Glynn was true to his promise. He forced himself back to something of his old routine. He took a deeper interest in business than before, and found something of relief in the mental effort it obliged him to make.

Men said Glynn was greatly changed since that bad fever he had had. Women thought him more interesting. The truth was hardly suspected. It suited the authorities of la sÛretÉ that the affaire Rue de L'EvÊque should not get into the public prints. The English newspapers had therefore never got hold of the story.

One of the chief interests in this new phase of Glynn's existence was to watch Deering, whom he frequently met.

That gentleman affected some intimacy with Glynn, and made many visits to the office of Messrs. Ottley, Hassali and Ince, apropos of his railway scheme.

Glynn did not reject his advances, though never lapsing into intimacy. Deering often spoke of Lambert, and volunteered the information that the New York police had their eye upon him, that he had arrived all right, landed, and gone away South almost immediately.

Gradually it dawned upon Glynn that Deering was watching him, that he suspected him of knowing more of Elsie's disappearance than any one else. He was careful not to let Deering see that he perceived this, and so, under the fair seeming of friendly acquaintanceship, the two men kept watch over each other with deadly pertinacity and keenness, Glynn keeping profoundest silence as to his conviction that he had heard Elsie's voice, a conviction that tormented him in all his silent, lonely hours. Often he accused himself of stupidity for too readily believing the stately Mrs. Storrer. But her quiet disavowal of all likeness in the photograph to her French teacher, coupled with Lambert's letter stating that he had some faint hope of finding a clue to his daughter in America, put him off the idea of hunting Mademoiselle Laroche further. Sometimes he felt that he would give all he possessed to shake himself clear of the haunting horror which poisoned his life. Then the memory of Elsie's sweet, grave, holy eyes would rise before him, and he felt that he could endure all things, hope all things, could he but find her, and restore her to what she was. On the whole, evil anticipations predominated. He had been greatly disappointed by Lambert's avoidance of him. He could not bear to think that the unhappy, bereaved father had withdrawn his confidence.

Thus battling with the fiends of doubt and fear that lacerated his heart, Glynn dragged himself on from day to day.

In the last week of February Deering's land-agent came to town, bringing with him maps, plans, and calculations. To Glynn's great surprise he proved to be a certain Dick Weldon, formerly one of his school-fellows. This recognition led to some intercourse. Glynn, without deliberate questioning, gathered a good deal of information, which threw a new light on Deering's character in some directions. On the subject of the quest which engrossed them both Glynn maintained a profound silence.

His old acquaintance dined with him, and they talked over bygone days and boyish escapades with zest, at least on Weldon's side. It was amazing to Glynn how fresh and full the details of past adventures—even small minutiÆ—dwelt in his old acquaintance's mind, untroubled as it was by a crowd of varied experiences. He had, it seemed, led a quiet, busy life, humbly useful, but unexciting.

One cold, dry, dark evening Glynn had accepted an invitation to dine with Weldon at the hotel in Holborn where he usually stayed on his short visits to town.

Dinner was over, and both men were enjoying a cigar. The host had put one or two queries, evidently prompted by the curiosity which the contrast between Glynn's prosperity and his gloomy depression evoked, but he could draw forth no responsive confidence, and Weldon, falling back on his own interests, described his home, his wife, and children, pressing Glynn warmly to pay them a visit, when, to the great surprise of both, Deering was ushered in. He apologized shortly for his intrusion, and explained that he had just had private intelligence that the member for a borough town near Denham was dangerously ill, that even were he to recover it would be long before he could enter into public life again, and that he (Deering) wished to win the probably vacant seat. He therefore wished Weldon, who knew the local population, and was well able to feel its pulse, to leave town next morning, and put matters in train for an immediate canvass, as the retirement of the sitting member would most probably be announced in a day or two.

As soon as he could withdraw without too rude a display of indifference, Glynn rose to say good-night; when Deering, somewhat to his annoyance, proposed to go with him.

"I have no more to say now, Weldon. As soon as the death or retirement is declared, I will go down to Denham, and we will not let the grass grow under our feet!"

On reaching the entrance of the hotel, they stopped, intending to call a cab, and while waiting Glynn's attention was attracted by two cloaked and veiled women, who were standing close together just within the doorway. One was tall and stout, the other barely of middle size, her shoulders, even through the rain-cloak wrapped round her, showed unmistakable grace,—unmistakable and familiar; a small hat was entirely enveloped in a thick veil, which was tied over her face, the ends being brought loosely round the throat to the front. Glynn's eyes were riveted on this figure, while he seemed to be peering into the darkness, and felt nervously anxious not to direct Deering's notice to the object which attracted him.

"If he could only hear her speak!" He listened intently.

"It is useless, we must try an omnibus, it is really safer," he overheard the taller lady say. The other murmured something, and turning her head, displayed, in spite of her muffling, a morsel of white neck, and a glimpse of golden-brown hair. Glynn's heart beat. At all risks he must keep that girl in view; any mistake was better than to lose the faintest chance. But Deering must not know his suspicions. Surely the faint suggestions of a likeness would strike him also? But Deering made no remark, nor did he seem to see.

At last the taller of the two women said, "Come," and went forth into the street. At that moment an Islington omnibus drove up. She stepped forward under the nearest lamp, and tried to stop it by waving her umbrella. The vehicle was full, and the two cloaked figures walked slowly away towards Oxford Street.

"Excuse me," said Glynn, abruptly, "I am anxious to get home; I will walk on and take my chance of a cab."

"Very well," returned Deering, "I'll come with you."

Glynn was dismayed. Did Deering suspect, as he did, that this cloaked and veiled figure might be Elsie Lambert? If so, what could he do to save her from his recognition?

His heart thrilled with pain and delight at the bare idea of standing once more face to face with his lost love. What secrets would that meeting unveil? Meanwhile he never lost sight of the figures going on before them, and Deering spoke at intervals.

"There's an empty hansom at last," he cried.

"I am going on a little further," said Glynn. "But don't let me interfere with you."

"Oh! I don't mind walking with you; I have no engagement I care to keep," he replied.

"Why does he persist?" thought Glynn. "I am going to look in on an artist friend near Tottenham Court Road," he said aloud.

"Oh! very well; queer places these fellows put up in. By the way, I have had another report of our mutual acquaintance, Lambert. He is at St. Louis, and has changed his name for the third or fourth time."

"Indeed! then you must have had a telegram?"

"Yes, that is, our friends, Claude and Co., have communicated theirs to me. If Lambert begins to try concealment we'll find out something."

"I trust we shall," said Glynn mechanically, his eyes greedily following the two figures, lamp after lamp shedding its light upon them as they passed.

"Will he never go?" he thought, quivering with excitement.

It was an extraordinary situation to be thus dogging the footsteps of the quarry you wished to preserve from your fellow-hunter, and yet to be unavoidably leading that hunter on her track.

"I fancy you don't want me," said Deering at last. "If so——"

"Why should you think I do not?" interrupted Glynn, nervously afraid to betray his burning anxiety to be rid of him.

"I can't exactly tell why," said Deering, laughing, "but I am sure I am right."

"Well, do whichever you like," said Glynn with well-assumed indifference,—"come on with me to Tottenham Court Road, where you will be sure to find plenty of cabs, or pick up the first empty one we fall in with, and leave me to my fate."

Glynn was almost beside himself with hope, dread, and nervous tension.

Another Islington omnibus drove past and stopped. The two ladies darted to it, exchanged a hasty hand pressure, and then the shorter of the two mounted swiftly, and vanished into the interior.

"Good-night!" cried Glynn, abruptly; "the humble 'bus will suit me admirably."

Before his astonished companion could reply he was beside the vehicle, which was still standing, as a stout and irritable elderly gentleman was painfully disentangling himself from among the tightly-packed passengers.

"If you had only let me out first," he exclaimed angrily as he alighted.

"Trouble you for threepence," interrupted the conductor.

"Threepence! why, I only got in at Leather Lane."

"All right!—Islington!"

Another instant and Glynn occupied the stout man's place—nearer the door, but on the opposite side to the lady he was following—and they were rolling rapidly westward.

At first he would not let himself seem to see her, and by the light of the omnibus lamp he could hardly make out her features, so thick was the lace which concealed them. Suddenly he saw her start and draw her cloak closer together with a nervous movement. Had she recognized him?

Gradually, his eyes growing familiar with the light and the texture of the veil, the conviction grew upon him that he was not mistaken, that it was indeed Elsie Lambert. It was by a powerful exertion of will that he controlled the burning impulse to address her, to take the place beside her vacated by an old lady. She could not leave the conveyance without passing him; he would be quiet and careful. But if her father was seeking her in America, how came she here, alone, and evidently disguised? What frightful confession of weakness, betrayal, and duplicity awaited him! for this night he would know everything. He had her in his grasp, and she should not escape. The minutes were like drops of lead, and still the commonplace everyday 'bus rolled on, its occupants little dreaming what elements of tragedy were enclosed within it.

At last he observed Elsie—yes, it was Elsie—murmur something to her next neighbor, who immediately called out—

"Conductor, Chapel Street for this lady."

The omnibus stopped. Glynn kept quietly in his place, but sprang out the moment she had passed him. The omnibus drove rapidly away.

The slight dark figure was but a few paces before him in a quiet street leading from the omnibus line. The longed-for, dreaded moment had come. He walked rapidly past her, turned round suddenly, and confronting her, exclaimed:

"Miss Lambert—Elsie! you cannot wish to avoid me?"

She stopped, and put out both her hands with a repellent gesture of helpless terror that touched Glynn's heart with immense pity.

"Is it possible you fear me?" he said, catching both her hands in his.

She was silent, motionless; but as he almost unconsciously drew her nearer to him, he felt that she was trembling so violently that she could scarcely stand.

"Do not fear, I will not betray you to any one. I will help you if I can. Will you not speak to me? Is it the Elsie I used to know?"

With a long, quivering sigh she whispered, "It is."

"Let me look at your face once more," said Glynn in a low intense tone. "Don't you know you may trust me?"

"It is not for myself I fear," she said in the same hushed, frightened voice, as she yielded to the movement by which he drew her under a lamp; and loosening her veil, she lifted it, raising her eyes with their well-remembered expression of thoughtful candor to his. How lovely they were! With what rapture Glynn read in them the confirmation of her assurance that she was the same Elsie he had loved and lost. But she was changed; the sweet eyes were unutterably sad, and the delicate cheek was less rounded. The soft lips were pale, and quivered nervously, and the hand he still held was thinner. She seemed unable to suppress the excessive trembling that had seized her. Glynn's whole soul went out to her in love and trust; he could hardly resist the impulse to clasp her to his heart, to shelter her against all ill in his bosom. But might she not be the wife of another man? Anything might have happened during the terrible blank; and, above all, he must win her confidence.

"Ah, yes, you are indeed the same. Why—why have you given us all this sorrow, this fearful anxiety? Think of what your poor father has suffered! Do you know that he has gone to America to search for you?"

"My father!" she repeated, "my poor dear father!" Then she paused, as if resisting the inclination to speak.

"I must not keep you here in the cold, dark street. I cannot let you go alone. May I not come with you?"

"Oh, no, no, no," she repeated; "you must let me go. I cannot, dare not let you come with me. I must not tell you anything."

"Now that I have found you, do you think I will lose sight of you again?"

"You will, I am sure, do what is best for me, and kindest," said Elsie, trying to be calm, and wrapping the veil round her face again. "Let us move on; we shall attract attention."

She did not resist when he drew her arm through his own, and they slowly paced up the street in which he had overtaken her.

"Do you think me capable of betraying you?" asked Glynn.

"No," after a pause, as if to plan her speech; "but I have more than myself to think of. You must not ask me any questions."

"Can you say nothing? Is there no way in which I can help you?"

"I fear not—I do not know—I—" she stopped and drew a long, sobbing breath—"I dare not speak. Any word might betray more than I ought."

"For your father's sake!—think of all he must endure. Have you any duty to come before what you owe him?"

He waited for her reply as for a sentence of life or death.

"Think of him! do I not think of him? My love and duty are his only. But"—she tried to withdraw her arm—"you must let me go; I dare not stay."

"I cannot let you go unless you promise to meet me again, or tell me where I may see you. No, I will not release your arm. Elsie—Miss Lambert, I have been seeking you for seven months; my brain has reeled at the horror of its own picture of your fate; I cannot let you go now. Why do you distrust me? Let me take you home. How could I leave you here in the dark alone?"

"Oh, do not torment me!" she exclaimed, and her voice expressed such pain that Glynn almost hesitated to persevere in his efforts to detain her. "In truth I long to take you with me; I am sure you are kind and true, and I fear to be alone; but I will brave anything, endure anything rather than say whence I came and whither I go. Do not be angry with me."

She burst into an agony of tears, leaning against him as if from sheer inability to stand alone.

"Good God! Elsie, what can I do to comfort and help you? I implore you to trust me. If I let you go now without retaining some clue by which I can find you, I can never forgive myself."

"I long to tell you much, all, but I must not. Yet I might get leave; I might write. Give me your address; I may write to you."

"Will you promise this, solemnly, faithfully?"

"If I do, will you let me go? I am late already. He will be so anxious."

"He! who?" a throb of fierce jealousy vibrated through Glynn's heart. "If you promise to see me once more, when and where you will, I will trust you and let you go. You see, I have more faith in you than you have in me."

"No; you are free, I am not. I have faith in you, but—Well, promise for promise. I will promise to write to you before Friday night, if you will promise not to make any attempt to discover me until after I have written."

"Good; then promise for promise."

"I promise to write to you, and—and if possible to see you."

"There must be nothing about possibility," said Glynn, sternly. "Give me an unconditional promise, or I shall not leave you!"

She hesitated, and then said solemnly, "I promise."

"And I trust your promise," returned Glynn. "On my part I promise not to make any attempt to track you until I have received your letter, or rather until I have seen you."

There was a moment's silence, then Elsie, who seemed to recover herself a little, said softly, "Then, good-night!"

"I cannot part with you yet," cried Glynn, passionately; "I cannot bear to let you go alone. Tell me, did you recognize me in the omnibus?"

"Not all at once; a little while after I had got in. At first, for some time, I thought you did not know me—I hoped you did not."

"I knew you at the door of the hotel, and followed you."

She started. "I must go now, I have stayed too long. Call a cab for me, and tell the driver to go to the Great Northern Station. I will direct him after."

"I cannot bear to let you go alone."

"You must!" impressively. "I am braver than I used to be."

"At least hold my arm till we find a cab," said Glynn, pressing hers to his side, as they turned back to the thoroughfare from which the street led. Elsie submitted to his guidance silently. Glynn's heart beat strongly with mixed emotions. The rapture of meeting her was great—the fear of losing her still greater. His promise forbade his following her, and he seemed as far from solving the mystery of her disappearance as ever. She was moved at the mention of her father, yet not in the way he expected; she had evidently suffered. Was he culpably weak in letting her go? But he had no choice. He could not resist her tears, her distress.

Soon, too soon, they found a cab. Glynn scrutinized the driver; he did not look like a ruffian. With an effort he subdued his reluctance to part with her, and assisted her into the conveyance, remembering with a pang how he had handed her into the carriage after the ball and sent her forth to—he could not tell what wretchedness and wrong.

"You will be true to your word," he said, pressing her hand as he gave her his card.

"I will," she whispered. "Perhaps it may prove fortunate that I have met you."

"God grant it," he returned; then drawing back, said aloud, for the benefit of the driver, "You will let me know if you arrive all right;" and waited till the man had ascended the box, when he asked and obtained his ticket. That at least was something to have and to hold. Elsie drew up the window and leaned back well out of sight. The cab rolled away into the darkness, and Glynn was left standing alone. Collecting himself, he walked briskly away in a southwesterly direction. Lady Gethin was right, a mere accident brought him the fulfilment of his passionate desire—that which he had sought for with such agonizing eagerness. How strange that Deering should have been with him when he caught sight of something familiar in the neck and shoulders of the cloaked figure! He would not soon forget the torment of that walk along the dusky street, the dread of drawing Deering's attention to the object of his own intense observation, the difficulty of getting rid of him. Surely the stars in their courses fought for him (Glynn). Good must come out of so strange a turn of fortune's wheel. At least he had found Elsie safe—safe apparently from any pressing danger, and though looking ill and worn, comparatively well. He had therefore room for hope.

But she was evidently under the influence of some strong will, the pressure of some great necessity. Would she be true to her promise? Yes, a thousand times yes! With the sight of her fair, sad face, the sound of the tremulous voice, all his faith in her returned. It was marvellous the sort of tender reverence she inspired in him—this inexperienced creature, who was almost young enough to be his daughter, and utterly unlearned in the world's lore which was so familiar to himself! She was not even a highly-accomplished, deeply-read young lady. There was an old-fashioned charm of sincerity and earnestness about her infinitely attractive. But she must have undergone some severe shock, or trial. Her nerves seemed shattered. When should he know all? Would any blame attach to her? And Glynn answered his own question with a resolute "No." Then giving himself up to the first real intense passion he had ever felt, he resolved to win her, to wed her, to know even a few months' entire happiness—if she would share that happiness—unless the secret to be revealed hid some insurmountable barrier.

So far sure of his own consent, Glynn felt more composed; but the hours dragged fearfully.

The next day he had a visit in his private room from Deering, who was at the office on business, and said he was going to Denham for a few days. He then added that Vincent had presumed to call on him, to his great surprise, his excuse being, that he had heard from St. Louis that Lambert was there under another name, and had a wife and daughter with him; that the police were following him close, but could find no pretext at present for arresting him.

Glynn said very little in reply. He watched Deering keenly as he spoke, and came to the conclusion that he had no suspicion that Elsie was so near.

"I don't suppose we shall ever get to the bottom of the affair 'Rue de L'EvÊque,' as the French detectives call it, till the law has got its grip on that scoundrel Lambert."

"I think he is more an adventurer than a scoundrel," said Glynn coldly; "and I confess I see no reason for supposing he is in the secret of his daughter's disappearance; but perhaps you know more than I do."

Deering looked at him with a quick, keen glance—a glance of dislike and distrust. "On the contrary, you were the intimate friend, the favored guest of Lambert, and of his charming daughter, of whom I suspect he made a profitable investment."

"It is blasphemy to say so," exclaimed Glynn indignantly. "Lambert may have a queer history, but no irreproachable member of the best society could be a better guardian of his daughter than he was! Do not let him hear you utter such an insinuation, should you ever meet again, or you might not like his reply!"

Deering elevated his eyebrows contemptuously. "You are remarkably loyal," he said. "Well, good-morning; I shall probably see you next week."

Thursday passed and no letter; well, there were twenty-four hours yet to spare. Glynn dined that day with Lady Gethin, and as usual outstayed the other guests.

"I haven't seen you for an age, Hugh," she said, settling herself in her favorite chair. "You are looking better, as if some life was waking up within you; but you are very restless and distrait; at dinner you did not seem able to attend to any one or anything for more than five minutes. Have you found any trace of the lost one?"

"I am too uncertain to talk about it—wait for a few days."

"Ah! then you have," cried her ladyship triumphantly. "I protest I would give my Louis Quatorze watch, diamonds and all, to know the truth of that extraordinary story, and to see the girl who has fascinated you—for she has—you know she has!"

"I will confess nothing, and discuss nothing with you, Lady Gethin," he returned laughing, and pulling his long dark moustaches. "I know the power of your fascination sufficiently to be aware that if I once began there is not a corner of my mind I would not turn inside-out for your inspection."

"Ah! that is all very fine," exclaimed Lady Gethin in high glee; "but you will not say a word more than you choose. If you ever find this young lady, you really must manage to let me see her."

"Would you come and see her?" asked Glynn, as delightful intoxicating possibilities floated before his eyes.

"Find me a decent excuse, and I'll come fast enough! Hugh, I suspect you know where she is?"

"I do not, indeed—I wish I did."

"Well, for Heaven's sake, do nothing foolish when she does appear, for you will find her, if she is above ground."

Friday, and no letter. Glynn kept indoors nearly the whole day, sent an excuse to the house where he was engaged to dine, and sat, trying to read, and watching for the last delivery. It came, but brought him no letter from Elsie.

Then he called himself a drivelling fool, a weak-minded idiot. Why had he allowed the tears and terror of that unhappy girl to delude him? He ought to have kept her in his grasp once he had found her. But he had been so sure of her keeping faith. Now his very faith was shaken. What might not be revealed if Elsie had deceived him?

He could not sleep. He spent the night in planning schemes of detection. He found in the depths of his present depression the measure of the height of hope to which he had risen yesterday.

Next morning he rose, fevered by want of sleep, and eager to begin his search. He was dressed before the eight o'clock post came in, and was already writing, when several letters were brought to him, one directed in a stiff, careful, unknown hand, bearing the postmark of "Clapham." He tore it open and read—"Come on Saturday at two. 30, Garston Terrace, Towers Road, Islington." These lines were unsigned, and might be meant for any one, as there was no address, yet Glynn never doubted that the lines were meant for him, and were written by Elsie Lambert. At two o'clock! How near and yet how far! little over six hours. How should he get through them? He had work at his office, and must arrange for a free afternoon; that was not difficult; he had not been regularly in harness since his severe illness. Then he must supply himself with money. It was impossible to say what steps might be necessary. He was glad Deering had gone out of town. There seemed a fatality about his connection with Lambert. He always came to the front when there was any stir in the Lambert affair.

At last it was time to go citywards. First, however, he drove to Deering's house and ascertained that he had gone out of town. The morning hours fled away swifter than he had hoped, though he had a hard struggle to attend to the business before him. But he had acquired a good deal of self-mastery in the course of his varied experience, and few of those with whom he came in contact would have guessed that his heart was perpetually repeating the words, "What disclosures await me?"

After a vain attempt to eat, he took the train to King's Cross, and then hailed a cab, desiring the driver to put him down in Towers Road. This proved a long, dusty thoroughfare. Nor did he find Garston Terrace till after many inquiries and walking some distance. It was a little crooked lane, where some exceedingly new houses looked over a field and a few trees. The door was opened by a fresh-colored, countrified-looking old woman, in a beautifully white cap. Glynn was utterly at a loss, he did not know for whom he should inquire. He feared to mention a young lady; he thought of asking if there were rooms to let in the house—of a dozen things for the instant or two, during which they stood gazing at each other. At last the servant or owner of the house said, in a broad accent—

"You'll be the gentleman to see Mr. Smith?"

"I am," returned Glynn, infinitely relieved.

"Walk in, please." When he obeyed she opened the door of a tolerably large room at the back of the house, which looked into a small garden, behind which was a high dead wall, separating it from a manufactory of some humble sort.

It was very simply furnished—simple to plainness—yet neither ugly nor uncomfortable. Here his conductress left him, and disregarding her invitation to take a "cheer," he stood by the fire, his eyes fixed on the door in a state of painful expectancy. The sound of footsteps overhead, the murmur of voices made themselves heard, then the door slowly opened, and Elsie herself came in softly. She was dressed in black, but not in mourning, and looked deadly pale; her eyes seemed larger and darker than they used. She made a step or two into the room, and then stopped, holding out both hands, a smile curving her lip, which yet trembled, as if on the verge of tears.

Glynn seized the hands she offered, and, in the rapture of seeing her again, kissed them more than once. "I have imagined such horrors that I cannot restrain my joy at finding you," he exclaimed, his voice broken with intense feeling. "Why have you caused us this cruel anxiety?"

"How good you are to care so much," she said, looking at him with a wondering expression. "You will find I am not to blame. Oh! I feared I should never get leave to write to you, that you would think I had broken my promise! I wished to send for you long ago. I know we can trust you."

"We!" Good heavens! was she married, then? "We!" he repeated hoarsely,—"who—who do you mean?—your husband and yourself?"

"My husband!" a smile gleaming over her face. "I am not married! No—my father."

"Your father!" letting her withdraw her hands. "He is in America, is he not?"

"He is here—here in this house."

"I feel bewildered," said Glynn, taking the seat she pointed to and drawing it near her. "Will you not enlighten me?"

"I know so little, and my father wishes to tell you everything himself. Ah! you will see him so changed." A quick sob caught her breath, but she went on calmly: "He was changed enough when he first came, but he has been seriously ill. He caught a bad cold when travelling here, and has had inflammation of the lungs. He is so weak; will you come to him? Now he has agreed to let you come, he is quite anxious to see you."

"In a moment. Tell me, how are you yourself? You look weary, as if you had suffered."

"I have. It has been such a wretched, miserable time, almost unbearable, until my father came—always hiding, always a mystery."

"And how did Lambert—how did your father find you?"

"My father find me?" with an air of astonishment. "Ah! he will tell you everything. Come up-stairs to him."

Glynn rose to follow her with a faint feeling of disappointment. She was evidently delighted to see him, full of faith in him, but utterly devoid of that delicious consciousness which no woman in love can quite conceal; and grief for the supposed loss of this girl had almost cost him his life!—while for the present the mystery was more mysterious than ever.

Elsie led the way up a narrow stair to the upper story, the same look of neat simplicity characterizing the rest of the house, and opening the door of a good-sized bedroom, she said, "Here is Mr. Glynn, dear."

In a large arm-chair, his feet on a footstool, and covered with a warm plaid, propped by pillows, and close to a good fire, sat, or rather reclined, Lambert, a small table near him, on which stood a medicine-bottle and glass. A door leading into another room stood open.

Elsie was right. Her father was wofully changed. His cheeks were hollow; his skin yellow and wrinkled; his once half-humorous, half-defiant expression was gone, and replaced by a watchful, pitiful look, like a creature always expecting a blow, pathetic too in its wistfulness. One thin, claw-like hand grasped the arm of the chair. As he turned to gaze eagerly towards the door, a smile of pleasure, a sort of relieved look beamed over his face as Glynn advanced. "Ah! this is kind—this is like a good fellow, as I always thought you were," he whispered in a weak, tremulous voice. "I have just been wearying to see you, but afraid, afraid!" He sank back on his cushions, still holding Glynn's hand, and gazing at him imploringly.

"You know, Lambert, I am worthy of some trust, and desire nothing more than to be of service to you," said Glynn, suppressing all tokens of his immense surprise, and speaking with studied calmness. "You must not fatigue or excite yourself. Now that you have allowed me to know your address, I can come often to see you, and do anything you want in the way of commissions."

"Ah! but we must take care—we must take care." He sighed deeply, raising and letting fall his poor wasted hand with a despairing gesture.

While he spoke Elsie had measured out his medicine, and now gave it to him, saying, "Try not to speak too much, dear father. I will leave you to have a nice visit from Mr. Glynn all to yourself," with a sweet, kind smile and thankful look. "I shall see you before you go." She closed the door between the two rooms.

"Lock the other one, lock it, Elsie," said Lambert eagerly.

"Yes, I will." She disappeared.

"Come near me, nearer; we must speak low," said the invalid.

Glynn brought a chair close to his.

"Tell me," said Lambert, more calmly than he had yet spoken, "do you think your old comrade a malefactor? do you think I am dodging the police because I hide away from every one?"

"No! There is something wrong, of course,—concealment always implies that; but I suspect you are more sinned against than sinning; at any rate, I repeat, if I can serve you——"

"Ay!" interrupted Lambert; "but to serve me you must know all, and that is more than I can tell to-day; but I have broken no law—I don't know that I ever did, though I have done queer things—not for thirteen years though, for all that time I have led a decent life; and now it's for the good as well as the evil I have done that I am persecuted! Glynn, all I can find strength to say is, will you help me to save my Elsie? Will you be her guardian, and take care of her little fortune?"

"I will," said Glynn; "but I trust and see every reason to hope that you will be her guardian yourself for many a year!"

"That has nothing to do with it," impatiently. "I want you to take charge of her money, without deeds or papers, or lawyers, for I can see no one. Just give me a written acknowledgment. Her money stands in the name of the good woman who was my darling's foster-mother, and she is not fit to manage it, and is afraid to keep it. But I trust you, Glynn! O God! I must trust you! and when the money is transferred to you, then you must settle it on her, and appoint trustees." He paused, much exhausted.

"I will do exactly what you wish in the matter," said Glynn, anxious to soothe him, "and do my best to deserve the high confidence you place in me."

"Thank you, God bless you!" with a sigh of relief, laying his hand on Glynn's; "and you will lose no time about it. Mrs. Kellett shall call on you on Monday, and go with you to the brokers. The money is in Spanish bonds and Australian railways; it can be handed over to you with the stroke of a pen; but you know all that better than I do—ha, ha!" He laughed feebly. "I didn't know what a big boss you were when I wanted to make a match between my dear little girl and you."

"Miss Lambert deserves a better man than I am," said Glynn.

Lambert looked at him sharply. "There's one thing more, important enough, but not so pressing as the money. Do you know any lady that would be kind to Elsie, and look after her? she hasn't a lady friend in the world—those French women are no use. But mind, she must be strong, with either money or rank, and a resolute woman, who knows the world. Lord! it can't be easy to find a clever, well-placed, kindly woman."

"Far from it, yet not impossible. I will undertake to search for this rarity; but before I do I must know more. I cannot ask another to put the faith in you that I do."

"Fair enough, fair enough! Well, I'll tell you a lot in a few days; I daren't begin now, it would kill me."

"You must keep up your heart, Lambert, you must live for your daughter."

"Live for her! I'd serve her best by dying for her!"

"She would not think so."

"No," cried the sick man with a burst of emotion, sobs that shook his frame, and tears for which when stronger he would have blushed; "she loves me! she believes in me! and come what may, here or hereafter, nothing can rob me of the fourteen years of happiness and redemption she has given me. May God reward her."

"Amen," said Glynn, softly. "I think you have talked enough; I will be ready for your friend on Monday. How shall I know her?"

"She shall bring a word, a line. Settle it with Elsie."

"May I come to-morrow?"

"Yes, if you can manage it safely! The one man that must not find me is Deering, and he is spending a fortune tracking me."

"This is most extraordinary."

"I dare say it seems so."

"May I put any question to Miss Lambert?"

"As many as you like; but she knows very little."

Here there was a tap at the door, and Elsie entered. "I think I must ask you to come away," she said.

"I fear I have stayed too long," returned Glynn.

"Will you come to-morrow?"

"Yes, without fail; at the same time."

Then followed a delightful half-hour with Elsie, who gave him a cup of tea in the sitting-room below.

"I can tell you nothing of my father's reasons," she said in reply to his queries. "I have simply obeyed him, for I am sure there is some great necessity, and he promises to explain all to me later. I cannot describe the state of despair my father gets into occasionally; his terror at the idea of our being discovered! but now, perhaps, he will tell you! You will come again, will you not?"

"I shall come to-morrow."

"I am so glad, so glad." Her voice trembled; she strove to keep her self-control; then resting her elbows on the table, she covered her face in her hands and burst into irrepressible tears.

"It has been all so terrible," she sobbed; "this concealment, this fear of I know not what; this shameful changing from one home to another. Shall we never be free and happy again?"

"You shall, you must," whispered Glynn. "Your father exaggerates his troubles, I am sure; he has promised to tell me everything, and I will never leave him till he is reinstated. You can not live on under such horrible conditions."