she thinks of me, since she has written, and
given orders that the note should be put into
my own hand. Yes, yes, she is all right!"
Though he said the words confidently, there
must have been some secret misgiving in his
mind that made him hold the letter tightly in
his hand without opening it. He looked at the
superscription. It was to " Mr. Alfred Trescott,"
written in Lady Popham's cramped
characters, and even more trembling and illegible
than usual. " The old woman must have been
very shaky when she wrote that," muttered
Alfred. " I wonder what it's all about! No
matter! I'll read it quietly, and at my leisure."

Although it might have been supposed that he
would be eager to learn the contents of Lady
Popham's communication, he walked along the
streets at a singularly dilatory pace, staring
absently in at the shop windows, and even
sometimes stopping outright. At last, by slow
degrees, he reached the neighbourhood of his
lodgings. Even then he did not bend his
course homeward immediately, but turned down
the blind alley in which the tavern was situated
where he had left Walter Charlewood. The
woman to whom he had spoken was no longer
in the bar when he entered it, but in her
place a very fat man, with a cowskin cap on his
head, was leaning with both elbows on the
counter, poring over a graphic account of the
last prize-fight. The fat man looked up as
Alfred entered.

"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked, in
rather a surly tone. He had just reached the
fourth round, and was becoming so deeply
interested as to make any interruption unwelcome.
Alfred nodded carelessly.

"I am going up-stairs," he said.

"Where to, sir?" demanded the fat man.

Alfred passed on without heeding the question,
and was in the act of ascending the stairs,
when the fat man called after him, huskily,
"I say, there ain't nobody there! The young
gent's gone."

"Gone! Where?"

"How the doose should I know?" retorted
he of the cowskin cap, doubling down the
newspaper, and commencing to trace the course of
" Round the fifth" with an inexpressibly dirty
thumb.

Alfred returned hurriedly to the bar, and
faced him. "The gentleman's coming back, I
suppose?" he said, rather in the tone of an
assertion than a question.

The fat man dented the paper before him
with his thumb-nail, so as to make a landmark
by which to find his place again, in the — to
him — difficult country of the printed columns,
and with a heavy sigh of resignation looked
up.  It was clear that he was not destined to
enjoy uninterruptedly the delicious titbit
prepared by the penny-a-liner's skilful fingers.

"Well, sir," he replied, tilting back the
cowskin cap, and passing his hand over his
forehead, "the gent may come back, or he may
not. But if you was to ask me my opinion, I
should say he wouldn't. Hows'ever, he didn't
say nothing to me, one way nor the other.
His score's paid, and that's all I know."

"Oh, he paid his score, did he?"

"Well, no, he didn't, but t'other one did."

"T'other one; what are you talking about?"

"Why, his friend as fetched him away in a
four-wheeler. There was two on 'em — a young
light-haired party, an' a rum-looking old chap
with a dog."

Alfred uttered a great oath.

"What! didn't you know?" asked the fat
man, with some semblance of curiosity on his
stolid countenance. The only reply he received
was a volley of curses, as Alfred turned and
strode out of the place. The man's sensibilities
were apparently not in the least ruffled by
this very unexpected demonstration. He stared
after the lithe retreating figure for a second or
two with a ruminating expression of face,
passed his hand once more over his forehead,
replaced the cowskin cap in its original
position, and, guided by the landmark, found his
place, resumed his perusal of the great prize-
fight, and was soon apparently as absorbed in
its vividly written details as before.

Alfred's footsteps did not lag now, as he
pursued his way homeward. He rushed along
like a fleet keen wind. Corda, reclining in the
sitting-room, on the little low chair she seldom
quitted now, heard her brother knock violently
at the street door, heard his rapid step mount
the stairs and enter the room overhead, and
then, after a pause of dead silence, heard him
descend as rapidly, and approach the parlour
door. In an instant he had entered, closed the
door again behind him, and stood before her
with a face so full of fury, so distorted and
malignant, that the child uttered a little low
cry of terror, and half rose in her chair. Alfred
held Lady Popham's letter open in one hand,
and was pointing to it with the other. For the
space of half a minute — it seemed a long, long
time to Corda — he stood panting and speechless,
absolutely unable to articulate from rage.
At last his voice came forth, broken and husky:

"You little devil! You little whining, canting,
deceitful devil!"

Corda's pale lips moved, but no sound came
from them.

"You treacherous, false-hearted, cursed little
spy! Cringing and fawning with your infernal
carnying ways and false white face!"

The child was trembling violently from head
to foot; she struggled breathlessly to speak,
but her voice did not rise above a whisper.
"Alf! Alf!" that was all she said.

Her brother stood regarding her with eyes
that seemed to blaze beneath his knitted brows,

"Read that! Look there, that is your
doing. Are you satisfied? Is your end gained?
I am ruined. You have done your work
thoroughly, and I hope your dear friends are
content. Cunning, hypocritical, little devil !"

"Alf, if there is any mercy in your heart,
listen to me for one moment. Let me speak,
Alf! I beg and pray of you to let me speak!"

"Speak! you have spoken, and to some