left in you, you'll come along o' me like a lamb, and take care not to let out who you are. We'll get a growler in a minute, if you'll be quiet, and I'll do my best to get you safe into Newgate without any riot."

"Into Newgate?" cried the murderer, his face lighting up with horror and indignation. "I go into Newgate!"

"It's no use crying over spilt milk, my beauty," said the policeman grimly, "you should have thought of that before."

Good God!" the prisoner exclaimed hoarsely, "this is beyond a joke. There, do you hear those sounds? The funeral is over. He is buried- buried, and you have stopped me from going in. On you lies the responsibility. It is too late now." He groaned

aloud.

66 Stow that," said the policeman impatiently, but not brutally, for his heart was light, and something sang within his brain, and he was thinking of his wife and children. He had been dragging his limp and helpless victim along, and they had reached a thoroughfare out of the route of the procession, but still crowded with loiterers.

"Now then, Jack Dawe, keep a still tongue if you value your life," he whispered. He hailed a cab, and bundled his prisoner into it.

"Where to?" asked the driver, flicking his whip at the little crowd that had gathered round.

66

Downing Street," cried the prisoner. The policeman clapped his hand over his mouth. "Anywhere," he shouted, in an agony of anxiety. "Drive out of this-keep clear of the crowd." The vehicle started off. When they were rolling rapidly along, the policeman withdrew his hand, pulled up the windows, and drew down the blinds.

Am

"For God's sake," gasped the almost choking prisoner, "don't direct him to Newgate. I could not bear it! Listen to me. I not speaking calmly? I tell you I am Floppington, yes, the Premier himself. Look at me. You have eyes; in Heaven's name, look at me. I have not been murdered. You laugh at me. Great God, you laugh at me! 'Tis thus that Truth is always receivedwith ridicule and scepticism. I tell you again I am the Prime Minister."

"Then you're dead and buried, so shut up," said the policeman grinning. Why, don't you see I'm in mourning for you?"

66

He put his hand to the checkstring to summon the driver, but something in the agony of the prisoner's countenance, down which the cold sweat was trickling, made him pause a moment in pity. The murderer caught the changed expression.

"In the name of your wife and children,” he entreated, “I beg and pray you to believe me. I have not been murdered."

“I can see that,” muttered the policeman, beginning to smile afresh.

"Do not mock at me. I am Mr. Floppington--Mr. Floppington, do you understand? I am alive. It was Jack Dawe that was murdered, not I. Oh! my God, not I. Do you suppose if I had been Jack Dawe I should have come to the funeral? Drive to Downing Street at once. I must see Tremaine-Tremaine, my secretary. He will soon tell you the mistake you are making.”