It was many a month since Glynn enjoyed such refreshing sleep as soothed his weary brain that night. To have found Elsie safe, unharmed, even though surrounded by a haze of doubtful circumstances, of painful mystery, was a blessed relief. All must turn out well, while Elsie was the same, untouched, unchanged.

To him she seemed more charming in her grief and terror than in the freshness of her beauty, which first attracted him. Though full of passion, his love was pure and true. To save its object from harm, or spare her suffering, he would even sacrifice himself. Something in the unconsciousness of her manner, her look, her words, warned him to keep the lover in the background for the present,—only for the present,—for deep in his heart he registered a vow to win her if tenderness, and loyalty, and perseverance could. He counted the cost, and decided that in winning her he should win all that would make life worth living. Glynn was not a conventional man. He liked society, but was not its slave. A quiet home, with such a companion, what could be a fairer lot? Would the day ever come when she would let him hold her to his heart, when her soft arms would steal round his neck, and her sweet, sad, tremulous lips return his kisses? Whatever Lambert's circumstances, misdeeds, crimes, Glynn resolved to give his life to the tender, blameless daughter.

He started in good time next day, and spent a long, entrancing, disturbing afternoon with Elsie and her father.

With the latter he had not much private conversation, and in that little Lambert told him he had discovered early in their renewed acquaintanceship that Deering had fallen in love with Elsie, that he knew him to be a daring and unscrupulous man, and that, moreover, he had a very strong hold over Lambert himself, which made it exceedingly difficult to protect his daughter, without running certain risks, and to cut the gordian knot, he determined to hide her. This was so far successful, but the conviction that it was impossible to keep up the game was pressing on him, and with the consciousness of failing health, almost drove him mad.

"May I dine with you tÊte-À-tÊte the day after to-morrow? I have much to tell." This request reached Lady Gethin one morning at breakfast, and threw her into a state of delighted anticipation. She despatched a warm invitation, and wrote to decline one or two engagements for that day.

"You are looking a different being," she said, when they had settled into their places for a long talk after dinner. "But what has become of you? I have not seen you for the last ten days. What have you been about? Have you found your young woman?"

Glynn looked straight at her, and to her amazement replied, "I have."

"You are not serious. Here? in famous London town?"

"I have."

"Well, I always said you would. Do tell me all about it."

And Glynn began at the beginning, and did tell her everything.

"This is indeed extraordinary!" she exclaimed with unusual gravity, at the end of his narrative. "But after all, they have told you very little; there is some ugly secret behind."

"I suspect there is," very gravely.

"Now that you have found your fair Helen, what are you going to do with her?" asked Lady Gethin, looking sharply at him.

"Marry her," was the unhesitating reply.

"Good heavens, Hugh! you are not in earnest?"

"Very much in earnest, I assure you."

"But your future father-in-law may be a murderer."

"But my future wife is not a murderess."

"Not yet"—emphatically. "Remember, crime is often hereditary. I never heard of such madness. Why, you will spoil your life."

"It would be ruined without her."

"And while the noble father is taken to Newgate, the happy pair will start for the Continent and return in time for the execution! I could shed tears over you, Hugh."

"Instead of hurting your eyes, do me a very great favor. Come with me to-morrow, and let me introduce you to Miss Lambert."

"I shall do nothing of the kind! How can you expect me to encourage you in such insanity?"

"Because your encouragement or discouragement will not affect my decision. I have a sincere respect for your opinion; you are a shrewd, far-seeing woman, and I think your view of the case perfectly natural, but I feel that my wisest course in this instance is to throw prudence overboard. Do, my dear aunt, grant me this petition! I am old enough to take the responsibility of any step upon myself, and I have no near relative to consider. Be my friend in this crisis; come and see the girl who has drawn me to her so magnetically; help me to save her, for as she possesses my soul I am resolved to give her my life."

"I protest, Hugh, you are a lover worth having. I hope she values you as you deserve."

"I do not think she has an idea I am a lover."

"Then you have not asked her to marry you?" cried Lady Gethin, visibly brightening.

"I have not ventured as yet; I am trying to prepare the way."

"Then," said Lady Gethin, "I will come, and you must agree to listen to any objections which may occur to me, rationally, without snapping my nose off, because I shall see things which would never strike you."

"Agreed."

"When shall I go?" resumed Lady Gethin. "I confess I am dying to see this lady-love of yours, this heroine of a still unsolved mystery. May I go to-morrow?"

Glynn took her hand and kissed it. "Thank you," was all he said, but there was that in his voice which made a troublesome lump rise in Lady Gethin's throat.

This entire and disinterested devotion touched her infinitely, and gave her an instant's glimpse of the loveliness life might have if tenderness and loyalty and self-forgetful generosity could only share and share alike, with science, statistics, and political economy.

"Not to-morrow," resumed Glynn after a pause. "I must give Lambert warning, for he is very nervous about any one coming near him. He is so possessed by the idea that he is being watched. It is an awful feeling, I had no conception what it is until I saw a man under its influence. I will settle with him and Elsie when they shall receive you. At present I am not quite so uneasy about them, for Deering is out of town. I am afraid he has some very strong hold on Lambert."

"Deering is not out of town; I saw him at the opera last night."

"Indeed!" Then after a pause, "It is amazing how Lambert has escaped detection so far, but it is inevitable. Why he dreads it, and what he is afraid of, remains to be told. I think he is longing to tell, yet dreads to do so, which is inconsistent with his assertion that he has broken no law."

"Hugh," said Lady Gethin, "I wish you would give me a promise, not to declare yourself to Miss Lambert until you know the whole truth."

"No, Lady Gethin, I will not pledge myself to anything," returned Glynn, smiling; and soon after he took his leave.

Things were looking brighter, he thought. If Lambert would only make a clean breast, something definite might be arranged.

The next day, glad of an excuse to present himself at Garston Terrace, Glynn was making his way towards one of the Metropolitan stations, when he met Deering coming to the office.

"I was going to call on you," he said.

"Sorry I cannot go back with you," returned Glynn, "but I have a special engagement. You will find Mercer, which will answer your purpose even better."

"No doubt. By the way, do you ever hear anything of the Lambert business?" looking searchingly at him.

"Never," said Glynn steadily.

"And I presume you take no further interest in it?"

"Yes, I do. I would give a good deal to get to the bottom of that affair," and Glynn returned Deering's gaze with equal keenness.

"Are you so ignorant, then?" asked Deering with a sneer. "Well, I heard this morning from a man I have employed (for I confess I am determined to track that scoundrel Lambert), that those stupid Yankee detectives have been on a false scent altogether. The man they have been following proves not to be Lambert, and they now suspect that while they have been dodging his double at St. Louis and other places, the real man has escaped to Canada. But he is certain to be found."

"I suppose so," said Glynn, with such equanimity that Deering's brows contracted, and he nodded a hasty adieu.

"I wonder how the mistake arose," thought Glynn, as he strode along; "but having found it out I fear they may get on the right track."

He took a longer dÉtour than usual before approaching his goal. Arrived there, he found Elsie waiting to see the doctor after his visit to her father.

She looked very anxious. His nights, she said, were so feverish and restless that it was impossible he could make any real progress. Sometimes he was quite cheerful; then the cloud of nervous depression would settle down upon him, and nothing seemed to rouse or cheer him.

Glynn took care to speak to the doctor himself, and he gave the same account. He said the bronchial attack was cured, but an extraordinary degree of mental depression continued. Was Glynn aware of any hereditary tendency in that direction, which might account for much? It might be well to have a second opinion, but Mr. Lambert was so averse to call in any other medical man, he did not like to press it, etc., etc.

As soon as he had gone Glynn was summoned to the invalid, who was more than usually querulous and uneasy, until his visitor broached the subject of Lady Gethin's visit, describing her as the embodiment of all Lambert desired in the shape of a female friend for Elsie. Her father caught at the idea, but shrunk from his friend's proposition that he should be presented to her by his real name.

"Believe me, Lambert," said Glynn impressively, "it is useless to hope you can remain concealed much longer. If you would tell me all, I might be able to advise you; at present I cannot for want of knowledge."

"Well, look here, then," said Lambert, after a minute or two of profound thought, "you bring this lady to us; let her see what a sweet, elegant creature my Elsie is; maybe she will take a fancy to her. I'd like to see this aunt of yours too, Glynn; and as the doctor says I am to change the air and scene, I'm going down to the drawing-room to-morrow, so let her come the day after. I'll put on my coat, and get myself shaved, then I'll be fit to be seen. Do you think she will come the day after to-morrow?"

"Yes, I am sure she will. She cannot fail to be charmed with Miss Lambert, and may be a very useful friend."

"Then bring her, in God's name," ejaculated Lambert, leaning back wearily; and Glynn, seeing he was inclined to sleep, stole quietly away to Elsie's sitting-room down-stairs.

He found Mrs. Kellett with her, and on hearing him say that he thought her father was sleeping, Elsie went away to see if he was wrapped up and comfortable, and for a minute or two Glynn felt at a loss what to say to Mrs. Kellett.

She was a tall, thin, dark-eyed woman, with grey hair, high cheek-bones, and a severe expression; but her smile was kind, her eyes steady and honest. She spoke very little, and her manner was guarded. Glynn had been favorably impressed on the only occasion when he had met her—their visit to the stock-broker's, and the transfer of Elsie's money to Glynn's care.

"I find Miss Lambert by no means so well as I should like to see her," he said at length.

"No, sir; and I am surprised she looks so well. Her life has been a very trying one for many months."

"It has. I trust its trials will soon be over."

"There seems little prospect of that unless Mr. Lambert will speak."

"As an old friend, Mrs. Kellett, you ought to beg him to explain his position, or, if the effort be too painful for him, to let you do it for him."

"But I do not know the whole story!" said Mrs. Kellett. "It is fourteen years since he gave that dear child into my care, and though I always suspected he had a history, and a strange one, I never knew it. He has always been a loving father, a just and generous paymaster. I know no more."

"It is the strangest case I have heard of," Glynn was beginning, when Elsie returned.

"He is sleeping quite peacefully," she said, "and he needs rest terribly."

"Then I must not stay longer," said Mrs. Kellett, "and I dare not come soon again. When I write it will be as usual under cover to your landlady."

She said good-bye to Glynn. Elsie followed her into the hall to speak some last words, and then returning, sat down on a low couch near the fire, and clasping her hands on her knee, gazed in dreamy silence at the glowing coals. Glynn, who stood leaning against the mantelpiece, waited and watched; the stillness, the loneliness, the isolation from all who had well known them, thrilled him with a strange sense of delicious power. Suddenly she said very softly, as if to herself:

"It will soon be a year since that day."

"What day?" asked Glynn.

"The day you came and dined with us at the CafÉ de Madrid,—do you remember?"

"It is constantly in my thoughts; it is one of my most delightful memories! Do you know," coming and sitting down beside her, "that when I lie awake at night I recall the airs you sang that night, and hear again your delicious tones!"

"We were so happy then—at least I was."

"And I was," echoed Glynn. "I did not know how happy, until the misery of losing you taught me. Do you know that the horror of the whole thing nearly killed me? I had brain fever——"

"Had you!" cried Elsie, looking at him in great, sincere surprise. "It was very good of you to care so much! My father never said you tried to find me!"

"Why do you look so astonished?" he asked.

"Because—Oh, I shall tell you some day when I feel happier and braver."

"The lady I am going to bring here the day after to-morrow will tell you how ill I was. She was very kind, and helped to nurse me. She is a sort of aunt of mine."

"If she took care of you I shall like her. You have been such a true friend to my father," cried Elsie, with sudden warmth, and stretching out her hand she placed it in his.

Glynn was greatly surprised, and not altogether pleased by her extreme unconsciousness, but he gently retained the hand for a moment while she went on—

"Is it quite safe her coming here? I do not understand our extraordinary position, but it seems to me that our hiding-place is becoming too generally known. Does the lady know we are hunted fugitives?"

"She does, and I will answer for her good faith."

"There must be some very strong reason for my father's strange life!" and she lapsed into thought.

Then they spoke again of Lady Gethin, and the extraordinary chance which had brought them together. At last he was obliged to tear himself away. He never left her without an unspeakable pang, a dread of some crime being committed before he saw her again.

The dusk of a blustering March evening was deepening, and Elsie was struck by the minute directions he gave the old landlady to fasten the shutters, and lock the doors, to admit no stranger, and put out the lights early.

"You are as fearful as my father," she said; "but I think we are very safe in this quiet neighborhood."

"Good-night. I suppose I must not come to-morrow? Well, the day after I will with Lady Gethin. If you want me in any way, telegraph."

Glynn was surprised to find Lady Gethin not only ready, but in a state of impatient expectancy when he reached her house on the day appointed.

"I suppose my kinsfolk and acquaintance would consider me insane if they knew I was thus encouraging you in so wild a project," she said, as she took Glynn's arm to go down-stairs.

"That can be of small consequence to you."

"Hum! I shouldn't like to be looked upon as an idiotic old woman. However, I am dying to get to the bottom of this mysterious affair, that's the truth. As to you—you are past praying for."

"Not past returning thanks for, I hope," said Glynn, as he handed her into her brougham, and told the coachman to drive to Euston Square station. Arrived there, Lady Gethin said she would not require the carriage again, as Mr. Glynn would see her home; and as soon as they reached the arrival platform they took a cab and drove to within an easy walking distance of Garston Terrace.

"I never was so far north before," said Lady Gethin, looking about her with interest. "It does not seem a very lively place. How long has this poor girl been shut up here?"

"She has been secluded altogether for nearly nine or ten months. It is time this persecution were over; a little courage and candor would soon put an end to it."

"Nice old woman," ejaculated Lady Gethin, as Mrs. Ritson, the landlady, opened the door and dropped a curtsey.

"Walk in, please," she said, and ushered them into a small front room, furnished as a salle Á manger.

Lady Gethin immediately took a tour of inspection. "I don't know how it is, but this doesn't look quite like a lodging," she said, sitting down suddenly. "I don't think that old woman furnished this."

"I suspect you are on the look-out for mysteries," Glynn began, when Elsie came in, dressed in her ordinary costume of black, with a little scarf of fine creamy lace round her throat, and a bunch of daffodils beside it.

The excitement of seeing a stranger had brought a little color to her cheek, and as she stood still for a moment of graceful hesitation, Glynn's heart throbbed with tenderness and pride, and he thought it must puzzle Lady Gethin to find fault with so fair a creature. He turned to read her opinion in her countenance. She was gazing at Elsie with a curious expression of startled surprise, almost of recognition, and seemed too absorbed to remember the ordinary observances of a first introduction.

"I have brought my aunt, Lady Gethin, to see you, Miss Lambert," said Glynn, shaking hands with her.

"She is very kind to come," returned Elsie, with a slight pretty curtsey, expressive of respect to the age and position of her visitor.

"And I am very glad I came," said Lady Gethin, rising and holding out her hand, gravely, but cordially. "Mr. Glynn's interest in your father and yourself has induced me to offer a visit, even though not quite sure it will be acceptable."

"Oh, yes! it is most acceptable," cried Elsie, her eyes filling with tears, and feeling strangely fascinated by Lady Gethin's gaze.

"I am pleased to think so," said Lady Gethin, with more of her usual manner, as she resumed her seat.

"In a few minutes my father will be ready to receive you, if you will be so very good as to visit him—he has been so ill!"

"Yes, certainly, I want to see him very much. You do not look particularly well yourself! too much confinement in a sick-room, I suppose." A pause and long searching look.

"I have gone out very little for months."

"Excuse me, my dear, you will think me an intrusive old woman, but what is your name? Elsie, Elsie! that is quite strange to me. Do you remember your mother at all?"

"No—that is, like a faint, far-away dream!"

"What was her name?"

"I think I was called after her. I never speak about her, for my father cannot bear it. His sorrow must have been great."

"I suppose so—I suppose so," thoughtfully. "You will forgive my abruptness, I am not asking from idle curiosity."

"I have nothing to forgive." Here the tinkle of a bell was heard. "My father is ready; will you come?" said Elsie, rising. She conducted them into the drawing-room, where Lambert, shaved and smartened up, sat in his large chair, which had been brought down-stairs; a few flowers and some books gave an inhabited air to the room, while the exquisite neatness of the invalid and his surroundings bespoke loving care.

Lady Gethin's quick eye noted everything. Lambert brightened a little as he thanked her with simple courtesy for her visit. Glynn saw that she scrutinized him with profound attention, and drew him out rather than spoke to him.

Glynn himself had various matters to speak of with Elsie, who looked more like what she had been in Paris than she had since they had met again.

After some little time Lady Gethin turned to Elsie and said, gravely, "Will you forgive me, my dear young lady, if I ask you to leave me with your father and Mr. Glynn? I have one or two matters to speak of." She paused.

"Certainly," said Elsie, rising; "you will send for me when you want me," and with a smiling, wondering look at Glynn, she left the room.

The door being closed, Lady Gethin, turning to Lambert, said, "At the risk of awakening painful memories I must ask you a few questions! Your daughter so resembles a dear friend, or rather one who was a dear friend of mine long ago, that I cannot refrain. Pray has she any relations named Acton?"

"No," said Lambert, eyeing her suspiciously; "she has no relation in the world but myself."

"She must have some others, Captain Lambert!" persisted Lady Gethin. "Strange ideas rise in my mind, coupling the likeness with Deering's efforts to find her. The friend Miss Lambert resembles, and whose daughter she might be, was Isabel Acton, who married Gilbert Deering against the will of her people, and went away with him abroad, where she died."

"My God!" cried Lambert, turning ghastly white, "this is incredible!" He remained silent for a minute, his hands clasping and unclasping the arms of his chair, his mouth twitching, some strong emotion evidently working within him. "Ring the bell!" he said at length to Glynn. "Get me some brandy-and-water. I will tell you my whole story, and I'll want something to help me through. You look like a strong, good woman, Lady Gethin. You will not turn against my girl, though her father has been a bit of a blackguard in his time."

"I will not," said Lady Gethin, stoutly.

"Do you wish me to leave you?" asked Glynn.

"No; my confession is as much for you as for my lady here." He paused while the servant placed the brandy-and-water beside him. "I must go a long way back," he resumed, when she had left the room. "It was about fifteen years ago when, after knocking about in Texas and California, I found myself at Chili in a very low condition, both as to money and prospects. Just at that time a railway had been begun by a clever adventurer who had been kicked out of 'Frisco, but persuaded the Government of Chili to take up his scheme. This railway was to a village up in the mountains, in the middle of a rich mineral district, teeming with wealth. The difficulty was to find ready money to pay current expenses; they were never more than a week ahead of the men's wages. To provide for this outlay, Jeafferson, the Yankee promoter, got together three or four gamblers to meet the men at the village where they were paid, and win back the cash just given out, and have it ready by the next pay-day. I was one of these fine gentlemen," bitterly. "We had a percentage on our winnings, and lots of food and drink at the bars, kept by the company,—that is, Jeafferson. It is curious how little I minded it all then, and what a rascally business it seems now! Among the employÉs there was a certain Deering, a cold, stern Englishman, an engineer. He was a silent, self-possessed fellow, proud and plucky as the devil. We all hated him, for he looked down on us. He seemed to see through the gambling scheme; he was always interfering, and warning the men against us, and making enemies on both sides. He had had a wife with him, but she was dead. I never saw her." He paused. Both Lady Gethin and Glynn drew a little nearer with breathless interest.

"Well," resumed Lambert, "one night I met Deering in a hotel in Lima with a tall Englishman not unlike himself, only fair, with whom he was talking over a bottle of wine; and they had papers and money lying on the table between them. They seemed greatly occupied with their conversation. I had had a hard ride, and a hard drink (I did drink then), and I couldn't resist trying to get up a quarrel with Deering, so I broke in on him and his friend and offered to stake as much as lay there and play him for the whole at poker, euchre, anything he liked. He answered me contemptuously, and rising, left the room. I was in an awful fury, and swore that I'd have his life, and a deal more. The tall friend who remained laughed and taunted me, and gave me more drink, so we grew a bit familiar. The upshot was, I went to see him in his private room; there we got abusing Deering to dirt, and I swore I'd have his life. When this man had listened awhile, says he: 'If you are in earnest, I know a party as would give a bigger pile than that' (meaning the money that had been on the table) 'to know that he was safe under the sod, and not only the serpent but the spawn to; for,' says he, 'he has a child, who may prove worse than the father.' This sobered me. Ay, you may look hard; it had an ugly sound, and blackguard as I had been, I was no cowardly assassin." He stopped, and signed to Glynn to give him some brandy-and-water.

"I parleyed with him a bit. However, I could get little out of him, except that there was a good sum to be mine if I would shoot my enemy. Well, I kept quiet. I felt somehow desperately disgusted, and all my fury against Deering began to die away. I said to my new acquaintance, that he should hear from me, and next day I mounted my horse, and rode away to find Deering; not to challenge and shoot him, but to warn him against the treacherous devil that was thirsting for his life. It's truth I'm telling you. Do you believe me?" interrupting himself feverishly.

"I do," said Glynn, earnestly.

"Pray go on," urged Lady Gethin.

"Deering lived away at one of the stations in the mountains, an awful wild place, with a lot of Indians and half-breeds round him; the railway was pushed so far, and the next payments were to be made there. So men were busy rigging up a bar and a gaming saloon, with logs and what not, when I rode in. Lord! what a beautiful place it was! Just a strip of heaven peopled by fiends! I got in there a little after sundown and found Deering kicking up no end of a row, wanting to prevent the saloon being finished and opened. I spoke to him, as I hope—no! I don't hope anything,—but as I live, full of the best intentions. I asked him to come away out into the open with me a bit. There I tried to speak friendly to him, but it was no use. He turned on me and abused me like a pick-pocket, for one of a gang of sharpers. He stung me to the quick; I lost all control of myself, and pulling out my revolver, I challenged him to fight there on the spot. He said something about ridding the place of a pest. Just then a boy—oh, of about nineteen or twenty, a factotum of Jeafferson's—came up. We both asked him to see fair play. O God! it was soon over! He fell at my first fire. I had winged my man before, and didn't mind much. But somehow I felt sorry for him. Vexed with myself, I threw away my revolver, and knelt down beside him, calling to the boy to help; but a confused sound of shouting and a loud hum came from the village or camp, and the boy said, 'They are up to mischief there,' and away he ran. Deering seemed to hear it; he opened his eyes and muttered something—I could only make out the word 'destroy.' Then he caught my hand, and with a despairing, imploring look in his eyes,—I see it still,—groaned, 'My child—save her.' And holding his hand, I swore I'd take care of her so long as I had breath. He pointed to a ring on his little finger, and muttered, 'Take'; then he said, 'My child,' turned sharp, as if in pain, and was gone. I took the ring (I'll show it to you presently), then I made away to his shanty. The devils of miners, and navvies, and half-breeds had risen to revenge themselves, and were wrecking his place. One fellow called out that there was a pile of money in the house, that Deering had got down in the town yesterday. The lot of them were raging like furies and had just set fire to the hut, when I got up. There wasn't a sign of the child. I hunted through the place. The men all thinking I was dead against Deering, didn't interfere with me. At last, crouching in a corner behind a door, quite stupefied with fear, I found a little golden-haired darling, of three or four years old—all alone."

"Had she no nurse—or did the nurse forsake her?" asked Lady Gethin, as he paused. "How did he come to keep her in such a place?"

"That I cannot answer. I think Deering must have been desperately poor, or he would not have taken service with Jeafferson. Anyhow I took the child, who screamed at me in an agony of terror. I told her I would take her to her father. I wrapped a cloak that hung on the wall round her, and got out. She was quite still—so still that I feared she was dead. So I managed to saddle Deering's horse, which was fresh; and as night was falling I rode away, while those mad devils where shouting and dancing round the burning wreck." He stopped, quite exhausted.

"You had better not go on now," said Glynn. "I begin to understand your position. Lady Gethin will, I am sure, return to——"

"I must go on," interrupted Lambert. "I can't rest till I have finished; and there's a lot more to tell."

"He had better get through it," said Lady Gethin.

"When I got down to Lima, I went to an out-of-the-way eating-house, where I sometimes put up when funds were low. The woman that kept it was a good soul when sober. I got her to take care of the child for a day and a night. She didn't ask questions. Then I thought what to do, for I was at the end of my cash. It struck me as a grand 'ploy,' if I could get the price of poor Deering's life out of the long fellow at the hotel, and build up a fortune for the child. So I went to him, and told him what had happened, and a good deal more—faith! I said I found the child suffocated with the smoke, and just squeezed my hand round its throat to make sure. He took it all quite easy. 'You are a handy scoundrel,' he said; and I answered, 'You are an unhandy one. Now, are you going to keep your word, and give me over what you wouldn't give poor Deering?'

"'What he wouldn't take,' says he. 'How do I know you are speaking truth?'

"'Send and see,' said I. 'If you cheat me, I'll raise the hue and cry against you.'

"'Who will believe you against me?' said he with a sneer. 'I am an Englishman of unblemished character. What would your assertions be against mine? However, I don't want to cheat you. Come here to-morrow.'

"To make a long story short, the woman who had had the care of the child came roaring and crying to this man, who was another Deering,—he never disguised his name,—and said the child had been killed, or at any rate burned to death, and Deering was killed too while she was away, taking some food to her husband. Anyhow that long devil was satisfied, and gave me the money. I must hurry a bit.

"I had agreed to quit South America, and so I took a passage to Melbourne. I never thought the child would live; she pined and seemed silly. There was a good woman on board the vessel we sailed in who took to my little darling. She had lost her baby and her husband. He was the skipper of a ship that traded between San Francisco and Callao, and sometimes to Melbourne. She was wonderful fond of Elsie. I called her Elsie after a little sister of my own; I never knew what name she had been christened. This good woman is Mrs. Kellett. She was going to join a sister who was married in Melbourne, and intended getting work of some kind, as she had little or no money.

"Well, the upshot was, that she agreed to take charge of Elsie. I paid well; and then I took to breaking horses, then I bought and sold them, and made a good bit, and saved—Lord, how I saved! I left off drink,—two glasses of beer in the day was my allowance. If I could only make up to that child for all I had robbed her of!—and she began to know me. The day she first put her little arms round my neck, and stroked my face, and wouldn't let me go, I made a darned fool of myself, and cried. Mrs. Kellett, not understanding, says, 'She'll be as sensible as any child yet.' Ah! so she is. One time I wasn't lucky, that is, I got next to nothing for myself, for I kept the profits of Elsie's money separate from my own, and it's wonderful how everything I undertook for that child prospered. It was then I went over to California, and scraped around a bit, and collected gold-dust and nuggets; some I bought, some I dug myself. It was there I fell in with you, Glynn. I seemed a penniless adventurer, didn't I? Aha, my boy!—I had nigh a thousand pounds' worth stitched into my belt. I kept out a little just to throw away and keep up with the others, but did you ever see me forget myself in drink?"

"I was always struck by your extreme temperance," returned Glynn.

"Ah! well, those were happy days," resumed Lambert. "After that spurt I went back to Melbourne. Presently Mrs. Kellett wanted to go home; her brother had come into his uncle's farm; he was a widower, with a lot of boys, and wrote for his sister to keep his house; so I came with her, and saw the place, and left my precious child there, where she throve like a lily for near five years. I settled in Paris, always working her money and my own very cautiously, and looking forward to the day she'd come and take care of her father. I declare to God, I used to forget she wasn't my own child! When she was, as I reckoned, about twelve, I put her into the convent, and used to have her out on holidays. She never enjoyed them more than I did, and she grew fonder and fonder of me. Then I made a snug little nest for her, and took her home for good. Then I met you, Glynn, and now I'm coming to the trouble. You remember Vincent. Well, when I first met him with some very respectable Americans in Paris, I was puzzled with the notion that I had seen him before, and I told him so. Then he grinned, and said he was the boy that had witnessed my duel with Deering. We agreed to bury the past, as it wasn't exactly a letter of recommendation. I wasn't over-pleased with him, but he was uncommon civil, and used to come to the house, and I got accustomed to him. Then he proposed for Elsie, and I refused him; still he hung on, and asked a second time; after that he got spiteful. You know all about that time, Glynn! Wasn't it a slice out of heaven? It didn't last long. You were at the Davilliers' the evening I came in, and saw Deering talking to my Elsie, and looking at her. By Heaven, I understood his looks! and if I had had my knife in my belt, as in the old days, he'd have looked his last. I thought the sight of me would have frightened him."

Lambert paused, and lay back in his chair.

"Did he recognize you?" cried Lady Gethin with breathless interest.

"Ay, that he did. He was calm, and civil, and damnably superior, and came the next day to call, and sat talking so softly and elegantly to my blessed child. At last he begged for a private interview with me,—said he had something of importance to say. I was obliged to go to his hotel, there was no use refusing." Lambert stopped, took a little more brandy-and-water, drew a long breath, and began again. "As soon as the door was closed he asked me to come up by his writing-table. Then looking straight at me he exclaimed, 'You lied to me. You did not strangle Gilbert Deering's infant! I recognized the girl's likeness to her mother at the first glance.'

"'What's that to you?' said I. 'There's a crime the less on your conscience.'

"He laughed harshly. 'I confess she was worth sparing; she is a charming creature. You seem to have brought her up remarkably well, but I think you have done enough. I propose to assume her guardianship in future.' Then he went on to offer me money—me!—to give up my child. I saw his infernal scheme, and I burst out in a fury. I threatened to expose him. 'Try,' he replied, 'and see what will become of it. I shall simply tell my story. I went out to Chili to find my cousin, who had succeeded to the family estate of Denham. I had a considerable sum of money with me for his use. A desperate scoundrel sees us discussing business matters, and the money on a table before us. He follows poor Gilbert, murders and robs him; incites the ruffians of the place to fire Deering's house. In the scuffle Gilbert's little girl is supposed to be burnt—years after I discover her in Paris. I denounce the murderer, save my young cousin, unveil the monster on whom she has lavished her filial affection—and——'

"'Lose your estates,' I interrupted. 'You didn't want to murder Gilbert Deering for nothing. How would my story tell against yours?'

"'My good friend, not a soul would believe your word against mine. Your antecedents would put you out of court!'

"'You would need a witness or two,' said I.

"'I might find one,' he said, with an air of careless security that thrilled me with fear. I thought of his strange intimacy with Vincent. But he wouldn't be such a villain as to forswear himself? 'I'll give you a few days to reflect,' he went on. 'This is my proposition. Hand over the girl to my custody. I will find her a good husband, and generally take care of her. You make yourself scarce; be off to America, and drink yourself to death. I'll give you two hundred a year while you are above ground. Refuse, and I'll lodge information against you in consequence of revelations made to me by your friend Vincent. Now take your choice. My position is impregnable; every one knows Gilbert Deering was murdered; it only remains to discover the murderer. If I am driven to this, I shall stand out in bright colors as a just and chivalrous kinsman, and no doubt some compromise beneficial to me can be arranged. Of this I am resolved,—to get rid of you.' He would not say another word, and I left him, feeling more than half-mad with helpless rage—ay! and terror! I am no coward, I could face death as steadily as any man; but to leave my Elsie at the mercy of such a villain, with the stain of my public execution on her life, with the bitter knowledge that I had killed her real father, to blot out all tender, kindly recollection of me—no, I could not face that. Then to hand her over to a wretch who would destroy her if he could: that idea drove me wild. I tell you in my agony I half determined to put an end to her and to myself, as the best and most merciful mode of cutting the knot." He paused, shuddering. "No poor words can tell the horror of those days. I had more than one interview with Deering, and the calm way he affected to believe his own lies drove me wild. I urged that the disappearance of the large amount of money with which he was entrusted to give his cousin would tell against him. He said he had given the money to Gilbert, and that I had robbed him of it. I appealed to Vincent. Vincent coolly told me that I had shot Deering in the back. I was utterly powerless; all I could gain, was time.

"I pretended to take the proposition of giving her up to Deering into consideration. They thought I was going to yield. Then you came back, and I played a last card. I asked you to marry my Elsie. I thought she would be safe, and I'd go away and hide. But you couldn't, or wouldn't."

Glynn started up. "I don't know," he began.

"Let me finish," interrupted Lambert; "I have nearly done. I was desperate, and at bay. The thought came into my mind to hide my darling. I ran over to England, telegraphed to Mrs. Kellett to meet me at a neighboring town, and told her something of my difficulties. She knew my love for my child, and obeyed my instructions. I transferred all the money I could to her name. I took counsel with her as to where Elsie should stay, and when she (Mrs. Kellett) should come to Paris, and many details I haven't time to tell. A day or two before the ball Mrs. Kellett, down at her brother's place, was laid up with a severe cold, and was waited on by a faithful old servant who was partly in her confidence, and let no one else into her room; whereas in the night she had slipped out of the house and walked to the nearest station, where she caught the first train to London, and came through to Paris, bringing with her some English-made clothes to dress Elsie in. I did not warn my jewel, lest she should betray any uneasiness, but at the last moment I made her promise to come home from the ball,—not to go to Madame's. This between ourselves.

"Then I met her, and took her into the kitchen of the empty Étage below us. I had to contrive to get hold of the key. She was terribly startled; but I made her believe her hiding was essential to my safety. She changed her clothes, and tried to eat something. We waited till I heard the concierge moving about, for the danger was in going out. I had brought Mrs. Kellett in with myself the night before as soon as the house was shut up, so that no voice but mine was heard when the concierge asked, 'Who was there?' Well, they got out exactly as that thief of a detective guessed, while the concierge was at the pump. They walked quietly along over the Pont d'Alma, where they got rid of the ball-dress, and near the Invalides took a fiacre; thus they got off by the first train.

"I was careful to make no discovery, till I thought they would be safe on board the Calais boat. Once landed safely in England, and steaming to London, it would be next to impossible to track them. In London, they drove to the Great Northern, and thence, late in the evening, to the South-Western; from that to a lady's school at Clapham, kept by a cousin of Mrs. Kellett's, where Elsie was to go as a teacher without salary.

"I made up my mind to do without letters for months; only one I must have, to say she was safe; that was sent to a false name at Marseilles, where I journeyed to get it. I had given Mrs. Kellett a certain set of advertisements to be inserted week after week in the Daily News, on Wednesdays and Fridays, which informed me that all was well; and one which was only to be inserted if my presence was required,—a danger signal, in fact. I knew the shrewd devils I had to deal with; the money power that Deering wielded. Nothing gave me a chance but the eight or nine hours' start before the police were on the track.

"So I waited and waited, never writing to England except to Mrs. Kellett now and again, letters composed for inspection; never remitting money; waiting, watching for a chance of seeming to go back to America; really, of joining my jewel, and I found it at last; but there, I can't say another word. If it hadn't been for this unlucky illness, we'd have been on our way to Australia. There, give me some more."

He lay back profoundly exhausted. Glynn held the glass to his lips, while he exchanged a look of wonder and sympathy with Lady Gethin.