AT THE BAR.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "A CRUISE UPON WHEELS," &c. &c.

CHAPTER XXVIII. ON THE SCENT.

We have lately been so much occupied with
the main important incidents of our story, that
we have rather lost sight of one individual who
sustains a minor part in the drama which is
being enacted before us. The affairs of Julius
Lethwaite have recently received but little attention
from us, but as the moment is at hand
when he will take the part in this story which
makes him necessary to its complete development,
it is time that we looked him up a little.

As far as business matters go then, our
cynical friend has not been prospering any better
than when we last saw him. The reductions
which it was necessary for him to make in his
expenditure, have continued to be necessary still,
and those means of replenishing his exchequer
which he had talked of at first, almost in joke,
have been resorted to in all seriousness. Aided
and abetted by his musical friends, our harmless
cynic has actually obtained admission into the
orchestra of one of our leading theatres, a post
which provides him with what we figuratively
call "bread." For him, who has never done
anything except for pleasure, this is really hard
work. Night after night he is there at his post,
behind the two drums, attentive and watchful as
every true drummer should be. The morning
rehearsals, too, find him at his place, he is among
the most punctual of performers, and has never
once been fined for non-attendance.

But Julius Lethwaite is just now under a
cloud, with whose overshadowing gloom his
own affairs have nothing to do. His friends—
for in spite of his losses he still retains a large
number of such—are all struck by the change
that they detect in him. There is no getting
hold of him now, they say, and no getting anything
out of him, even when he is got hold of.
Of course this is attributed by his circle of
acquaintances to his recent misfortunes.

Lethwaite was, however, at this time little
inclined for society. This trouble of his friends
had come upon him as a blow of the most unexpected
sort. His own misfortunes he had borne,
as we have seen, with infinite philosophy, almost
with indifference, but this which had descended
upon his friends had really shaken him. It was
such a sorrow. Life, character, reputation, were
at stake. It was not a mere question of money;
the difference between a rosewood wardrobe and
a deal cupboard; between a luxurious dinner at
the club, and a chop at the Rainbow. And then
Julius really believed in his friends. He thought
Mrs. Penmore the most perfect of ladies, and
this horrible accusation hurt him as if it had
been brought against his own sister. Would
that there were more such friends as Julius
Lethwaite in the world, men to whom it is real
pain to hear a friend disparaged, and who do not
find in the phrase that takes away the character
of a chosen companion something remotely
gratifying to themselves. Never—never for one
moment—had the strange combination of
circumstances which seemed to tell so terribly
against this unhappy lady, shaken Lethwaite's
belief in her entire innocence. This man, with
all his cynicism—with all his doubts of the
existence of good in human nature—with all his
readiness to impute bad motives where a good
one appeared on the surface—was as
unsuspicious in this case as a child. It was impossible
—simply impossible—that there could be even
the very faintest ground for this base suspicion,
which had arisen out of a series of mistakes,
which he firmly believed would one day be
cleared up. Meanwhile he believed, and even
should his reason remain unconvinced, he would
hold on to his belief with his will.

He would sit by the hour together pondering
over the subject, trying to find out the solution
of the difficult riddle, or talking it over with his
old friend Jonathan Goodrich, who was as great
a believer in the Penmores, and in Gabrielle
especially, as Lethwaite himself.

"If I could only help them," said Lethwaite,
on one of these occasions—"if I could only
find out some circumstance that would clear
the mystery up. That there is some such thing
to be got at, I have no more doubt, Goodrich,
than that we are sitting here on each side of
the fire. There is something, some little thing,
that we have none of us thought of, and which
would explain it all, and clear that poor lady
from this horrible imputation in a moment."

"The lady's as innocent of the deed as you or
I, sir, that we know," said the old clerk. "But
how to prove her so, that's the question."

Then they relapsed into silence again, each
sitting, staring at the fire, and torturing the
subject again and again in his mind.