fellow who had been with Colter, Q.C., in
Tox and Tyrrell. West went to see Fox
Selby, who had started with himself, and
was now a faded rusty Q.C., with no time
to snatch his dinner, up half the night—in
short, what is called, "doing admirably"
at the Bar. Fox Selby looked up at him,
weak-eyed and fretful. He was peering
into a little ocean of briefs bubbling up before
him like waves. He recollected his old friend,
and was as glad to see him as such a body could
be. In a moment he had asked him to dine on
— let him see— Sunday.

On Sunday Mr. West went, and found his
friend, whom he had left a cheerful bachelor
with no responsibility, with a stout wife and seven
children. The eldest girl was sixteen. After
dinner, Mr. West asked about other friends,
and then came to what was on his mind—
Harcourt Dacres.

To be sure, Fox Selby had lost sight of
him for some time. Used to know him
when he went circuit. He was a good
amusing creature, would make you laugh by
the hour; but, between ourselves, was a man
one should give a very wide berth to—a fellow
that would ask you for a five-pound note on the
day he was introduced to you. Mr. Selby
mentioned this after a pause, and with mystery,
as one of the most heinous crimes in the
decalogue. Mr. West was prepared for it, and not
so shocked as the other expected. "You know,"
Selby went on, "there are stories about him—
shady histories—borrowing from the young
fellows just called. I don't vouch for it, you
know; but the poor devil couldn't help himself
—body and soul, he belonged to the Jews."

This was the point, and Mr. West soon
found what he wished to know—that a certain
Isaacs was his chief creditor, and had nearly
caught him when he was here last. He was told
many a little history of him, having a
dramatic interest in those details of shifts,
and struggles, and desperate devices, which
are, indeed, culpable, but are the gaspings of
a drowning man struggling to keep his mouth
above water.

For a week nearly Mr. West was busy
following up this clue—visiting the strange dens
where money-lenders lived, and having strange
interviews with them. His business-like
practical ways did something, his engagement for
future settlement did more; everything was
happily smoothed away, and Mr. Isaacs
complimented him, and said nothing would give him
greater pleasure than to do business personally
with Mr. West; at which the latter bowed and
smiled.

"She will be more pleased with this," he
thought, as he came away, "than with the
house."

This action and business was like the
seaside, or change of air. He enjoyed
success. His sister wrote regularly, with a
little news of the place, how Doctor Macan
and Doctor White were raging against each
other in the most scandalous way; how
there was a frantic craze to rush after the
Guernsey Beauforts; how Mr. Blacker was
more ridiculous and absurd than ever, and fast
losing his head. But there was nothing about
Lucy. He had, indeed, knowing her want
of sympathy with this family, begged of her
not to see much of them: "My dear Margery,
I see you do not like them, and why should
you punish yourself or punish them by being
disagreeable? Much better keep away. She
will write herself."

Then he went down to Westown, saw that
dexterous workmen had done wonders, and staying
a few days, came up again. He was pleased
with all this work.

"Now," he said, " if I could only restore
him with Sir John Trotter." This seemed a
difficult, almost a hopeless, business. Yet his
spirits rose with the difficulty. He had a Scotch
friend in London, whom he made out, and who
knew another friend who was very intimate
with Sir John. With this gentleman West was
made acquainted, meeting him at a little dinner.
"As for Sir John," said he, "he is the most
terrible little schemer in the world, and it is
infinitely hard to approach him; but this
moment, I am afraid, is the worst you could
have chosen. His son's illness has assumed
a very unfortunate shape; in fact, as I heard
this evening, something very like this," and he
touched his own forehead with his finger. " He
has got his little borough, and he thinks he can
move the empire with it; he thinks every one
should be on his knees to him for this tremendous
political lever. There was an Irish
barrister he met, and delighted him with singing
songs and telling stories, but who treated him
in a very free-and-easy way, and, I believe, told
him to be off with himself and his borough."
This character lived, as we have seen, at
Trotterstown, N. B., and Mr. West, getting
a letter of introduction, went down by the
coach on the very next morning.

Inside was a sharp-looking, long-faced,
sallow passenger—professional evidently. This
gentleman was reading with a sort of challenging
manner, his head on one side, a thick volume
in yellow paper covers, and which Mr. West
knew to be a French book. He was amused
by the unconscious behaviour of the gentleman,
who, at about every second page, moved
uneasily in his place, turned over the leaf angrily,
and uttered a whispered sound of impatience.
It was like a discussion going on between a
smooth, fluent arguer, whom nothing could put
out, and an eager, angry opponent, who had not
much command of language. At last he said
aloud, "Pish! arrant rubbish! Who ever
heard the like?" And Mr. West could not
help laughing.

The other laughed too. "I am as absurd as
this fellow," he said; "but really these Frenchmen
try one's patience so much with their
elegant generalities. Now, here's this Poisson,"
he added, turning round the cover of his book,
"a fellow who enjoys a reputation. Poisson
on Delusions. You know the book; fifth