BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE SKELETON IS MCLAUGHLIN'S CLOSET.

Night, spotted with stars, like a black leopard, crouched once more upon
Bumsteadville, and her one eye to be seen in profile, the moon, glared
upon the helpless place with something of a cat's nocturnal stare of
glassy vision for a stupefied mouse. Midnight had come with its twelve
tinkling drops more of opiate, to deepen the stupor of all things almost
unto death, and still the light shone luridly through the
window-curtains of Mr. BUMSTEAD'S room, and still the lonely musician
sat stiffly at a dinner-table spread for three, whereof only a goblet, a
curious antique black bottle, a bowl of sugar, a saucer of lemon-slices,
a decanter of water, and a saucer of cloves appeared to have been used
by the solitary diner.

Unconscious that, through the door ajar at his back, a pair of vigilant
human orbs were upon him, the ritualistic organist, who was in very low
spirits, drew an emaciated and rather unsteady hand repeatedly across
his perspiring brow, and talked in deep bass to himself.

"He came in, af'r' bein' brisgly walked up'n-down the turnpike by
PENDRAGON, and slammed himself down-'n-that-chair," ran the soliloquy,
with a ghostly nod towards an opposite chair, drawn back from the table.
"'Inebrious boy!' says I, sternly, 'how-are-y'-now?' He said
'Poorawell;' 'n' wen' down on-er-floor fas'hleep! I w's
scan'l'ized.--Whowoonbe?--I took m' umbrella 'n' thrashed 'm with it,
remarking 'F'shame! waygup! mis'able boy! 's poorysight-f'r-'nuncle-t'