O N more than one account the 25th of April will always be a notable anniversary in the calendar of Mr. Arthur Ripley. To begin with, on that day he pocketed his first serious retainer as a lawyer. He got down-town a little late that morning. The weather was superb—blue sky and summer temperature. Central Park was within easy walking distance. His own engagements, alas, were not pressing. So he had treated himself to an afterbreakfast ramble across the common. On entering his office, toward elev

A RTHUR RIPLEY—good-natured, impressionable, unpractical Arthur Ripley, as his familiars called him—dwelt in Beekman Place. Beek-man Place, as the reader may not know, is a short, chocolate-colored, unpretentious thoroughfare, perched on the eastern brink of Manhattan Island, and commanding a fine view of the river, of the penitentiary, and of the oil factories at Hunter’s Point. Arthur and a friend of his, Mr. Julian Hetzel, kept house in the two upper stories of No. 43, an old German woman nam

M ONDAY morning Arthur entered Peixada’s warehouse promptly as the clock struck ten. Peixada had not yet got down. Arthur was conducted by a dapper little salesman to an inclosure fenced off at the rear of the showroom, and bidden to “make himself at home.” By and by, to kill time, he picked up a directory—the only literature in sight—and extracted what amusement he could from it, by hunting out the names of famous people—statesmen, financiers, etc. The celebrities exhausted, he turned to his ow

A T home that evening, on the loggia , Hetzel said, “I have news for you.” “Ah?” queried Arthur. “Yes—about your mystery across the way.” “Well?” “She’s no longer a mystery. The ambiguity surrounding her has been dispelled.” “Well, go on.” “To start with, after you went down-town this morning, carts laden with furniture began to rattle into the street, and the furniture was carried into No. 46. It appears that they have taken the whole house, after all. They were merely camping out in the third

A NOTHER week slipped away. The weather changed. There was rain almost every day, and a persistent wind blew from the north-east. So the loggia of No. 43 Beekman Place was not much patronized. Nevertheless, Arthur heard Mrs. Lehmyl sing from time to time. When he would reach home at night, he generally ensconced himself near to a window at the front of the house; and now and then his vigilance was encouraged by the sound of her voice. Hetzel, of course, ran him a good deal. He took the running v

RIPLEY, attorney, New York: “Draft accepted. Begin immediately. “Ulrich.” S uch was the cable dispatch that Arthur got a fortnight after he had mailed his letter to Counselor Ulrich of Vienna. A fortnight later still, the post brought him an epistle to the same effect. Then ensued four weeks of silence. During these four weeks one question had received a good share of his attention. The substance and the solution of it, may be gathered from the following conversation held between him and Peixada

T HE four weeks had wound away. I shall not detain the reader with a history of them. The log-book of a prosperous voyage is apt to be dull literature. They were four weeks of delightful progress toward a much-desired goal—four weeks of unmitigated happiness. The course of true love ran smooth. Time flew. Looking forward, to be sure, Arthur thought the hoped-for day would never come. But looking backward from the eve of it, he was compelled to wonder whither the time had sped. On Thursday, the 2

P UT yourself in his place. At first, as we have seen, he was simply stunned, bewildered. His breath was taken away, his understanding baffled. His senses were thrown into disorder. It was as if a cannon had gone off under his feet, all was uproar and smoke and confusion. But by degrees the smoke lifted. The outlines of things became distinct. One stupendous fact stared Arthur in the face. Its magnitude was appalling. Its proportions were out of nature: The sight of it froze his blood, sickened

A RTHUR ran up the steps of Mrs. Hart’s house, and, opening the door with his latch-key, entered the parlor. The gas was burning at full head. Hetzel was stretched at length in an easy-chair, his hands thrust deep into his trowsers-pockets. At sight of Arthur, he rose and advanced on tip-toe to meet him. “Hush-sh,” he said, putting his finger to his lips. He pointed to the sofa, upon which Mrs. Hart lay, asleep. Then he took Arthur’s arm, and led him through the hall into the back room. There th

R OMER drew near to Mr. Flint. “I did all I could,” he said. “Things look pretty desperate now, don’t they?” Mr. Flint returned. Hetzel tugged at his beard. Mrs. Hart started up. “Oh, for mercy’s sake, Mr. Romer, you are not going to let them take her back to—to that place, are you?” “I don’t see how I can help it. Bail is out of the question, after what has happened, you know.” “But can’t I see her and speak to her just a moment, first?” “Oh, certainly; you can do that.” Romer stepped aside and

T HURSDAY morning it rained. Hetzel was seated in Mrs. Hart’s dining-room, making such an apology for a breakfast as, under the circumstances, could be expected of him, when the waitress announced that Josephine was in the kitchen, and wished to speak with her master. “All right,” said Hetzel; “ask her to step this way.” Josephine presented herself. Not without some embarrassment, she declared that she had heard what rumor had to say of Mrs. Ripley’s imprisonment and of Mr. Ripley’s sickness, an

O N Thursday, August 14th, at about half, past one in the afternoon, Assistant-district-attorney Romer was seated in his office, poring over a huge law-book’, and smoking a huge cigar, when the door suddenly flew open, and in came, or more accurately, in burst Mr. Julian Hetzel. In one hand Hetzel carried a dripping umbrella; the other hand was thrust deep into the breast of its owner’s coat. Hetzel’s face wore an expression of intense excitement. Romer lifted his eyes from off his law-book, rem