this with a little placid wonder, but knew
very well that there was reason for it, or
that there was some defect in himself or in
his way of judging of it. Still, it was a little
curious; and when she had tripped up-stairs to
get off her habit, the idea came to him that this
had been only "a call," and she had known
nothing of it. He smiled at his stupidity. "And
they call me a business man!"

Martha Malcolm was passing his study, when
he asked her, carelessly, "Anybody called here
to-day?" The grim Martha told him a gentleman
had called, and had been there nearly an
hour.

Mr. Tillotson wondered again; but once
more dismissed the matter as "a little curious,"
setting it all down to some imperfection on
his side. Then they went out to dinner, which
was at a City house, and were received with
great respect; and through the night, though
the matter came drifting back upon his brain,
it grew fainter and fainter.

The visit had been of this sort: Grainger had
called, had been shown up; a strange gaunt
man, with wild eyes, and a ragged look about
the lower part of his face, but, on the whole,
was more ragged now and wilder than in the
old St. Alans days. He had been knocking
about, as he told his friends; had spent some
"tearing nights," and was said to have lost
much money—nearly all he had—at the Homburg
or Baden tables. Yet he never lost the old
quiet, gentlemanly, almost soft manner of his.

Mrs. Tillotson was in the drawing-room writing,
and started up to go when she saw him.
"I beg your pardon," he said, in his softest
voice; "I have no right to come; but this has
fallen out most fortunately, for I wished to see
you."

Mrs. Tillotson answered coldly, and gathered
up her papers calmly, as if to go. She knew
more of this man, and of the mischief his
influence had wrought upon Ross, than she had
told her husband.

"You can have no business with me. Mr.
Tillotson will be back in half an hour, and if
you choose to wait——"

"Then I shall go," he said, with deference.
"I have no business with him. What I wished
to say can be said in two minutes. It is about
Ross. I know you have always had a prejudice
against me, and I must say a just one. I
deserve it. I have a certain way of life, and I
am the slave of that. I have no power over
myself. But I have some regard for Ross.
But I came to tell you that he is in a strange
frame of mind—that he is infuriated by a
succession of disappointments; and what I would
ask of you—not of Mr. Tillotson—is to be
indulgent, to soothe him as much as you can, or
he may turn out dangerous to your husband.
That is all I have come to say. You have
been very indulgent in listening to me so long."

Mrs. Tillotson had grown interested. The
motion he had made to go looked genuine.
Without sitting down, she said irresolutely,
"I know something of this. I believe what
you say. But we have seen him, and talked
with him, and he is inclined to be kind and
quiet."

"Look here, Mrs. Tillotson," said Grainger,
earnestly, and coming back closer to her.
"Grainger may or may not have reasons for
telling you this. I say I have an interest in him,
and, though you will not believe me, an interest
in you. You know very well, in your heart of
hearts, you are insecure about Ross. You
cannot depend on him. I tell you and warn you
that he is altered. He has let things prey on
his mind. One thing especially, which even I
did not suspect he would have so taken to
heart. You guess that, I can see. If you had
seen the way he behaved after it, or had you
seen what labour fell on me, or what days and
nights of weary watching I had to go through,
to keep him from something desperate, you
would give me more credit for good intentions.
I tell you, it is a serious matter—if you value
the happiness that I am told you are now enjoying,
and if you value his, your husband's, comfort,
love, quiet, and perhaps life."

She seemed a little scared by all this
earnestness, and dropped into a chair half
unconsciously. He did the same.

"But tell me," she said; "he could not
mean—he was so kind, so gentle——"

He interrupted her.

"So he might be now, but it is all slumbering.
A word, a look, will set him in a flame.
Do not think this is fanciful or exaggeration.
If a policeman heard him only last night, it
would be his duty to arrest him. I do not so
much mind the present; it is the future that I
dread. This lawsuit—he is as sure as that the
sun will rise to-morrow to lose it. It is a
foregone conclusion. He has not a chance. I
know it. Well, when that day comes—it's only
a month or so off—when he is left without
money or hope—when he is a disgraced man, as
he is now, and a ruined outcast, as he will be
then, and an outcast stuffed with pride and a
sense of injury—this is the moment that I
dread and shrink from. We may all humour
him until then, but afterwards——Now, Mrs.
Tillotson," he went on, in a changed voice,
"this is what I came to tell you. You may
put what motive you please upon it; but what
I have said, I think, looks like truth. You can
act on it as you think fit, but you may depend
on my doing my best. As for Mr. Tillotson, if
I might advise here too, I would recommend
his knowing nothing of the matter. His own
generous and unsuspicious nature will be his
best protection, and leave him quite free to
act. But you can do as you please. I only
recommend."

There was something in his manner that half
awed, half convinced her. In her grave gentle
way she thanked him. He saw in her face
that she accepted all he had said. He rose up
hastily and looked at his watch. "These two
minutes," he said, "have stretched to half an
hour. I must go. Good-bye, Mrs. Tillotson;"
and he left her.