of fate which brought together these two children of the same father, each with such different histories—­the one reared in luxury and affluence, never having known want; the other dragged up in the gutter, all unsexed and besmirched by the life she had led.  “The whirligig of time brings in its revenges,” and it was the last thing in the world Mark Frettlby would have thought of seeing:  Rosanna Moore’s child, whom he fancied dead, under the same roof as his daughter Madge.

On receiving Madge’s message Sal came to the drawing room, and the two were soon chatting amicably together.  The room was almost in darkness, only one lamp being lighted, Mr. Frettlby very sensibly detested gas, with its glaring light, and had nothing but lamps in his drawing-room.  At the end of the apartment, where Sal and Madge were seated, there was a small table.  On it stood a large lamp, with an opaque globe, which, having a shade over it, threw a soft and subdued circle of light round the table, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of semi-darkness.  Near this sat Madge and Sal, talking gaily, and away on the left-hand side they could see the door open, and a warm flood of light pouring in from the hall.

They had been talking together for some time, when Sal’s quick ear caught a footfall on the soft carpet, and, turning rapidly, she saw a tall figure advancing down the room.  Madge saw it too, and started up in surprise on recognising her father.  He was clothed in his dressing-gown, and carried some papers in his hand.

“Why, papa,” said Madge, in surprise.  “I—­”

“Hush!” whispered Sal, grasping her arms.  “He’s asleep.”

And so he was.  In accordance with the dictates of the excited brain, the weary body had risen from the bed and wandered about the house.  The two girls, drawing back into the shadow, watched him with bated breath as he came slowly down the room.  In a few moments he was within the circle of light, and, moving noiselessly along, he laid the papers he carried on the table.  They were in a large blue envelope much worn, with writing in red ink on it.  Sal recognised it, at once as the one she had seen in the possession of the dead woman, and with an instinctive feeling that there was something wrong, she tried to draw Madge back, as she watched her father’s action with an intensity of feeling which held her spell-bound.  Frettlby opened the envelope, and took therefrom a yellow, frayed piece of paper, which he spread out on the table.  Madge bent forward to see it, but Sal, with a sudden terror drew her back.

“For God’s sake no,” she cried.

But it was too late; Madge had caught sight of the names on the paper—­“Marriage—­Rosanna Moore—­Mark Frettlby”—­and the whole awful truth flashed upon her.  These were the papers Rosanna Moore had handed to Whyte.  Whyte had been murdered by the man to whom the papers were of value—­

“Oh!  My father!”