which the father was only too well accustomed.
George, to whom his cousin was an utter
stranger, had accepted his uncle's view of the
matter, at first, unquestioned, but he had become
unsatisfied and uncertain about it of late, and
was anxious, without alarming Mr. Felton, to
lead him to take active steps for obtaining
information of the whereabouts of his son.

"I feel satisfied he left England again, and
knows nothing of my movements. He will
write out to New York, however, and if he has
only done so now, there will be some delay
before he knows I am in Europe."

"Don't you think," asked George, hesitatingly,
"he would send to Liverpool for the
letters, if he were in any uncertainty, before
writing to New York? I confess I don't like his
leaving them unclaimed. None of the reasons
which may explain his silence reach to an
explanation of that. I don't think you ought to
let much more time go over. If you had a
likeness of him——" He hesitated very much
here, and looked aside at his uncle, who turned
sharply towards him, and said:

"Well! What! If I had a likeness——"

"You might have had it copied, and the
photographs distributed to the police, so that if
anything should be wrong——"

"Wrong? In what sense, George? Do you
begin to fear that anything has happened to
him? You never said so at first."

"Because I did not think so, uncle, and I am
not seriously uneasy now—not at all; but I think
a reasonable time has elapsed, and we ought now
to make active inquiry. When he turns up, and
finds out what trouble and anxiety he has given,
he will be more considerate in future."

"Ah," said Mr. Felton, with a sigh, "I don't
think Arthur is open to any conviction of that
kind. What do you think it best to do, now?"

"Well, uncle, you see you have been three
weeks in Europe, and those three weeks make a
considerable addition to the time since you heard
from him. If you write by the next mail to New
York for a copy of his photograph——You
are sure you have not one with you?"

"Quite sure. Since I found I had not one in
my desk, I have searched everywhere among my
luggage, but I have not one."

"Well, then, if you write by this mail for a
copy, and it is sent by return mail, if he has not
turned up in the mean time, and things go on
well here, I think you had better put the matter
into the hands of the police. It is true you do
not know whether Arthur is in England now,
or abroad; but the last place in which you
know him to have been is London, and from
that information they must work."

"True," said Mr. Felton; and then continued,
in a slow, reluctant tone, "I shrink from it, I
confess. A matter which is placed in the hands
of the police always implies something disgraceful;
and though I don't expect to find that Arthur
has disposed of his time and his money very
creditably, I don't like to make so sure of it as I feel
convinced a close investigation will make me."

Mr. Felton spoke with some agitation, and
George thrilled with a mingled feeling of pity
and dread, he did not know of what. But he
said, cheerily:

"Well, sir, let us hope there will be no occasion
for making any such investigation. You
can't have an answer for nearly three weeks,
and a great deal may happen in that time.
Arthur may be here long before then, to answer
for himself, and laugh at us for our anxiety
about such a citizen of the world, old and new.

"I don't like it," George thought, as he
walked on, in silence, by the side of his uncle—
"I don't like it. And it's very plain I am not
the only black sheep in the family flock, nor, I
suspect, the blackest. I will see that he writes to
New York, and I will tell Routh all about this
when he comes, and hear what he says. My uncle
will not mind my telling him now, I dare say."

"When do you expect your friends, George?"
asked Mr. Felton, striking the chord of George's
thought, after the fashion which every one
knows, and nobody can explain.

"To-morrow, or the day after, sir," replied
George. "Routh wrote from Paris yesterday."

"I am sorry for Mrs. Routh," said Mr.
Felton; "she's too secretive, and too cautious,
too silent, and too cunning, for my fancy; but she
is an interesting woman, and a wonderfully good
wife, I am sure, though of the stony order."

"That is come to her lately," said George, in
an eager tone, " since her health has failed so
much. You cannot imagine what a different
creature she was only a little while ago. She
was as bright as the sunshine, and as gay as a
lark. She is, indeed, a wonderful wife—the
most devoted I ever knew; and her usefulness
in everything, in all a woman's ordinary ways,
and in many quite extraordinary—in all Routh's
business matters, is marvellous. Even her delicate
health, though she has lost her good looks
very much, and her spirits quite, has not made
any alteration in that. I cannot conceive what
Routh would do without her."

"H'm! I wonder if he is quite so uncertain,"
said Mr. Felton, dryly, and to George's surprise.
"I don't like your friend, and I don't trust him."

"What do you mean?" asked George. "Don't
trust him? Do you mean that you don't trust
his feelings or his conduct to Harriet?"

"Precisely so, my dear boy. Mrs. Routh is
a devoted wife, but I am very much mistaken—
and remember, I have been playing looker-on
for a fortnight or so, and interested in my part,
too, considering what you told me about
yourself and these people—if she is not a very
unhappy one. I do not pretend to explain my
convictions, but I am quite clear about them.
She loves Routh, that's plain enough, but she
is miserable with him."

"Do you really think so? She is dreadfully
changed, I know, but I thought it might be
only in consequence of her ill health. Miserable
with him! At all events, he is not unkind
to her. I know he is very anxious about her
health, for he has left London, at much
inconvenience and great risk of loss, to bring her
here for the waters."

"And for a turn at the gaming-tables for
himself, I fancy. Routh has to me the air of a