| No. 160 Fulton Street, | | | | Room No. 11, New York. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------
---+ | | | Henry L. Stephens, | | | | artist, | | | | No. 160 Fulton street, | | | | new York. | | | +-----------------------------------------------------------
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by the punchinello publishing company, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.

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[Illustration]

The mystery of Mr. E. Drood.

An adaptation.

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