who was still lingering in attendance, and I even fancied he talked to
us ostentatiously for his benefit. "Yes, it was a row of Tournelli's. He
was waiting at the corner; had rushed at Hays with a knife, but had been
met with a derringer-shot through his hat. The lady, who, it seems, was
only a chance steamer acquaintance of Hays', thought the attack must
have been meant for HER, as she had recognized in the Italian a man who
had stolen from her divorced husband in the States, two years ago, and
was a fugitive from justice. At least that was the explanation given by
Hays, for the woman had fainted and been driven off to her hotel by
the Quartermaster, and Tournelli had escaped. But the Editor was on his
track. You didn't notice that lady, Tom, did you?"

Tom came out of an abstracted study, and said: "No, she had her back to
me all the time."

Manners regarded him steadily for a moment without speaking, but in a
way that I could not help thinking was much more embarrassing to the
bystanders than to him. When we rose to leave, as he placed his usual
gratuity into Tom's hand, he said carelessly, "You might drop into my
office to-morrow if you have anything to tell ME."

"I haven't," said Tom quietly.

"Then I may have something to tell YOU."

Tom nodded, and turned away to his duties. The Mining Secretary and
myself could scarcely wait to reach the street before we turned eagerly
on Manners.

"Well?"

"Well; the woman you saw was Tom's runaway wife, and Tournelli the man
she ran away with."

"And Tom knew it?"

"Can't say."

"And you mean to say that all this while Tom never suspected HIM, and
even did not recognize HER just now?"

Manners lifted his hat and passed his fingers through his hair
meditatively. "Ask me something easier, gentlemen."

A TREASURE OF THE GALLEON.

Her father's house was nearly a mile from the sea, but the breath of
it was always strong at the windows and doors in the early morning, and
when there were heavy "southwesters" blowing in the winter, the wind
brought the sharp sting of sand to her cheek, and the rain an odd taste
of salt to her lips. On this particular December afternoon, however, as
she stood in the doorway, it seemed to be singularly calm; the southwest
trades blew but faintly, and scarcely broke the crests of the long
Pacific swell that lazily rose and fell on the beach, which only
a slanting copse of scrub-oak and willow hid from the cottage.
Nevertheless