interval of deliberation, he announced his
intention of accompanying us to the residence
of the Secretary of State; and in a few
minutes we were driving back again to the
opposite extremity of London. It was not
far off the hour for the morning delivery of
letters when we reached our destination; but
the atmosphere was yellow with fog, and we
could see nothing as we passed along in
almost utter silence, for neither of us ventured
to speak, and the secretary only made a brief
remark now and then. We drove up to some
dwelling enveloped in fog, and we were left
in the cab for nearly half an hour, while our
secretary went in. At the end of that time we
were summoned to an apartment where there
was seated at a large desk a small spare man,
with a great head, and eyes deeply sunk under
the brows. There was no form ot introduction,
of course, and we could only guess who he
might be; but we were requested to repeat our
statement, and a few shrewd questions were
put to us by the stranger. We were eager to
put him in possession of everything we knew,
but that was little beyond the fact that the
despatch-box was lost.

'"That young person must have taken it," he
said.

"She could not, sir," I answered, positively,
but deferentially. " She wore the tightest-fitting
pelisse I ever saw, and she gave me both her
hands when she said good-bye. She could not
possibly have it concealed about her. It would
not go into my pocket."

"How did she come to travel up with you in
the van, sir?" he asked, severely.

I gave him for answer the order signed by
Mr. Huntingdon. He and our secretary scanned
it closely.

"It is Huntingdon's signature without doubt,"
said the latter; " I could swear to it anywhere.
This is an extraordinary circumstance!"

It was an extraordinary circumstance. The
two retired into an adjoining room, where they
stayed for another half-hour, and when they
returned to us their faces still bore an aspect
of grave perplexity.

"Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Morville," said our
secretary, " it is expedient that this affair should
be kept inviolably secret. You must even be
careful not to hint that you hold any secret.
.You did well not to announce your loss at the
Post-office, and I shall cause it to be understood
that you had instructions to  take the despatch-
box direct to its destination. Your business
now is to find the young woman, and return
with her not later than six o'clock this afternoon
to my office at the General Post-office.
What other steps we think it, requisite to take,
you need know nothing about; the less you
know, the better for yourselves."

Another gleam of commiseration in his official
eye made our hearts sink within us. We
departed promptly, and, with that instinct of
wisdom which at times dictates infallibly what
course we should pursue, we decided our line
of action. Tom Morville was to go down to
Camden-town, and inquire at every house
for Miss Clifton, while I—- there would be just
time for it—-  was to run down to Eaton by train
and obtain her exact address from her parents
We agreed to meet at the General Post-office at
half-past five, if I could possibly reach it by that
time; but in any case Tom was to report himself
to the secretary, and account for my absence.

When I arrived at the station at Eaton, I
found that I had only forty-live minutes before
the up train went by. The town was nearly a
mile away, but I made all the haste I could to
reach it. I was not surprised to find the post-
office in connexion with a bookseller's shop,
and I saw a pleasant elderly lady seated behind
the counter, while a tall dark-haired girl
sitting at some work a little out of sight. I
introduced myself at once.

"I am Frank Wilcox, of the railway post-
office, and I have just run down to Eaton to
obtain some information from you."

"Certainly. We know you well by name,"
was the reply, given in a cordial manner, which
was particularly pleasant to me.

"Will you be so good as give me the address
of Miss Anne Cliflon in Camden-town?"
I said.

"Miss Anne Clifton?" ejaculated the lady.

"Yes. Your daughter, I presume. Who
went up to London last night."

"I have no daughter Anne," she said; "I
am Anne Clifton, and my daughters are named
Mary and Susan. This is my daughter Mary."

The tall dark-haired girl had left her seat,
and now stood beside her mother. Certainly
she was very unlike the small golden-haired
coquette who had travelled up to London with
me as Anne Clifton.

"Madam," I said, scarcely able to speak,
"is your other daughter a slender little creature,
exactly the reverse of this young lady?"

"No," she answered, laughing; " Susan is
both taller and darker than Mary. Call Susan,
my dear."

In a few seconds Miss Susan made her appearance,
and I had the three before me—- A.
Clifton, S. Clifton, and M. Clifton. There was
no other girl in the family; and when I described
the young lady who had travelled under
their name, they could not think of any one
in the town—- it was a small one—- who answered
my description, or who had gone on a
visit to London. I had no time to spare, and
I hurried back to the station, just catching the
train as it left the platform. At the appointed
hour I met Morville at the General Post-office,
and threading the long passages of the secretary's
offices, we at length found ourselves
anxiously waiting in an ante-room, until we
were called into his presence. Morville had
discovered  nothing, except, that the porters and
policemen at Camden-town station had seen a
young lady pass out last night, attended by a
swarthy man who looked like a foreigner, and
carried a small black portmanteau.

I scarcely know how long we waited; it
might have been years, for I was conscious of