ECORD of an episode taken from my journal, and written upon the evening following my first meeting with the General:

“This afternoon I decide to go to the Temple and see Dick Shafthead. We shall dine together quietly, and I shall vent what is left of my humors and be refreshed by his good-humored raillery. The afternoon is fading into evening as I mount his stairs; the lamps are being lit; by this hour he should have returned. But no; I knock and knock again, and get no answer.

“'Well,' I say to myself, 'he cannot be long. I shall wait for him outside.'

“I descend again to wait in that quiet and soothing court, where the fountain plays and the goldfish swim and the autumn leaves tremble overhead. Now and then one of these drops stealthily upon the pavement; the pigeons flit by, settle, fly off again; people pass occasionally; but at first that is all that happens. At last there enters a woman, who does not pass through, but loiters on the farther side of the fountain as though she were meditating—or waiting for somebody. So far as I can judge in the half-light and at a little distance, she is young, and her outline is attractive; therefore I conclude she is not meditating.

“She does not see me, but I should like to see more of her. I walk round the fountain and come up behind her. She hears my step, turns sharply, and approaches, evidently prepared to greet me. Words are on the tip of her tongue, when abruptly she starts back. She does not know me, after all. But quickly, before she has time to recover herself, I raise my hat and say:

“'I cannot be mistaken. We have met at the bishop's?'”

“It is a happy inspiration, I think, to choose so respectable a host, and for a moment she is staggered. Probably she does actually know a bishop, and may have met a not ill-looking gentleman somewhat resembling myself at his house. In this moment I perceive that she is certainty young and very far removed, indeed, from being unattractive.

“To me, meeting her dark eyes for an instant, and then seeing the fair, full face turn to a fair profile as she looks away in some confusion, she seems beyond doubt very beautiful. A simple straw hat covers her dark coil of hair and slopes arrogantly forward over a luminous and brilliant eye; her nose is straight, her mouth small, suggesting decision and a little petulance, her chin deep and finely moulded, her complexion delicate as a rare piece of alabaster, while her figure matches these distracting charms.

“I make these notes so full that I may the better summon her to my memory. Also I note that the colors she wears are rich and bright; there is red and there is dark green; and they seem to make her beauty stand out with a boldness that corresponds to the dark glance of her eye. Not that she is anything but most modest in her demeanor, but, ah! that eye! Its glow betrays a fire deep underneath.

“Her eye meets mine again, then she says:

“'I—I don't know you. I thought you were—I mean I don't know why you spoke to me.'

“Evidently she does not quite know how to meet the situation.

“I decide that it is the duty of a gentleman to assist her.

“'I spoke because I thought I knew you, and hoped for an instant I was remembered.'

“'You had no business to,' she replies. Her air is haughty, but a little theatrical. I mean that she does not entirely convince me of her displeasure.

“'Mademoiselle, I offer you a thousand apologies. I see now that if I had really met you before I could not possibly confuse your face with another's. Doubtless I ought to have been more cautious, but as you perhaps guess, I am a foreigner, and I do not understand the English customs in these matters.'

“She receives this speech with so much complaisance that I feel emboldened to continue.

“'I am also solitary, and meeting with a face I thought I knew seemed providential. Do you grant me your pardon?'

“She gives a little laugh that is more than half friendly.

“'Of course—if it was a mistake.'

“'Such a pleasant mistake that I should like to continue in error,' I reply.

“But at this she draws back, and her expression changes a little. It does not become altogether hostile, but it undoubtedly changes.

“'May I ask you a favor?' I say, quickly, and with a modest air. 'I was looking for a friend and have become lost in this Temple. Can you tell me where number thirty-four is?'

“'Yes,' she replies, with a look that penetrates, and, I think, rather enjoys, this simple ruse, 'it is next to number thirty-three.' And with that she turns to go, so abruptly that I cannot help suspecting she also desires to hide a smile.

“But observing that I, too, shall not waste more time here, I also turn, and as she does not actually order me away, I walk by her side, studying her afresh from the corner of my eye. She is of middle height, or perhaps an inch above it; she walks with a peculiar swing that seems to say, 'I do not care one damn for anybody,' and the expression of her eyes and mouth bear out this sentiment.”

“Does she resent my conduct?”

“Yes, probably she does, though my demeanor is humility itself.”

“'You came to enjoy the quiet of the Temple, mademoiselle?'”

“'I was enjoying it—till I was interrupted,' she answers, still smiling, though not in my direction.”

“I notice that she again casts her eye round the court, and I make a reckless shot.

“'Perhaps you, too, expected to see a friend?'

“The eyes blaze at me for an instant.

“'No, I did not,' she says abruptly, and mends her pace still further.

“'I noticed another lady here before you came,' I say, mendaciously and with a careless air, as though I thought it most natural that two ladies should rendezvous at that hour in the Temple. She gives me a quick glance, which I meet unruffled.

“We pass through a gate and into a side street, and here, by the most evil fortune, a cab was standing.

“'Cabman,' says the lady, abruptly, 'are you engaged?'

“The next moment she has sprung into the cab, bade me a 'good-bye' that seems compounded of annoyance and of laughter, with perhaps a touch of kindness added, thrown me a swift glance of her brilliant eyes, and jingled out of my sight. And I have not even learned her name.

“This exit of the fair Miss Unknown is made so suddenly that for half a minute I stand with my hat in my hand still, foolishly smiling.

“Then I give an exclamation that might be deemed profane, rush round a corner and up a street, catch a glimpse of the back of a cab disappearing into the traffic of the Strand, leap into another, and bid my driver pursue that hansom in front.

“Well, I had a spirited chase while it lasted, for my quarry had a swift steed, and there were many other cabs in the Strand that would have confused the scent for any but the most relentless sleuth-hound. It ended in Pall Mall, where I had the satisfaction of seeing the flying chariot deposit a stout gentleman before a most respectable club.

“I drove to my rooms with my ardor cooled and my cynicism fast returning, and had almost landed at my door when a most surprising coincidence occurred, so surprising that I suspect it was the contrivance of either Providence or the devil. A cab left the door just as I drove up, and in it sat Miss Unknown! I was too dumfounded to turn in pursuit, and, besides, I was too curious to learn the reason of this visit.

“By the greatest good luck the door was opened by Halfred, who in his obliging way lent his services now and then when the maid was out.

“'Did she leave her name?' I cried.

“'Beg pardon, sir?' said Halfred, in astonishment.

“'I mean the lady who just called for me.'

“'She hasked for General Sholto, sir.'

“My face fell.

“'The devil she did!' I exclaimed.

“'Yes, sir,' said he; 'that's the lady as visits 'im sometimes.'

“I whistled.

“'Was the General at home?'

“'No, sir, but she left a message as 'ow she'd call again to-morrow morning.'

“'Halfred,' I said, 'do not deliver that message. I shall see to it myself.'

“And so Miss Unknown is the gay General's mysterious visitor. And I caught her at another rendezvous. But she denied this. Bah! I do not believe her. I trust no woman.

“On my mind is left a curious impression from this brief passage—an impression of a beautiful wild animal, half shy, half bold, dreading the cage, but not so much, I think, the chase. Yes, decidedly there was something untamed in her air, in her eye, in her devil-may-care walk. For myself a savage queen has few charms, especially if she have merely the cannibal habit without the simplicity of attire.

“Yet, mon Dieu, I have but seen her once! Come, to-morrow may show her in a better light. Ah, my gay dog of a General! It is unfortunate for you that you were so anxious to make my acquaintance!”

Here ends the entry in my journal. You shall now see with what tact and acumen I pursued this entertaining intrigue.