Bradley and his bride were only absent from London five days; no one missed them, and of course no one suspected that they had gone away in company. Before the next Sunday came round, they were living just as before—she in her own rooms, he in the residence at Regent’s Park. This was the arrangement made between them, the clergyman’s plea being that it was better to keep their marriage secret for a time, until the New Church was more safely established in public estimation.

Quite happy in the loving secret between them, Alma had acquiesced without a word.

Their only confidant, for the time being, was Miss Combe, who was then staying at Hastings, and to whom Alma wrote in the following terms:

‘Dearest Agatha,—It is all over, and we are man and wife. No one in the world is to know but you, yet awhile. I know you will keep our secret, and rejoice in our happiness.

‘It was all decided very hastily. Ambrose thought it better to marry secretly, thinking (foolish man!) that many would misunderstand his motives, and believing that, as an unmarried person, he can better pursue the good work to which we are both devoted. After all, it matters very little. For years we have been one in soul, as you know; and what God long ago joined man could never have put asunder. Still, it is sweet to know that my hero, my apostle, my Abelard—as I call him, is entirely mine, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse. I am very happy, dear; proud and hopeful, too, as a loving wife can be.

‘Write and tell me that you are better. Surely this bright weather should complete your cure, and drive those gloomy thoughts away? In a few days I shall come and see you; perhaps we may come together. So I won’t write good bye, but au revoir!

‘Your loving friend,

‘Alma Bradley.

‘P.S.—My cousin George is back in town. Just fancy how he would scowl if he were to read the above signature.’

It so happened that George Craik, although he was not so favoured as to read his cousin’s signature as a married woman, and although he had no suspicion whatever as yet that she had entered, as she imagined, into the holy estate of matrimony, was scowling in his least amiable frame of mind about the time when Alma wrote the above letter. He had returned to London from Paris a good deal mystified, for, having procured an interview with Mrs. Montmorency, whom (as the reader knows) he had gone over to see, he had elicited nothing from that lady but a flat denial of any knowledge of or connection with his rival the clergyman.

So he came back at once, baffled but not beaten, took to the old club life, attended the different race meetings, and resumed altogether the life of a young gentleman about town.

But although he saw little of his cousin, he (as he himself figuratively expressed it ‘kept his eye upon her.’) The more he read about Bradley and his doings—which appeared shocking indeed to his unsophisticated mind—the more indignant he felt that Alma, and her fortune, should ever be thrown away on one so unworthy. Meantime he was in the unenviable position of a man surrounded by duns and debts. He had bills out in the hands of the Jews, and he saw no prospect whatever of meeting them. Having far exceeded the very liberal allowance given him by his father, he knew that there was no hope of assistance in that direction. His only chance of social resuscitation was a wealthy marriage, and with his cousin hanging like a tempting bait before him, he felt like a very Tantalus, miserable, indignant and ill-used.

His rooms were in the Albany, and here one morning his father found him, sitting over a late breakfast.

‘Well, George,’ said the baronet, standing on the hearthrug and glancing round at the highly suggestive prints which adorned the walls; ‘well, George, how long is this to last?’

The young man glanced up gloomily as he sipt his coffee.

‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.

‘You know very well. But just look at this letter, which I have received, from a man called Tavistock, this morning.’

And he tossed it over the table to his son. George took it up, looked at it, and flushed crimson. It was a letter informing Sir George Craik that the writer held in his hands a dishonoured acceptance of his son’s for the sum of three hundred pounds, and that unless it was taken up within a week proceedings in bankruptcy would be instituted.

‘D——— the Jew!’ cried George. ‘I’ll wring his neck! He had no right to write to you!’

‘I suppose he thought it was the only way,’ returned the baronet; ‘but he is quite out in his calculations. If you suppose that I shall pay any more of your debts you are mistaken. I am quite tired of it all. You have played all your cards wrong and must take the consequences.’

George scowled more furiously than ever, but made no immediate reply. After a pause, however, he said in an injured way—‘I don’t know what you mean by playing my cards wrong. I have done my best. If my cousin Alma has given me the cold shoulder, because she has gone cranky on religion, it is no fault of mine.’

‘I am not astonished that she has thrown you over,’ cried Sir George. ‘What possible interest could a young girl of her disposition find in a fellow who bets away his last shilling, and covers his room with pictures of horses and portraits of jockeys and ballet girls? If you had had any common sense, you might at least have pretended to take some interest in her pursuits.’

‘I’m not a hypocrite,’ retorted George, ‘and I can’t talk atheism.’

‘Rubbish! You know as well as I do that Alma is a high-spirited girl, and only wants humouring. These new-fangled ideas of hers are absurd enough, but irritating opposition will never lead her to get rid of them.’

‘She’s in love with that fellow Bradley!’

‘Nothing of the kind. She is in love with her own wild fancies, which he is wise enough to humour, and you are indiscreet enough to oppose. If there had been anything serious between them, a marriage would have come off long ago; but, absurd as Alma is, she is not mad enough to throw herself away on a mere adventurer like that, without a penny in the world.’

‘What is a fellow to do?’ pleaded George, dolefully. ‘She snubs me more than ever!’

‘The more she snubs you the more you ought to pursue her. Show your devotion to her—go to the church—seem to be interested in her crotchets—and take my word for it, her sympathies will soon turn in your direction.’

Father and son continued to talk for some time in the same strain, and after an hour’s conversation Sir George went away in a better humour. George drest himself carefully, and when it was about midday hailed a cab and was driven down to the Gaiety Theatre, where he had an appointment with Miss Dottie Destrange. The occasion was one of those matinÉes when aspiring amateurs attempt to take critical opinion by storm, and the dÉbutante this time was a certain Mrs. Temple Grainger, who was to appear as ‘Juliet’ in the Hunchback, and afterwards as ‘Juliet’ in the famous balcony scene of Shakespeare’s play. Mrs. Grainger, whose husband was somewhere in the mysterious limbo of mysterious husbands, called India, was well known in a certain section of society, and no less a person than His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised to be present at her dÉbut.

George was to join Miss Destrange in the stalls, where he duly found her, and was greeted with a careless smile. The seats all round were thronged with well-known members of society; actresses, actors, critics. The Prince was already in his box, and the curtain was just ringing up.

It is no part of my business to chronicle the success or failure of Mrs. Temple Grainger; but, if cheers and floral offerings signify anything, she was in high favour with her audience. At the end of the second act, George Craik rose and surveyed the house through his opera glass. As he did so, he was conscious of a figure saluting him from one of the stage boxes, and to his surprise he recognised—Mrs. Montmorency.

She was gorgeously drest in black, and liberally painted and powdered. George bowed to her carelessly; when to his surprise she beckoned him to her.

He rose from his seat and walked over to the side of the stalls immediately underneath her box. She leant over to him, and they shook hands.

‘Will you come in?’ she said. ‘I want to speak to you.’

He nodded, passed round to the back of the box, entered, and took a seat by the lady’s side.

‘I thought you were still in Paris,’ he said.

‘I came over about a fortnight ago,’ she replied. ‘I suppose you have heard of his lordship’s death?’

‘Yes. I saw it in the papers.’

‘I waited till after the funeral, then I came away. But we won’t talk about that; I’ve hardly got over it yet. I’ve something else to say to you.’

‘Well?’

‘Do you remember a question you asked me in Paris—whether I knew anything of a clergyman of the name of Bradley who was paying his addresses to your cousin?’

‘Of course I do; and you said——’

‘That I only knew him very slightly.’

‘Pardon me, but you said you didn’t know him at all!’

‘Did I? Then I made a slight mistake.

‘I do know the person you mean by sight!’

George Craik looked at the speaker with some astonishment, for he had a good memory, and a very vivid recollection of what she had said to him during their interview.

‘I dare say I was distrait,’ she continued, with a curious smile and a flash of her dark eyes. ‘I was in such trouble about poor Ombermere. What I want to tell you is that I saw Mr. Bradley the other day at Rouen, as I was returning from Paris.’

‘At Rouen,’ repeated George Craik.

‘Yes, on the railway platform, in company with a very charming lady, who was hanging on his arm, and regarding him with very evident adoration.’

George pricked up his ears like a little terrier; he smelt mischief of some sort.

‘I fancy you must be mistaken,’ he said. ‘Bradley is not likely to have been travelling across the Channel.’

‘I am not at all mistaken,’ answered Mrs. Montmorency. ‘Mr. Bradley’s appearance is peculiar, his face especially, and I am sure it was himself. What I want to find out is, who was his companion?’

‘I hardly see what, interest that can be to you,’ observed George suspiciously, ‘since you only know him—by sight!’

‘The lady interested me. I was wondering if it could be your charming cousin.’

George started as if he had been shot.

‘My Cousin Alma! Impossible! Surely you don’t know what you are saying!’

‘Oh yes, I do. Tell me, what is your cousin like?’

After some slight further urging, George described Alma’s personal appearance as closely as possible. Mrs. Montmorency listened quietly, taking note of all the details of the description. Then she tapped George with her fan, and laughed outright.

‘Then I was right after all!’ she cried.

‘It was Miss Alma Craik—that’s her name, isn’t it?’

‘Yes; but, good heavens, it is simply impossible! Alma in company with that scoundrel, over there in France? You must be mistaken!’

But Mrs. Montmorency was quite certain that she had made no mistake in the matter. In her turn she described Alma’s appearance so minutely, so cleverly, that her companion became lost in astonished belief. When the act drop was rung up, he sat staring like one bewitched, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but gazing wildly at Mrs. Montmorency.

Suddenly he rose to go.

‘Don’t go yet,’ whispered the lady.

‘I must—I can’t stay!’ he replied. ‘I’ll find out from my cousin herself if what you have told me is true.’

‘Apres?’

‘AprÈs!’ echoed the young man, looking-livid. ‘Why, aprÈs, I’ll have it out with the man!’

Mrs. Montmorency put her gloved hand upon his arm.

‘Don’t do anything rash, mon cher,’ she said. ‘I think you told me that you loved your cousin, and that you would give a thousand pounds to get her away from your rival?’

‘A thousand! twenty thousand! anything!’

‘Suppose I could help you?’ said Mrs. Montmorency, smiling wickedly.

‘Can you? will you? But how!’

‘You must give me time to think it over. Find out, in the first place, if what I suspect is true, and then come and tell me all about it!’

George Craik promised, and hurriedly left the theatre, without even waiting to say farewell, or make any apologies, to Miss Destrange. He was determined to call upon his cousin without a moment’s delay, and get, if possible, to the bottom of the mystery of her unaccountable appearance, accompanied by Bradley, at the Rouen railway station.