advise you of this bequest that I have sought
such a roundabout mode of communication. I have a greater and a much
more important bequest to make to the Society, through you, its
accredited agent. I have in my possession a green DIAMOND, the estimated
value of which is a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. This precious gem
I shall leave to you, by you to be sold after my death, the proceeds of
the sale to be added to the other funded property of the Society of San
Marco.

"The Diamond in question became mine during my travels in India many
years ago. I believe my estimate of its value to be a correct one.
Except my confidential servant, Cleon (whom you will remember), no one
is aware that I have in my possession a stone of such immense value. I
have never trusted it out of my own keeping, but have always retained
it by me, in a safe place, where I could lay my hands upon it at a
moment's notice. But not even to Cleon have I entrusted the secret of
the hiding-place, incorruptibly faithful as I believe him to be. It is a
secret locked in my own bosom alone.

"You will now understand why I have resorted to cryptography in bringing
these facts under your notice. It is intended that these lines shall not
be read by you till after my decease. Had I adopted the ordinary mode of
communicating with you, it seemed to me not impossible that some other
eye than the one for which it was intended might peruse this statement
before it reached you, and that through some foul play or underhand deed
the Diamond might never come into your possession.

"It only remains for me now to point out where and by what means the
Diamond may be found. It is hidden away in--"

* * * * *

Here the MS., never completed, ended abruptly.

(_To be continued._)

RONDEAU.

In vain we call to youth, "Return!"
In vain to fires, "Waste not, yet burn!"
In vain to all life's happy things,
"Give the days song--give the hours wings!
Let us lose naught--yet always learn!"

The tongue must lose youth, as it sings--
New knowledge still new sorrow brings:
Oh, sweet lost youth, for which we yearn
In vain!
But even this hour from which ye turn--
Impatient--o'er its funeral urn
Your soul with mad importunings
Will cry, "Come back, lost hour!" So rings
Ever the cry of those who yearn
In vain.

E. NESBIT.

SAP