the heart of William Trefalden's secret; here was
the one thing which Abel Keckwitch's whole
soul was bent on discovering.

Possessed by that innate curiosity which acted
as the leaven to his phlegmatic temperament, the
head clerk had for years pondered over this
mystery; lain in wait for it; scented round it
from all sides; and, in a certain dogged way,
resented it. But since that evening of the second
of March, he had fixed upon it with a vindictive
tenacity as deadly as the coil of the boa. He
saw, or believed he saw, in this thing, a weapon
wherewith to chastise the man who had dared to
find him out, and call him spy; and upon this
one object he concentrated the whole force of his
sluggish but powerful will. For Abel Keckwitch
was a hater after Byron's own heart, and
loved to nurse his wrath, and brood over it, and
keep it warm. He never passed that doorway
in Chancery-lane without rehearsing the whole
scene in his mind. He remembered every insulting
word that William Trefalden had hurled at
him in those three or four moments. He still
felt the iron blow, the breathless shock, the burning
sense of rage and humiliation. These things
rankled day by day in the respectable bosom of
Abel Keckwitch, and were each day further and
further from being forgiven and forgotten.

The secret, however, remained as dark as ever.
He had fancied once or twice of late that he was
on the verge of some discovery; but he had each
time found himself misled by his suspicions, and
as far off as ever from the goal.

Hope deferred, and wrath long cherished,
began at length to tell upon Mr. Keckwitch's
health and spirits. He became morose and
abstracted. He gave up practising the violoncello.
He lost his appetite for the diurnal meats of
High Holborn, and his relish for the leaders that
he was wont to devour with his cheese; and he
forgot to take notice of his cat. His landlady
and his fellow-clerks saw and marvelled at the
change; and the soul of the one-eyed waiter
who received Mr. Keckwitch's daily obolus, was
perplexed with him; but none dared to question
him. They observed him from afar off, as the
Greeks looked upon Achilles sitting sullenly
beside his ships, and canvassed his mood "with
bated breath and whispering humbleness".

This went on for weeks; and then, all at once,
the tide turned, and Mr. Keckwitch became him-
self again. A bright idea had occurred to him,
by the light of which he distinctly saw the path
to success opening out before him. He only
wondered that he had not thought of it sooner.

CHAPTER XXIV. AT THE WATERLOO BRIDGE
                            STATION.

SAXON TREFALDEN was in buoyant spirits that
afternoon as he wandered to and fro among the
intricate platforms of the Waterloo-bridge
station,  and watched the coming and going of the
trains. He had plenty of time; for he was a
very inexperienced traveller, and, in his anxiety
to be punctual, had come half an hour too soon.
But his mind was full of pleasant thoughts, and
he enjoyed the life and bustle of the place with
as much zest as if the whole scene were a comedy
played for his amusement.

He was very happy. He thought, as he went
strolling up and down, that he had scarcely ever
felt so happy in his life.

In the first place, he had that day received a
letter from Pastor Martin—a long, loving, pious
letter, filled with sweet home news, and
benevolent projects about good things to be done in
the valley of Domleschg. The remittance which
he had despatched the very day after he drew
his first cheque, had been distributed among the
poor of the neighbouring parishes: the organ
that he had sent out a fortnight since had
arrived, and the workmen were busy with it
daily: the farm buildings at Rotzberg were
being repaired, and the three meadows down by
the river-side, that had been so long for sale,
were now bought in Saxon's name, and added to
the little demesne. The pigeons, too, had a
new pigeon-house; and the spotted cow had
calved; and the thrushes that built last year in
the great laurel down at the end of the garden,
had again made their nest in the branches of the
same tree. These were trifles; but to Saxon,
who loved his far-away home, his native valley,
and all the surroundings of his boyhood with
the passionate enthusiasm of a mountaineer,
they were trifles infinitely precious and delight-
ful. And besides all this, the letter ended with
a tender blessing that had rested upon his heart
ever since he read it, and seemed to hallow all
the sunshine of the April day.

Then, in the second place, he had that morning
enjoyed the supreme luxury of doing good.
William Trefalden had, it is true, affirmed that
the hours of Greatorex and Greatorex were
numbered, and that Saxon's fifty-nine thousands
could only interpose a brief delay between the
bankers and their ruin; but Laurence Greatorex,
with the crisp bank-notes in his hand, had
assured him that this sum, by renewing their credit
and tiding them over the present emergency,
was certain salvation to the firm. Taking it on
the whole, this matter of the cheque had been
sufficiently disagreeable. It had shown the
banker's disposition from an unfavourable point
of view, and to withdraw from even a part of
his rash promise had been a source of humiliation
to Saxon. Perhaps, too, the young man
could not help liking his friend somewhat less
than before; and this is at all times a painful
feeling. Himself one of nature's own gentlemen,
he shrunk instinctively from all that was
coarse and mercenary; and he could not shut
his eyes to the fact that Greatorex had shown
himself to be both. However, it had ended
pleasantly. Saxon had saved his friend, and the
banker had not only overwhelmed him with
professions of gratitude, but given him a proper
acknowledgment for the money, so that William
Trefalden's promissory note (which Saxon knew
he should never have produced, though he had