"Yes; she is going to Brighton for the
winter."

I gave Mr. Axminster a steady, piercing
look of inquiry. "Pray, sir," I said, " could
you meet that one hundred pounds bill,
supposing it should not be paid by the
acceptor?"

''Meet it?" The poor fellow wiped from
his forehead the perspiration which suddenly
broke out at the bare hint of a probability
that the bill would be dishonoured: "Meet
it? O no! I am a married man, with a
family, and have nothing but my salary to
depend on."

"Then the sooner you get it taken up, and
the less you have to do with Miss Snape's
bill affairs, the better."

"She has always been punctual hitherto."

"That may be." I pointed to the cross-writing
on the document, and said deliberately
— "This bill is a forgery!"

At these words the poor man turned pale.
He snatched up the document; and, with
many incoherent protestations, was rushing
toward the door, when I called to him, in an
authoritative tone, to stop. He paused. His
manner indicating not only doubt, but fear.
I said to him, "Don't flurry yourself; I only
want to serve you. You tell me that you are
a married man with children, dependent on
daily labour for daily bread; and that you
have done a little discounting for Miss Snape
out of your earnings. Now, although I am
a bill discounter, I don't like to see such
men victimised. Look at the body of this
bill: look at the signature of your lady
customer, the drawer. Don't you detect the same
fine, thin, sharp-pointed hand-writing in the
words, 'Accepted, Dymmock Munge.'"

The man, convinced against his will, was at
first overcome. When he recovered, he raved:
he would expose the Honourable Miss Snape,
if it cost him his bread: he would go at once
to the police office.

I stopped him, by saying, roughly, "Don't
be a fool. Any such steps would seal your
ruin. Take my advice; return the bill to the
lady, saying simply that you cannot get it
discoimted. Leave the rest to me, and I think
the bill you have endorsed to Sparkle will
be paid." Comforted by this assurance,
Axminster, fearfully changed from the nervous,
but smug hopeful man of the morning,
departed.

It now remained for me to exert what skill
I own, to bring about the desired result. I
lost no time in writing a letter to the
Honourable Miss Snape, of which the following
is a copy:—

"Madam,—A bill, purporting to be drawn
by you, has been offered to me for discount.
There is something wrong about it; and,
though a stranger to you. I advise you to
lose no time in getting it back into your own
hands.—D. D."

I intended to deal with the affair quietly,
and without any view to profit. The fact is,
that I was sorry—you may laugh—but I
really was sorry to think that a young girl
might have given way to temptation under
pressure of pecuniary difficulties. If it had
been a man's case, I doubt whether I should
have interfered.

By the return of post, a lady's maid entered
my room, profusely decorated with ringlets,
lace, and perfumed with patchouli. She
brought a letter from her mistress. It ran
thus:—

"Sir,—I cannot sufficiently express my
thanks for your kindness in writing to me on
the subject of the bills; of which I had also
heard a few hours previously. As a perfect
stranger to you, I cannot estimate your kind
consideration at too high a value. I trust the
matter will be explained; but I should much
like to see you. If you would be kind enough
to write a note as soon as you receive this, I
will order it to be sent to me at once to Tyburn
Square. I will wait on you at any hour on
Friday you may appoint. I believe that I am
not mistaken in supposing that you transact
business for my friend Sir John Markham,
and you will therefore know the enclosed to
be his hand- writing. Again thanking you
most gratefully, allow me to remain your
much and deeply obliged, JULIANA SNAPE."

This note was written upon delicate French
paper, embossed with a coat of arms. It
was in a fancy envelope: the whole richly
perfumed, and redolent of rank and fashion.
Its contents were an implied confession of
forgery.

Silence, or three lines of indignation, would
have been the only innocent answer to my
letter. But Miss Snape thanked me. She
let me know, by implication, that she was on
intimate terms with a name good on a West-end
bill. My answer was, that I should be
alone on the following afternoon at five.

At the hour fixed, punctual to a moment,
a brougham drew up at the corner of the
street next to my chambers. The Honourable
Miss Snape's card was handed in. Presently,
she entered, swimming into my room, richly
yet simply dressed in the extreme of Parisian
good taste. She was pale—or rather colourless.
She had fair hair, fine teeth, and a
fashionable voice. She threw herself gracefully
into the chair I handed to her, and
began by uncoiling a string of phrases, to the
effect that her visit was merely to consult
me on "unavoidable pecuniary difficulties."

According to my mode, I allowed her to
talk; putting in only an occasional word of
question, that seemed rather a random
observation than a significant query. At length,
after walking round and round the subject, like
a timid horse in a field, round a groom with
a sieve of oats, she came nearer and nearer
the subject. When she had fairly approached
the point, she stopped, as if courage had
failed her. But she soon recovered, and
observed—"I cannot think why you should
take the trouble to write so to me, a perfect