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folded it, and displayed his at the finger before continuing, gruesome relic.

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"No, it can't be that, there's nothing wrong with it."

"By George, you're right," said Mr Costello, slightly dashed. "I didn't think of that. What would they be cutting off a healthy finger for? But are you sure there's nothing wrong with it," he continued. "What are all those cuts and tears in it?"

"I think those have been done after it was cut off," said Michael, studying the specimen again. "There's been no

"It's a human finger sure enough," said Michael, who was a medical student, and . I'd say it was a woman's finger at that." "The Lord save us," said bleeding round these cuts; perMrs Costello.

"And you say a gull dropped it at your feet," continued the student.

"It did," answered his uncle. "Then," said Michael, "I wonder where it was the seagull got it, for this finger has been cut off at the joint by a knife, and a sharp knife tooand what's more, it's fresh."

"The Lord save!" said Mrs Costello again. "I suppose it's the way there's been an accident."

"No," said Mr Costello, the butcher in him rising to the surface, "that's no accident. You couldn't cut off a middlefinger like that by accident." He studied his own large fleshy hand intently. "That must have been done on purpose; perhaps it was an operation on one of the ships." He glanced up triumphantly, inwardly inwardly amazed at his own mental quickness.

"No," began Michael, and hesitated, taking another look

haps it was the way the gulls have been pecking at it."

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There might be bad work at the back of it," said Michael.

"There might too," said his uncle, "but I'm not going to walk in to Aghada while the tide is on the flood and the mackerel coming in."

"Well, I'll put the finger in alcohol and keep it anyway," said the medical student, "and we might tell the coastguards at the station on our way down to the rocks. If there's anything to be done, 'tis they ought to do it."

"That's right too," said Mr Costello; "put it in some alcohol-don't waste the whisky, but get some methylated from the kitchen-and we'll tell the coastguards when we've had a bit of fishing."

By the time Mr Costello and Michael reached the ledge of rocks under the lighthouse from which they were accustomed to fish, the tide was running in strongly, and the mist, under the influence of an as yet invisible sun, was rapidly clearing. A light breeze was creeping in from the sea, and presently, under the combined effects of sun and breeze, the haze vanished, leaving the whole world asparkle with dancing wavelets. A small yacht, beating slowly out against the tide, tacked close to where they were standing. Her only visible occupant, the helmsman, with his leg crooked over the tiller, was busy with a line over the stern, and seemed to be pulling in mackerel as fast as he could unhook them.

Uncle and nephew, abandoning themselves to the charm of the hour, forgot all about the grim discovery of the morning in the excitement of their sport. Innumerable sea-gulls came floating in on the rising tide, ever and anon rising in fierce flocks to attack the shoals of sprats driven to the surface by the serried ranks of mackerel below them. The whole air resounded with the screaming of the birds, and from time to

time came the comet-like rush of a gannet, hurling himself from aloft into the fray. Close to the rocks the water was clear and calm, but now and then the surface would be broken by a silvery shower of sprats springing desperately into the air to escape their enemies, and then in a moment the whole sea would boil with fish, and Mr Costello and Michael, shouting in their excitement, would seem unable to ply their rods with sufficient speed. As the tide rose the sport slackened, and presently the fishermen, gathering their catch, began the ascent of the cliffs. It was only then that Mr Costello bethought him of the finger. Depositing their rods and fish at the house, they took the jar containing the relic and hurried off to the coastguard station to report.

The chief of the coastguards listened to their story carefully, heard their theories patiently, and took charge of the specimen. He said that he would have a search of the foreshore carried out by his patrol, and that he would report the matter to the police. He made a note of Mr Costello's name and address in case anything should, as he expressed it, transpire.

The coastguard patrol searched the shore and found nothing. The police prosecuted inquiries and obtained no information of moment. A report was sent to headquarters and filed.

CHAPTER II.-THE RING.

Mention has been made of a small yacht, steered by a solitary figure, which tacked close to where the Costellos were fishing from the rocks at the harbour's mouth. The yacht in question was the Banshee of Greenwich, owner Mr A. J. Peabody, and it was Mr Peabody himself who was at the helm.

Arthur Jarvis Peabody was a young bachelor of what is called the leisured class-that is to say, he was in possession of a sufficient annual income to provide him with the food, clothes, and lodging to which his body had been educated, without any exertion on his part other than that necessitated in the signing of cheques.

Thus fortunately situated, the majority of his kind would have tended to live a more and more vegetable, or animal, existence, but Arthur Jarvis had a curious leaning towards authorship, and the gratification of this impulse kept him from becoming entirely subservient to his physical entity. Mr Peabody was indeed an author, but he was, as yet, unrecognised. He wrote profusely, though without distinction, on various subjects, but either his choice of material, or his treatment of it, had so far failed to appeal to the numerous editors who had been afforded an opportunity of studying them. Recently, how ever, he had been accorded a measure of recognition, for the

editor of a heavy quarterly, when returning one of of his manuscripts, had, in a moment of expansiveness, suggested that this would-be contributor might do well to devote himself in future to the production of detective fiction.

This advice Mr Peabody was now revolving in his mind as his yacht splashed her way steadily through the water on a south-westerly course. The heavy weather of the previous three days had compelled the Banshee to seek the shelter of Cork Harbour, much against the wishes of her owner, who was bound for Bantry Bay on a visit to his friends the Scudamores, at Shanbally House. On this morning of 15th September 1906 the fog and the calm had caused still further delay, and when the weather had eventually permitted of a start, Mr Peabody's impatience had grudged the time necessary for the preparation of breakfast, and consequently it was not until he had reached the entrance of the harbour that he had sent the man, who constituted his "crew," below to prepare food.

While this operation was in progress Mr Peabody perceived that there were several shoals of mackerel working in the neighbourhood, and, feeling that a few fish would not come amiss, he threw a line over the stern and in a few minutes had sufficient for his simple needs. It

was while these fish were being prepared for the frying-pan that there came to light, in the stomach of one of them, the diamond and sapphire ring which was destined, during the next six months, to afford the owner of the Banshee much food for thought.

The ring itself was of no particular value, exhibiting neither originality of design nor superlative workmanship. It was indeed a very ordinary example of those pledges of affection with which young men are in the habit of branding their future wives as a protection against the unwelcome attentions of other suitors.

And yet, as Mr Peabody ruminated upon it, while callously eating the carcass of its recent vector, there came to him the idea that this ring might serve him as the nucleus of a romance. The more he pondered upon it the more it pleased him, and all through that day of sun and wind his mind was busy with plot and counterplot, the warp and woof of a tale which he hoped would place his name on the bookstalls of every railway station in the kingdom.

The passage to Bantry Bay passed pleasantly and quickly under the influence of this mental stimulus, and by the time Mr Peabody was comfortably installed at Shanbally House the scaffolding of the romance had already been erected in his mind.

The atmosphere in which he found himself was, however,

not at all conducive to literary effort, and the days slipped by without any additions to the mental picture. The ring was, of course, produced and wondered over, and the prospective author went so far as to outline for his hostess the main features of his coming masterpiece; but the perfect weather, and the succession of picnics and garden parties which it evoked, drove all thoughts of the activities of the underworld from his head.

On 28th September-the last day of his visit-a possible clue to the ownership of the ring was very close to his hand, but he was all unaware of it. His sandwiches that day were wrapped in a piece of the

Munster Advertiser' of the 27th, which he had scanned with an unseeing eye the previous evening while waiting for dinner. In a corner of the front page was a small paragraph recording the loss at sea of Mrs John Northbrook on the morning of 15th September.

Mr Peabody ate his sandwiches sitting amidst the heather by the side of a lake. The paper in which the food had been wrapped lay unfolded at his side. As he munched his eyes passed vaguely over the print. The paper was greasy with exuded butter. A fish rose near some reeds by the shore. Mr Peabody looked up at the sound of the splash. He picked up the paper, crumpled it into a ball, and flung it into a little brook which ran

by his side. It floated away, and presently unfolded and sank. Mr Peabody lit his pipe, took up his rod, and resumed his fishing.

The paragraph which he had failed to see ran as follows:

"STRANGE OCCURRENCE AT

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SEA.

New York, Sept. 26th.-The captain of s.s. Casabianca, which arrived here to-day, reports the loss at sea of Mrs Coralie Northbrook, wife of Mr John Northbrook of London. Mr and Mrs Northbrook were travelling to San Francisco, and intended to take up their residence in that city, which was Mrs Northbrook's former home. A certain amount of mystery surrounds the occurrence, for no one appears to have seen Mrs Northbrook fall overboard. She was first missed by her husband at 10 A.M. on 15th September when the Casabianca was about twenty miles west of the Fastnet Light, but no anxiety was felt, as it was supposed that she was engaged in conversation with some of the passengers. However, a thorough search of the vessel

failed to reveal any sign of the unfortunate lady, and eventually it was concluded that she must have fallen overboard. Mrs Northbrook had been suffering from depression and sleeplessness for some time previously, and it was for the sake of her health that the journey was being undertaken. Before her marriage to Mr Northbrook the deceased lady was the widow of Elisha T. Jobling of San Diego, California. Great sympathy is felt for the bereaved husband."

Even if Mr Peabody had seen this paragraph before it sank and disappeared, it is doubtful whether it would have made any more impression on his mind than it did on the minds of the thousands who read it. The incident, as related, was by no means unusual; New York is a long way off, and the occurrences of last week have very little interest in our busy lives unless they affect us personally.

On 29th September Mr Peabody left Shanbally and returned to London with the ring in his pocket, and the framework of a story in his mind.

CHAPTER III.-MR PEABODY IS IN LUCK.

A week after his arrival in London Mr Peabody presented himself at Scotland Yard. His story was not progressing as well as he could have wished. The plot depended upon the

possibility of the ring being traced back to the shop from which it had been purchased, and from his superficial knowledge of the marvels of the modern methods for the de

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