emonth these two
shall part more horribly than man and wife ever parted before!"

CHAPTER XVII.

MR. PARMALEE'S LITTLE MYSTERY.

Kingsland Court had from time immemorial been one of the show-places of
the county, Thursday being always set apart as the visitors' day.

The portly old housekeeper used to play cicerone, but the portly old
housekeeper, growing portlier and older every day, got in time quite
unable to waddle up and down and pant out gasping explanations to the
strangers.

So Miss Sybilla Silver, with her usual good nature, came to the rescue,
got the history of the old house, and the old pictures, and cabinets,
and curiosities, and suits of armor and things by heart, and took Mrs.
Comfit's place.

The first Thursday after the marriage of Sir Everard there came
sauntering up to the Court, in the course of the afternoon, a tall
young gentleman, smoking a cigar, and with his hands thrust deep in his
trousers pockets.

He was not only tall, but uncommonly tall, uncommonly lanky and
loose-boned, and his clothes had the general air of being thrown on
with a pitchfork.

He wore a redundance of jewelry, in the shape of a couple of yards of
watch-chain, a huge seal ring on each little finger, and a flaring
diamond breastpin of doubtful quality.

His clothes were light, his hair was light, his eyes were light. He
was utterly devoid of hirsute appendages, and withal he was tolerably
good-looking and unmistakably wide awake.

He threw away his cigar as he reached the house, and astonished the
understrapper who admitted him by presenting his card with a
flourishing bow.

"Jest give that to the boss, my man," said this personage, coolly. "I
understand you allow strangers to explore this old castle of your'n,
and I've come quite a piece for that express purpose."

The footman gazed at him, then at the card, and then sought out Miss
Silver.

"Blessed if it isn't that 'Merican that's stopping at the Vine, and
that asked so many questions about Sir Everard and my lady, of Dawson,
last night," he said.

Sybilla took the card curiously. It was a _bona-fide_ piece of
pasteboard, printed all over in little, stumpy capitals:

GEORGE WASHINGTON PARMALEE,
PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST,
No. 1060 BROADWAY,
UPSTAIRS.

Miss Silver laughed.

"The gentleman wants to see the house, does he? Of course he must see
it, then, Higgins. And he was asking questions of Dawson last night at
the