yielded to that voice. I used mercury with gold
dust poured into it. I hollowed out holes in the
crucibles, hid gold in them, and waxed the surface
over—the trick succeeded, the world hailed me
as a genius. I had an interview with the king, and
my triumph was complete. But the devil, when
he promises reward to his slaves, pays them only
with phantom and dissolving fame. That cold
reserved man who came yesterday has at last
fathomed my imposture, and now I am summoned
before the Royal Society, not as a discoverer to
receive honours, but as a criminal to be tried,
found guilty, punished, and disgraced. There
is no escape for me. I am a ruined and
degraded man; God help me."

Tears sprang to the unhappy man's eyes, and
he clasped his daughter in his arms, crying:

"Bertha, Bertha, do not despise and hate
your father.'

"Father, I pity you, I do not despise you.
who can tel how great and terrible was the
temptation! I, too, am a sinner; we are all
sinners. Do but repent, dear father, and believe
that I love you as much as ever. I know that
to such a mind as yours, failure alone is a great
punishment. Refuse to accept the decision of
these self-elected judges."

"My child, I do repent," said the dean,
replying not to Bertha's last advice, but to her
first words of consolation. "A cloud has passed
from me, I see my sin in all its blackness; but I
have to meet these men, and divert the suspicion
that this emissary of theirs will arouse, and I
dare not face the public shame; no, I dare not be
pointed out as a detected trickster." The dean
shuddered as he spoke.

"Why not be brave, dear father?" said Bertha;
"why not strip yourself of this false distinction!
Confess the tempting hopes that led you to
anticipate discovery by a false claim. Urge with
all your natural eloquence the certainty you still
entertain of the discovery, and throw yourself on
their mercy to guard your secret."

The dean shuddered again, this time more
perceptibly than before. "No, Bertha," he said,
speaking between his teeth. "No. I have not
the moral courage to bear such a degradation.
You do not know the scorn of rivals, the
flinty hardness of the angry fanatics of science,
vexed at even the hint of discoveries that shall
supersede their own. They are cruel and
envious, and they call their envy justice. No, rny
child, I must save myself in another way."

Tuesday, the first day of April, had arrived,
and the members of the Royal Society were
assembled in the great wainscoted room in
Somerset House. The president sat in his
emblazoned chair in almost regal dignity. The
row of faces around him were the faces of
the wisest and most learned men of the day.
They looked awful as an immense jury in their
close-cropped wigs. One of the members had
left his seat, and was talking to the secretary,
whose face was radiant with a cold sunshine.

"He will not come," said the member. "It
is five minutes past the time; I told you he
would not come."

"I tell you he will come," said the secretary.

At that moment one of the porters came in,
and announced the arrival of the Dean of
Salisbury.

The secretary hastened to the door to receive
the visitor. The dean was in the waiting-room,
seated. He rose and started when the secretary
entered to ask him into the council-room. One
glance at each other's eyes was sufficient to
inform the enemies of each other's meaning.

The dean was the first to speak. He owned
himself vanquished; he affected no concealment.
"Mr. Harding," he said, solemnly, "we have
been long rivals, and you have at last triumphed.
You see me helpless, disarmed, and at your
mercy; use that triumph generously. You have
unmasked my supposed discoveries; do not
push your victory further."

The dean spoke with flushed face and with
a feverish light in his eyes; but Mr. Harding
remained icy as before. Nothing could distract
him from his position of a scientific constable—
a fanatical imperturbable spy and detective.

He merely said, coldly, in the old dry
unchangeable voice,

"Mr. Dean, you do yourself a grievous wrong;
all the world is talking of you as the greatest
discoverer of the age. Our great society is
waiting to crown you with honour. Let no
false humility render you reluctant to accept
these well-earned honours. I go to inform the
president of your arrival." There was a smile
of triumph in the secretary's eye as he bowed
and left the room.

In three minutes he returned.

"Mr. Dean," he said, "the president is ready
to receive you."

No one answered. He looked. The dean
was not there. He looked again. He then saw in
a dark corner of the room a prostrate body. It
was the dean's. He felt his heart. He was
dead. A smell of bitter almonds rose from
the corpse. The dean had swallowed poison.

"I knew the rogue would not face inquiry,"
was the secretary's only comment.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER,
A New Series of Occasional Papers
By CHARLES DICKENS,
WILL BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK.

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