"So you attended Mrs. Carter?" said Young
Brett, with blunt interest. "I want to hear
about that illness. I am most anxious to know
all about poor Mrs. Carter, and how she——"

Suddenly the dirty glass door was opened by a
fresh pink-looking red-haired young man, with
quick eyes, who stood with his hand on the door
looking from one to the other. "Mrs. Carter's
illness!" he said. "Well, what about it? She was
ill, and she died, and was buried, like a thousand
other people. Who is this gentleman, father?"

Young Brett answered promptly that they were
merely talking over the town and the people who
had lived there.

"O!" said the young man, with a half smile;
"that was all, was it? How singular!  I am
Doctor Watkyn Jones. I carry on the business.
He is not able to go about and do the visiting.
Father, you had better go up-stairs; there is a
better fire there."  He held the door with a
quiet look that seemed to amount to an order.
Trembling and looking on the ground with his
parchment face, the old man tottered away. As
soon as he was gone, the other sat down at the
table, and began to talk with great frankness. "I
know what this is about, sir," he said, "perfectly
well. The insurance people had persons down
here poking and prying about, trying to get up
suspicions against honest people. It is always
their game. It is shameful! As far as I am
concerned, I am determined they shall have no help;
nor from any one belonging to me. Every honest
man must set his face against such proceedings."

He spoke this so warmly, that Young Brett
felt with him. "I assure you," he said, "I have
nothing to do with insurance people of any kind
—never heard of them, in fact."

"I hope you did not understand me so?" said
the other. "I have known Major Carter a long
time. He is an honourable man, not rich, but
wishing to do what is right and respectable. You
will hear nothing but good of him in this place."

"Well, certainly," said Young Brett, "so far
I have indeed——"

"But he has enemies," continued the other.
"I know he has. There is one powerful family
up in London whom he has offended, and who are
literally hunting him, for some fancied injury that
they think he did to them. I know, sir, on good
authority, instances of this persecution that
would amaze you!"

Young Brett, a little confused and guilty, felt
himself colouring all over.

"I know this myself. This insurance business
was all got up by them. The company
were going to pay, and a lady of this family went
to the manager, and put it all into their heads.
Only conceive such a thing, sir!"

Young Brett was indeed a little shocked and
ashamed. Miss Manuel's inquiries about the
Irrefragable all flashed upon him.

"No, sir," said Doctor Watkyn Jones,
confidentially drawing his chair closer, "you are a
gentleman, and I shall make no secrets with you.
When these insurance people came with their
mean sneaking hole-and-corner inquiries, we met
them openly, and sent them back to their London
office without a scrap of information. If you
care, I shall tell you the whole thing."

Young Brett said eagerly that he would like
nothing so much; and for nearly two hours—
during which time not a single patient disturbed
them—Doctor Watkyn Jones told him the story
of Mrs. Carter's happy end, without pain, and in
perfect peace. On Young Brett it left an
impression of a very touching and impressing scene,
and completely satisfied his honest heart. He
had done the duty he had undertaken, and was
delighted to find that it was to be a very small
duty after all. Coming away light hearted, and
with general esteem for the local practitioner, he
gaily passed to his hotel, then wrote a long letter
to Miss Manuel, and took an evening train across
country to his regiment.

"I think," he wrote, "it has all turned out
very well, and I begin to think myself quite a
clever diplomatist. Do you not feel for poor Mrs.
Carter? She was a good creature, and I am glad
to think died so happily and with such comforts
round her. Old Carter, you see, is not so bad, and
with more heart than we fancied."

Young Brett, however, did not see the
inconsistency between his earlier letters, describing
what he had gathered from the young woman in
the castle grounds, and his last. Miss Manuel
did, and smiled to herself. "Poor honest boy!"
she said; "he is too trusting and open to deal
with people of this sort. I ought to have
foreseen this from the beginning."

CHAPTER XX. MISS MANUEL ON THE TRACK.

SEEN in the Park, waiting on his Mrs. Wrigley,
Major Carter's face seemed to have recovered
its old clear brilliance. There was triumph in
his eye. At last he was walking on the mosses
of life, and he found it very grateful for his feet,
a good deal blistered with stony travel. Things
were going well with him. He had suffered
friendly and complimentary delving in the ribs
from cheerful acquaintances, together with the sly
wink of encouragement, and the knowing "I see,
Carter, my boy!" Mrs. Wrigley's face, too, wore
the fat bovine smile of conquest. At her time of
life such victories are welcome. Punsher Hill and
Hoblush found themselves drifting away further
and yet further every day, and made desperate
efforts. Major Carter, too, had triumphed in
another recent affair, and knew for certain that
Young Brett's expedition had failed—failed
hopelessly. It was indeed likely that, in a
contest with a simple child, he should prevail.
"Poor Miss Manuel!" he said, at the window
of Mrs. Wrigley's ancient chariot, playing all
his veteran coquetries, "she is recovering
slowly, I hear; we shall not see her for
weeks yet. Between ourselves, my dear Mrs.
Wrigley, she tries too much—far too much. I
don't like your manly women, ha, ha! No;
when you are soft, and gentle, and feminine, and
tender, and even helpless, my dear Mrs. Wrigley"