ean Merle.

"She has won her rank as an author," replied the bookseller. "I knew her
husband well, and he always foretold that she would make her mark; and
she has. He died fourteen years ago; and, strange to say, there was
something about your step as you came in which reminded me of him. Do
you belong to Riversborough?"

"No," he answered; "but my name is Jean Merle, and I am related to
Madame Sefton, his mother. I suppose there is some of the same blood in
Roland Sefton and me."

"That is it," said the bookseller cordially. "I thought you were a
foreigner, though you speak English so well."

"There was some mystery about Roland Sefton's death?" remarked Jean
Merle.

"No, no; at least not much," was the answer. "He went away on a long
holiday, unluckily without announcing it, on account of bank business;
but Mr. Clifford, the senior partner, was on his way to take charge of
affairs. There was but one day between Roland Sefton's departure and Mr.
Clifford's arrival, but during that very day, for some reason or other
unknown, the head clerk committed suicide, and there was a panic and a
run upon the bank. Unfortunately there was no means of communicating
with Sefton, who had started at once for the continent. Mr. Clifford did
not see any necessity for his return, as the mischief was done; but just
as his six months' absence was over--not all holiday, as folks said, for
there was foreign business to see after--he died by accident in
Switzerland. I knew the truth better than most people; for Mr. Clifford
came here often, and dropped many a hint. Some persons still say the
police were seeking for Roland; but that is not true. It was an
unfortunate concatenation of circumstances."

"You knew him well?" said Jean Merle.

"Yes; we were school-fellows and friends," answered the bookseller, "and
a finer fellow never breathed. He was always eager to get on, and to
help other people on. We have not had such a public-spirited man amongst
us since he died. It cuts me to the heart when anybody pretends that he
absconded. Absconded! Why! there were dozens of us who would have made
him welcome to every penny we could command. But I own appearances were
against him, and he never came back to clear them up, and prove his
innocence."

"And this is his wife's best book," said Jean Merle, holding it with
shaking, nerveless hands. Felicita's book! The tears burned under his
eyelids as he looked down on it.

"I won't say it is th