At an early hour the next morning the two Laytons presented themselves at the private door of the “Regents.” Mr. Stocmar had returned that morning from Paris; he had been to bed for an hour, and was now dressed and up, but so busily engaged that he had left positive orders to be denied to all except to a certain high personage in the royal household, and a noble Lord, whose name he had given to the porter.

“We are not either of these,” said the doctor, smiling, “but I am a very old friend, whom he did not know was in England. I have been scores of times here with him; and to prove how I know my way through flats and side-scenes, I 'll just step up to his room without asking you to conduct me.” These pleadings were assisted considerably by the dexterous insinuation of a sovereign into the man's hand; and Layton passed in, with his son after him.

True to his word, and not a little to Alfred's astonishment, the doctor threaded his way through many a dark passage and up many a frail stair, till he reached the well-known, well-remembered door. He knocked sharply, but, without waiting for reply, turned the handle and entered. Stocmar, who stood at the table busily breaking the seals of a vast heap of letters, turned suddenly around and stared at the strangers with mingled surprise and displeasure.

“I gave positive orders that I could not receive strangers,” said he, haughtily. “May I ask what is the meaning of this intrusion?”

“You shall know in a few moments, sir,” said the old man, deliberately taking a seat, and motioning to his son to do the same. “My business could be transacted with yourself alone, and it would be useless referring me to a secretary or a treasurer. I have come here with my son—”

“Oh, the old story!” broke in Stocmar. “The young gentleman is stage-struck; fancies that his Hamlet is better than Kean's or Macready's; but I have no time for this sort of thing. The golden age of prodigies is gone by, and, at all events, I have no faith in it. Make an apothecary of him, clerk in a gas-works, or anything you please, only don't come here to bother me, you understand; my time is too full for these negotiations.”

“Have you done?” said the old man, fiercely.

“Done with you, certainly,” said Stocmar, moving towards the bell.

“That you have not. You have not even begun with me yet. I perceive you do not remember me.”

“Remember you! I never saw you before, and I trust most sincerely I may never have that pleasure again. Anything wrong with the old party here?” whispered he, as he turned to Alfred, and touched his finger significantly to his forehead.

“Be quiet, boy!” cried Layton, fiercely, as his son started up to resent the insolence; “he shall soon learn whether there be or not. Our time, sir, if not so profitable as yours, has its value for ourselves, so that I will briefly tell you what I came for. I want the addresses of two persons of your acquaintance.”

“This is beyond endurance. Am I to be the victim of every twaddling old bore that requires an address? Are you aware, sir, that I don't keep an agency office?”

With a calm self-possession which amazed his son, the old man quietly said, “I want this address,—and this.” And he handed Stocmar a card with two names written in pencil.

“Clara Hawke'—and who is Clara Hawke? I never heard of her till now; and 'Mrs. Hawke' too? My good friend, this is some self-delusion of yours. Take him away quietly, young gentleman, or my patience will not stand this any longer. I 'll send for a policeman.”

“There is one already in waiting, sir,” said old Layton, fiercely, “and with a warrant for the apprehension of Mr. Hyman Stocmar. Ay, sir, our laws give many a wide margin to rascality, but slave-dealing is not legalized on our soil. Keep your laughter for the end, and see whether it will be so mirthful. Of that crime I mean to accuse you in an open court, the victim being myself. So, then, I have refreshed your memory a little; you begin to recognize me now. Ay, sir, it is the professor, your old slave, stands before you, whom, after having starved and cheated, you put drunk on board a sailing-ship, and packed off to America; sold, too, deliberately sold, for a sum of money. Every detail of this transaction is known to me, and shall be attested by competent witnesses. My memory is a better one than you suspect. I forget nothing, even to the day and the hour I last stood in this room. Yes,” cried he, turning to his son and addressing him, “I was summoned here to be exhibited as a spectacle to a visitor, and who, think you, was the distinguished friend to whose scrutiny I was to be subjected? He was one who himself had enjoyed his share of such homage,—he was no less a man than the famous Paul Hunt, tried at Jersey for the murder of Godfrey Hawke, and how acquitted the world well knows; and he it was who sat here, the dear friend of the immaculate Mr. Stocmar,—Mr. Stocmar, the chosen associate of lords and ladies, the favored guest of half the great houses in London. Oh, what a scandal and a disgrace is here! You 'd rather face the other charge, with all its consequences, than this one. Where is your laughter now, Stocmar? Where that jocose humor you indulged in ten minutes ago?”

“Look here, my good friend,” cried Stocmar, suddenly starting up from his chair, while the great drops of sweat hung on his forehead and trickled along his pale cheeks; “don't fancy that you can pit yourself against me before the public. I have station, friends, and patrons in the highest ranks in England.”

“My name of Herbert Layton will suffice for all that I shall ask of it. When the true history of our connection shall be written and laid before the world, we shall see which of us comes best out of the ordeal.”

“This, then, is a vengeance!” said Stocmar, trembling from head to foot.

“Not if you do not drive me to it. There never were easier terms to escape a heavy penalty. Give me the address of these persons.”

“But I know nothing of them. I have not, amongst my whole acquaintance, one named Hawke.”

The old man made no reply, and looked puzzled and confused. Stocmar saw his advantage, and hastily added,—

“I am ready to pledge you my oath to this.”

“Ask him, then, for the address of Mrs. Penthony Morris, father, and of the young lady her reputed daughter,” interposed Alfred.

“Ay, what say you to this?”

“What I say is, that I am not here to be questioned as to the whereabouts of every real or imaginary name you can think of.”

“Restive again, Stocmar? What, are you so bent on your own ruin that you will exhaust the patience of one who never could boast too much of that quality? I tell you that if I leave this room without a full and explicit answer to my demand,—and in writing, too, in your own hand,—you'll not see me again except as your prosecutor in a court of justice. And now, for the last time, where is this woman?”

“She was in Italy; at Rome all the winter,” said Stocmar, doggedly.

“I know that. And now?”

“In Germany, I believe.”

“That is, you know, and the place too. Write it there.”

“Before I do so, you 'll give me, under your own hand, a formal release from this trumpery charge, whose worst consequence would be my appearing in public to answer it.”

“Nothing of the kind; not a line to that effect. I 'll keep it over you till the whole of the business we are engaged in be completed. Ay, sir, you shall not be exposed to the evil temptation to turn upon me. We have affairs to settle which will require our meeting with this woman, and as we live in an age of telegraphs, you shall not be able to warn her that we are coming; for if you do, I swear to you more solemnly than you swore awhile back to me, that I 'll bring such disgrace upon your head that you 'll walk the streets of this city as wretched an object as I was when I slept in that dog-hole behind the fire-engine.”

“You 'll do nothing with me by your threats, old man.”

“Everything, all I ask, by what my threats can accomplish. Remember, besides, all that we require of you will only serve to shorten a road that we are determined to go. You can only help us so far. The rest lies with ourselves.”

“Her address is Gebhardts-Berg, Bregenz,” said Stocmar, in a low muttering voice.

“Write it, sir; write it there,” said the doctor, pointing to a sheet of paper on the table.

“There, is that enough?” said Stocmar, as he wrote the words, and flung down the pen.

“No, there is yet the other. Where is Clara Hawke?”

“As to her, I may as well tell you she is bound to me by an indenture; I have been at the charge of her instruction, and can only be repaid by her successes hereafter—”

“More of the slave market!” broke in the doctor. “But to the question. Who sold her to you? She had neither father nor mother. With whom did you make your compact? Bethink you these are points you 'll have to answer very openly, and with reporters for the daily press amongst the company who listen to you. Such treaties being made public may lead to many an awkward disclosure. It were wiser not to provoke them.”

“I do not see why I am to incur a positive loss of money—”

“Only for this reason, that as you thought proper to buy without a title, you may relinquish without compensation. But come, we will deal with you better than you deserve. If it be, as I believe, this young lady's lot to inherit a large fortune, I will do my utmost to induce her to repay you all that you have incurred in her behalf. Will that satisfy you?”

“It might, if I were not equally certain that you have not the slightest grounds for the expectation. I know enough of her story to be aware that there is not one from whom she expects a shilling.”

“Every day and hour brings us great surprises; nothing was less looked for by the great Mr. Stocmar this morning than a visit from me, and yet it has come to pass.”

“And in whose interest, may I ask, are you taking all this trouble?—how is it incumbent on you to mix yourself up in questions of a family to which you do not belong, nor are even known to?”

“If I can only fashion to myself a pretext for your question, I would answer it; but to the matter,—write the address there.” And he pointed to the paper.

Stocmar obeyed, and wrote, “The Conservatoire, at Milan.”

“I may warn you,” added he, “that Mademoiselle Clara Stocmar, for as such is she inscribed, will not be given up to you, or to any one save myself, or by my order.”

“I am aware of that, and therefore you will write this order. Mr. Stocmar, you need not be told by me that the fact of this girl being an English subject once admitted, the law of this country will take little heed of the regulations of a musical academy; save yourself this publicity, and write as I tell you.”

Stocmar wrote some hurried lines and signed them. “Will that do?”

“Perfectly,” said he, folding up both papers, and placing them in his pocket. “Now, Mr. Stocmar, thus far has been all business between us. You have done me a small service, and for it I am willing to forgive a great wrong; still, it is a fair bargain. Let us see, however, if we cannot carry our dealings a little further. Here is a case where a dreadful scandal will be unburied, and one of the most fearful crimes be brought again before public notice, to herald the narrative of an infamous fraud. I am far from suspecting or insinuating that you have had any great part whatever in these transactions, but I know that when once they have become town talk, Hyman Stocmar will figure as a prominent name throughout. He will not appear as a murderer or a forger, it is true, but he will stand forward the intimate friend of the worst characters in the piece, and have always some small petty share of complicity to answer for. Is it not worth while to escape such an open exposure as this? What man—least of all, what man moving where you do—could court such scandal?”

Stocmar made no answer, but, leaning his head on his hand, seemed lost in thought.

“I can show you how to avoid it all. I will point ont the way to escape from the whole difficulty.”

“How do you mean?” cried Stocmar, suddenly.

“Leave the knaves and come over to the honest men; or desert the losing side and back the winner, if you like that better. In plain English, tell me all you know of this case, and of every one concerned in it. Give me your honest version of the scheme,—how it has been done and by whom. You know Trover and Hunt well; say what were their separate shares. I will not betray your confidence; and if I can, I will reward it.”

“Let your son leave us. I will speak to you alone,” said Stocmar, in a faint whisper.

Alfred, at a signal from his father, stepped quietly away, and they were alone.

It was late in the afternoon when the doctor arose to take his departure, and, though somewhat wearied, his look was elated, and his face glowed with an expression of haughty satisfaction, such as it might have worn after a collegiate triumph years and years ago.