train for Amherst. Arrived at Routh's former
residence, he was surprised to observe, as he got
out of a hansom, that a card, displayed in the
parlour window, announced "A drawing-room
floor to let." The hall door was opened at his
summons, with unusual alacrity, and in reply to
his inquiry, the servant, a newly engaged one
who had never seen him before, informed him
that Mr. and Mrs. Routh had "left," and were
to be found at Queen-street, Mayfair. George
stood, for a moment, irresolute in surprise, and
the servant repeated the address, fancying he
had not heard her. His face was towards the
open door, and he turned his head sharply round,
as a boy's voice said, in a peculiar pert tone which
had an odd indefinite familiarity for his ear:

"Any letters for Mr. Routh to-day, Mary
Jane? 'cos, if so, hand 'em over."

The speaker was Mr. James Swain, who had
come up behind George Dallas unperceived, and
who, when he saw the young man's face, gave
an involuntary start, and dropped his saucy
manner on the instant.

"Yes, there's three letters and a circ'lar for
Mr. Routh," replied Mary Jane, in a sulky tone;
"and missis says as she hopes Mr. Routh will
put his address in the paper or something, for
people is always a comin' and makin' us think
as they're lodgers." Then with a glance at
George, which seemed to imply that he might
not have been considered ineligible in that capacity,
Mary Jane went to fetch the letters, and
Dallas addressed Jim Swain.

"Are you going back to Mr. Routh's
direct?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," answered Jim. "I come every
day, since they've been gone, to see after letters
and messages."

"Then you can take a message from me,"
said George, pointing the observation with a
sixpence. "Tell Mr. Routh Mr. Dallas has
come to London, having heard bad news, and has
gone to his mother's house. You won't forget?"

"No, sir, I won't forget," said Jim, in a tone
of satisfactory assurance.

"Say I expect to get back to-morrow, and
will come to see him at once. Mr. Dallas—
that's my name, remember."

George then jumped into the hansom again,
and was driven away to the railway station.

"Mr. Dallas," said Jim Swain to himself as
he walked slowly down the street, carrying the
letters confided to him by Mary Jane "that's
your name, is it? I wonder wot you've bin
up to, and where you've bin up to it? I shall
tell her the gent's message—not him."

The night had fallen upon the woods and
fields of Poynings, and no light gleamed from
the stately old house, save one ray, which shone
through the open window of the housekeeper's
room. By the casement sat George Dallas, his
arm upon the window-sill, his head leaning
against his hand, the cool fresh air of the summer
night coming gratefully to his flushed and
heated face. Opposite, and close to him, sat
Mrs. Brookes, still wearing, though their
conference had lasted many hours, the look of agitation
beyond the strength to bear it which is
so painful to see on the faces of the aged. All
iad been explained between the old woman
and the prodigal son of her beloved mistress,
and the worst of her fears had been dispelled.
George had not the guilt of murder on his soul.
The chain of circumstances was indeed as
strong as ever, but the old woman did not
retain the smallest fear. His word had reassured
her indeed, the first glance at his face, in the
midst of the terror and surprise of their meeting,
had at once and for ever put her apprehensions
to flight. Innocence of that, at least,
was in his face, in his hurried agitated greeting,
in the bewilderment with which he heard her
allusion to her letter, in his total unconsciousness
of the various emotions which tore her
heart among them. She saw, she foresaw, no
explanation of the circumstances which had led
to the fatal mistake she had made; she saw
only that her boy was innocent, and the vastness,
the intensity, of the relief sufficed, in the
first moments of their meeting, to deprive it of
the horror and bitterness with which, had she
had any anticipation of such an event, she
would have regarded it. But the first relief and
the full explanation—all that George had to tell
her, all she had to tell him—could not change
the facts as regarded Mrs. Carruthers, could
not alter the irrevocable, the miserable past.

When the first confusion, excitement, and
incoherent mutual questioning had given way
to a more settled and satisfactory conversation,
Mrs. Brookes told George all that had occurred
—the visit of the official gentleman from London,
the servants' version of his business, the
interview between Mr. Carruthers and Evans,
and the suspicion and fear, only too reasonable,
to which all the unfortunate circumstances had
given rise.

It was with the utmost difficulty that George
arrived at a clear understanding of the old
woman's narrative, and came to realise how
overwhelming was the presumption against him.
By degrees he began to recal the circumstances
which had immediately preceded and followed
his clandestine visit to Poynings. He recalled
the remarks he had heard at The Mercury office;
he remembered that there had been some talk
of a murder, and that he had paid no attention
to it, but had gone away as soon as possible,
and never given the matter another thought.
To find himself implicated in a crime of so
terrible a nature, to find that circumstances
had brought him in contact with such a deed,
filled him with horror and stupefaction; to
know that his mother had been forced to
conceive such a suspicion was, even without the
horrible addition of the effect produced on her,
suffering far greater than any he had ever
known. He felt giddy, sick, and bewildered,
and could but look piteously at his faithful old
friend, with a white face and wild haggard eyes.

"She believed it?" he said again and again.

"No, George, no; she only feared it, and she
could not bear the fear; no wonder, for I could
hardly bear it, and I am stronger than she is,
and not your mother, after all. But just think,