Quackinboss and the Laytons came back in due time to England, and at once hastened to London. They had traced Winthrop and Trover at Liverpool, and heard of their having left for town, and thither they followed them in all eagerness. The pursuit had now become a chase, with all its varying incidents of good or bad fortune. Each took his allotted part, going out of a morning on his especial beat, and returning late of an evening to report his success or failure.

Quackinboss frequented all the well-known haunts of his countrymen, hoping to chance upon some one who had seen Winthrop, or could give tidings of him. Old Layton—the doctor, as we shall for the remainder of our brief space call him—was more practical. He made searches for Hawke's will at Doctors' Commons, and found the transcript of a brief document irregularly drawn, and disposing of a few thousand pounds, but not making mention of any American property. He next addressed himself to that world-known force, so celebrated in all the detection of crime; he described the men he sought for, and offered rewards for their discovery, carefully protesting the while that nothing but a vague suspicion attached to them.

As for Alfred, he tried to take his share in what had such interest for the others. He made careful notes of the points assigned to him for investigation; he learned names and addresses, and references to no end; he labored hard to imbue himself with the zeal of the others, but it would not do. All his thoughts, hopes, and wishes had another direction, and he longed impatiently for an opportunity to make his escape from them, and set out for Italy and discover Clara. His only clew to her was through Stocmar; but that gentleman was abroad, and not expected for some days in London. Little did the doctor or Quackinboss suspect that Alfred's first call on every morning was at the private entrance of the Regent's Theatre, and his daily question as invariably the same demand, “When do you expect Mr. Stocmar in town?”

Poor fellow! he was only bored by that tiresome search, and hated every man, woman, and child concerned in the dismal history; and yet no other subject was ever discussed, no other theme brought up amongst them. In vain Alfred tried to turn the conversation upon questions of public interest; by some curious sympathy they would not be drawn away into that all-absorbing vortex, and, start from what point they might, they were certain to arrive at last at the High Court of Jersey.

It was on one evening, as they sat together around the fire, that, by dint of great perseverance and consummate skill, Alfred had drawn them away to talk of India and the war there. Anecdotes of personal heroism succeeded, and for every achievement of our gallant fellows at Lucknow, Quackinboss steadily quoted some not less daring exploit of the Mexican war. Thus discussing courage, they came at last to the nice question,—of its characteristics in different nations, and even in individuals.

“In cool daring, in confronting peril with perfect collectedness, and such a degree of self-possession as confers every possible chance of escape on its possessor, a woman is superior to us all,” said the doctor, who for some time had been silently reflecting. “One case particularly presents itself to my mind,” resumed he. “It was connected with that memorable trial at Jersey.”

Alfred groaned heavily, and pushed back his chair from the group.

“The case was this,” continued the old man: “while the police were eagerly intent on tracing out all who were implicated in the murder, suspicion being rife on every hand, every letter that passed between the supposed confederates was opened and read, and a strict watch set over any who were believed likely to convey messages from one to the other.

“On the evening of the inquest—it was about an hour after dark—the window of an upper room was gently opened, and a woman's voice called out to a countryman below, 'Will you earn half a crown, my good man, and take this note to Dr. Layton's, in the town?' He agreed at once, and the letter and the bribe were speedily thrown into his hat. Little did the writer suspect it was a policeman in disguise she had charged with her commission! The fellow hastened off with his prize to the magistrate, who, having read the note, resealed it, and forwarded it to me. Here it is. I have shown it to so many that its condition is become very frail, but it is still readable. It was very brief, and ran thus:—

“Dear Friend,—My misery will plead for me if I thus address you. I have a favor to ask, and my broken heart tells me you will not refuse me. I want you to cut me off a lock of my darling's hair. Take it from the left temple, where it is longest, and bring it to-morrow to his forlorn widow,

“'Louisa Hawke.'

“From the moment they read that note, the magistrates felt it an outrage to suspect her. I do not myself mean to implicate her in the great guilt,—far from it; but here was a bid for sympathy, and put forward in all the coolness of a deliberate plan; for the policeman himself told me, years after, that she saw him at Dover, and gave him a sovereign, saying jocularly, 'I think you look better when dressed as a countryman.' Now, I call this consummate calculation.”

As he was speaking, Quackinboss had drawn near the candles, and was examining the writing.

“I wonder,” said be, “what the fellows who affect to decipher character in handwriting would say to this? It's all regular and well formed.”

“Is it very small? Are the letters minute?—for that, they allege, is one of the indications of a cruel nature,” said Alfred. “They show a specimen of Lucrezia Borgia's, that almost requires a microscope to read it.”

“No,” said Quackinboss; “that's what they call a bold, free hand; the writing, one would say, of a slapdash gal that was n't a-goin' to count consequences.”

“Let me interpret her,” said Alfred, drawing the candles towards him, and preparing for a very solemn and deliberate judgment. “What's this?” cried he, almost wildly. “I know this hand well; I could swear to it. You shall see if I cannot.”' And, without another word, he arose, and rushed from the room. Before the doctor or Quackinboss could recover from their astonishment, Alfred was back again, holding two notes in his hand. “Come here, both of you, now,” cried he, “and tell me, are not these in the same writing?” They were several short notes,—invitations or messages from Marlia about riding-parties, signed Louisa Morris. “What do you say to that? Is that word 'Louisa' written by the same hand or not?” cried Alfred, trembling from head to foot as he spoke.

“'Tarnal snakes if it ain't!” broke out Quackinboss; “and our widow woman was the wife of that murdered fellow Hawke.”

“And Clara his daughter!” muttered Alfred, as he covered his face with his hands to hide his emotion.

“These were written by the same person, that's clear enough,” said the doctor, closely scrutinizing every word and every letter; “there are marks of identity that cannot be disputed. But who is this widow you speak of?”

Alfred could only stammer out, “He 'll tell you all,” as he pointed to Quackinboss, for a faintish sick sensation crept over his frame, and he shook like one in the cold stage of an ague. The American, however, gave a very calm and connected narrative of their first meeting with Mrs. Penthony Morris and her supposed daughter at Lucca; how that lady, from a chance acquaintance with the Heathcotes, had established an intimacy, and then a friendship there.

“Describe her to me,—tell me something of her appearance,” burst in the old man with impatience; for as his mind followed the long-sought-for “trail,” his eagerness became beyond his power of control. “Blue eyes, that might be mistaken for black, or dark hazel, had she not? and the longest of eyelashes, the mouth full and pouting, but the chin sharply turned, and firm-looking? Am I right?”

“That are you, and teeth as reg'lar as a row of soldiers.”

“Her foot, too, was perfect. It had been modelled scores of times by sculptors, and there were casts of it with a Roman sandal, or naked on a plantain-leaf, in her drawing-room. You've seen her foot?”

“It was a grand foot! I have seen it,” said the American; “and if I was one as liked monarchy, I 'd say it might have done for a queen to stand on in front of a throne.”

“What was her voice like?” asked the old man, eagerly.

“Low and soft, with almost a tremor in it when she asked some trifling favor,” said Alfred, now speaking for the first time.

“Herself,—her very self. I know her well, by that!” cried the old man, triumphantly. “I carried those trembling accents in my memory for many and many a day. Go on, and tell me more of her. Who was this same Morris,—when, how, and where were they married?”

“We never knew; none of us ever saw him. Some said he was living, and in China or India. Some called her a widow. The girl Clara was called hers—”

“No. Clara was Hawke's. She must have been Hawke's daughter by his first wife, the niece of this Winthrop.”

“She's the great heiress, then,” broke in Quackinboss; “she's to have Peddar's Clearings, and the whole of that track beside Grove's River. There ain't such another fortune in all Ohio.”

“And this was poor Clara's secret,” said Alfred to Quackinboss, in a whisper, “when she said, 'I only know that I am an orphan, and that my name is not Clara Morris.'”

“Do you think, then, sir, that such a rogue as that fellow Trover went out all the way to the Western States to make out that gal's right to these territories?” asked Quackinboss, gravely.

“Not a bit of it. He went to rob her, to cheat her, to put forward some false claim, to substitute some other in her place,” cried old Layton. “Who is to say if he himself be not the man Morris, and the husband of our fair friend? He may have fifty names, for aught we know, and Morris be one of them.”

“You told me that Clara had been made over to a certain Mr. Stocmar, to prepare her for the stage.” said Alfred to the American. But before he could reply the doctor broke in,—

“Stocmar,—Hyman Stocmar, of the Regent's?”

“The same. Do you know him, father?”

“That do I, and well too. What of him?”

“It was to his care this young lady was intrusted,” said Alfred, blushing at the very thought of alluding to her.

“If there should be dealings with Stocmar, let them be left to me.” said the doctor, firmly. “I will be able to make better terms with him than either of you.”

“I s'pose you're not going to leave a gal that's to have a matter of a million of dollars to be a stage-player? She ain't need to rant, and screech, and tear herself to pieces at ten or fifteen dollars a night and a free benefit.”

“First to find her, then to assert her rights,” said the doctor.

“How are we to find her?” asked Alfred.

“I will charge myself with that task, but we must be active too,” said the doctor. “I half suspect that I see the whole intrigue,—why this woman was separated from the young girl, why this fellow Trover was sent across the Atlantic, and what means that story of the large fortune so suddenly left to Winthrop.”

“I only know him slightly, sir,” said Quackinboss, breaking in, “but no man shall say a word against Harvey P. Winthrop in my hearing.”

“You mistake me,” rejoined the doctor. “It would be no impugnment of my honesty that some one bequeathed me an estate,—not that I think the event a likely one. So far as I can surmise, Winthrop is the only man of honor amongst them.”

“Glad to bear you say so, sir,” said the Colonel, gravely. “It's a great victory over national prejudices when a Britisher gets to say so much for one of our people. It's the grand compensation you always have for your inferiority, to call our sharpness roguery.”

It was a critical moment now, and it needed all Alfred's readiness and address to separate two combatants so eager for battle. He succeeded, however, and, after some commonplace conversation, contrived to carry his father away, on pretence of an engagement.

“You should have let me smash him,” muttered the old man, bitterly, as he followed him from the room. “You should have given me fifteen minutes,—ay, ten. I 'd not have asked more than ten to present him with a finished picture of his model Republican, in dress, manner, morals, and demeanor. I'd have said, 'Here is what I myself have seen—'”

“And I would have stopped you,” broke in Alfred, boldly, “and laid my hand on Quackinboss's shoulder, and said, 'Here is what I have known of America. Here is one who, without other tie than a generous pity, nursed me through the contagion of a fever, and made recovery a blessing to me by his friendship after,—who shared heart and fortune with me when I was a beggar in both.'”

“You are right, boy,—you are right. How hard it is to crush the old rebellious spirit in one's nature, even after we have lived to see the evil it has worked us!”