“Sedley asks for the best Italian scholar amongst us,” said Augustus the next morning, at breakfast, “and the voice of public opinion calls upon you, Julia.”

“You know what Figaro said of 'common report.' I'll not repeat it,” said she, laughing, “and I 'll even behave as if I did n't believe it. And now what is wanted of me, or my Italian scholarship?”

“The matter is thus: Sedley has received some papers”—here a look of intelligence passed between Augustus and Jack—“which he imagines may be of consequence, but being in Italian, he can't read them. He needs a translator—”

“I am equal to that,” broke she in, “but why don't we do it in committee, as you political people call it? Five heads are better than one.”

“Mr Sedley is absolute, and will have but one.”

“And am I to be closeted for a whole morning with Mr. Sedley? I declare it seems compromising. Jack frowns at me. There is nothing so prudish as a sailor. I wish any one would tell me why it is so.”

“Well, the matter is as you have stated it,” said Augustus. “Mr. Sedley says, 'Let me have the aid of some one who will not grudge me two hours, mayhap three. '”

“What if the documents should turn out love-letters?”

“Julia! Julia!” cried Jack, reprovingly; for in reality her sallies kept him in constant anxiety.

“I can't help it, Jack; I must be prudent, even if I shock you by my precautions. I repeat, if these be love-letters?”

“Well, I can answer so far,” said Augustus. “They are not,—at least, I can almost assert they are not.”

“I wish Nelly would go,” said Julia, with mock seriousness. “I see Jack is wretched about it; and, after all, Mr. Sedley, though not exactly a young man—”

“I declare this is too bad,” said Jack, rising angrily from the table, and then throwing himself back in his chair, as in conflict with his own temper.

“She is provoking, there is no doubt of it, and on board ship we 'd not stand that sort of thing five minutes,” said Julia, with a demure air; “but on land, and amongst terrestrial creatures, Master Jack, I know nothing for it but patience.”

“Patience!” muttered he, with an expression that made them all burst out laughing.

“So I may tell Sedley you will aid him?” asked Bramleigh.

“I'm ready, now. Indeed, the sooner begun the better; for we have a long walk project—haven 't we, Jack?—for this afternoon.”

“Yes, if we have patience for it,” said he. And once more the laugh broke forth as they arose from table and separated into little knots and groups through the room.

“I may tell you, Julia,” said Augustus, in a half whisper, “that though I have given up hoping this many a day, it is just possible there may be something in these papers of moment to me, and I know I have only to say as much to secure your interest in them.”

“I believe you can rely upon that,” said she; and within less than five minutes afterwards she was seated at the table with Mr. Sedley in the study, an oblong box of oak clasped with brass in front of them, and a variety of papers lying scattered about.

“Have you got good eyes, Miss L'Estrange?” said Sedley, as he raised his spectacles, and turned a peering glance towards her.

“Good eyes?” repeated she, in some astonishment.

“Yes; I don't mean pretty eyes, or expressive eyes. I mean, have you keen sight?”

“I think I have.”

“That's what I need from you at this moment; here are some papers with erasures and re-writings, and corrections in many places, and it will take all your acuteness to distinguish between the several contexts. Aided by a little knowledge of Latin, I have myself discovered some passages of considerable interest. I was half the night over them; but with your help, I count on accomplishing more in half an hour.”

While he spoke he continued to arrange papers in little packets before him, and, last of all, took from the box a painter's palette and several brushes, along with two or three of those quaintly shaped knives men use in fresco-painting.

“Have you ever heard of the painter Giacomo Lami?” asked he.

“Of course I have. I know the whole story in which he figures. Mr. Bramleigh has told it to me.”

“These are his tools. With these he accomplished those great works which have made him famous among modern artists, and by his will—at least I have spelled out so much—they were buried along with him.”

“And where was he buried?”

“Here! here in Cattaro. His last work was the altar-piece of the little chapel of the villa.”

“Was there ever so strange a coincidence!”

“The world is full of them, for it is a very small world after all. This old man, driven from place to place by police persecutions,—for he had been a great conspirator in early life, and never got rid of the taste for it,—came here as a sort a refuge, and painted the frescos of the chapel at the price of being buried at the foot of the altar, which was denied him afterwards; for they only buried there this box, with his painting utensils and his few papers. It is to these papers I wish now to direct your attention, if good luck will have it that some of them may be of use. As for me, I can do little more than guess at the contents of most of them.

“Now these,” continued he, “seem to me bills and accounts; are they such?”

“Yes, these are notes of expenses incurred in travelling; and he would seem to have been always on the road. Here is a curious note: 'Nuremberg: I like this old town much; its staid propriety and quietness suit me. I feel that I could work here; work at something greater and better than these daily efforts for mere bread. But why after all should I do more? I have none now to live for,—none to work for! Enrichetta, and her boy, gone! and Carlotta—'”

“Wait a moment,” said the lawyer, laying his hand on hers. “Enrichetta was the wife of Montague Bramleigh, and this boy their son.”

“Yes, and subsequently the father of Pracontal.”

“And how so, if he died in boyhood?” muttered he; “read on.”

“'Now, Carlotta has deserted me! and for whom? For the man who betrayed me! for that Niccolo Baldassare who denounced five of us at Verona, and whose fault it is not that I have not died by the hangman.'”

“This is very important; a light is breaking on me through this cloud, too, that gives me hope.”

“I see what you mean. You think that probably—”

“No matter what I think; search on through the papers. What is this? here is a drawing. Is it a mausoleum?”

“Yes; and the memorandum says, 'If I ever be rich enough, I shall place this over Enrichetta's remains at Louvain, and have her boy's body laid beside her. Poor child, that if spared might have inherited a princely state and fortune, he lies now in the pauper burial-ground at St. Michel. They let me, in consideration of what I had done in repairing their frescos, place a wooden cross over him. I cut the inscription with my own hands,—G. L. B., aged four years; the last hope of a shattered heart.'

“Does not this strengthen your impression?” asked Julia, turning and confronting him.

“Aged four years: he was born, I think, in '99,—the year after the rebellion in Ireland; this brings us nigh the date of his death. One moment. Let me note this.” He hurriedly scratched off a few lines. “St. Michel; where is St. Michel? It may be a church in some town.”

“Or it may be that village in Savoy, at the foot of the Alps.”

“True! We shall try there.”

“These are without interest; they are notes of sums paid on the road, or received for his labor. All were evidently leaves of a book and torn out.”

“What is this about Carlotta here?”

“Ah, yes. 'With this I send her all I had saved and put by. I knew he would ill-treat her; but to take her boy from her,—her one joy and comfort in life,—and to send him away, she knows not whither, his very name changed, is more than I believed possible. She says that Niccolo has been to England, and found means to obtain money from M. B.'”

“Montague Bramleigh,” muttered Sedley; but she read on: “'This is too base; but it explains why he stole all the letters in poor Enrichetta's box, and the papers that told of her marriage.'”

“Are we on the track now?” cried the old lawyer, triumphantly. “This Baldassare was the father of the claimant, clearly enough. Enrichetta's child died, and the sister's husband substituted himself in his place.”

“But this Niccolo who married Carlotta,” said Julia, “must have been many years older than Enrichetta's son would have been had he lived.”

“Who was to detect that? Don't you see that he never made personal application to the Bramleighs? He only addressed them by letter, which, knowing all Enrichetta's story, he could do without risk or danger. Kelson could n't have been aware of this,” muttered he; “but he had some misgivings,—what were they?”

While the lawyer sat in deep thought, his face buried in his hands, Julia hurriedly turned over the papers. There were constant references to Carlotta's boy, whom the old man seemed to have loved tenderly; and different jottings showed how he had kept his birthday, which fell on the 4th of August. He was born at Zurich, where Baldassare worked as a watchmaker, his trade being, however, a mere mask to conceal his real occupation,—that of conspirator.

“No,” said Sedley, raising his head at last, “Kelson knew nothing of it. I'm certain he did not. It was a cleverly planned scheme throughout; and all the more so by suffering a whole generation to lapse before litigating the claim.”

“But what is this here?” cried Julia, eagerly. “It is only a fragment; but listen to it: 'There is no longer a doubt about it. Baldassare's first wife—a certain Marie de Pracontal—is alive, and living with her parents at Aix, in Savoy. Four of the committee have denounced him, and his fate is certain.

“'I had begun a letter to Bramleigh, to expose the fraud this scoundrel would pass upon him; but why should I spare him who killed my child?'”

“First of all,” said Sedley, reading from his notes, “we have the place and date of Enrichetta's death; secondly, the burial-place of Godfrey Lami Bramleigh set down as St. Michel, perhaps in Savoy. We have then the fact of the stolen papers, the copies of registries, and other documents. The marriage of Carlotta is not specified, but it is clearly evident, and we can even fix the time; and, last of all, we have this second wife, whose name, Pracontal, was always borne by the present claimant.”

“And are you of opinion that this same Pracontal was a party to the fraud?” asked Julia.

“I am not certain,” muttered he. “It is not too clear; the point is doubtful.”

“But what have we here? It is a letter, with a postmark on it.” She read, “Leghorn, February 8, 1812.” It was addressed to the Illustrissimo Maestro Lami, Porta Rossa, Florence, and signed N. Baldassare. It was but a few lines, and ran thus:—

“Seeing that Carlotta and her child now sleep at Pisa, why deny me your interest for my boy Anatole? You know well to what he might succeed, and how. Be unforgiving to me if you will. I have borne as hard things even as your hatred, but the child that has never wronged you deserves no part of this hate. I want but little from you; some dates, a few names,—that I know you remember,—and, last of all, my mind refreshed on a few events which I have heard you talk of again and again. Nor is it for me that you will do this; for I leave Europe within a week,—I shall return to it no more. Answer this Yes or No at once, as I am about to quit this place. You know me well enough to know that I never threaten, though I sometimes counsel; and my counsel now is, consent to the demand of—N. Baldassare.”

Underneath was written, in Lami's hand, “I will carry this to my grave, that I may curse him who wrote it, here and hereafter.”

“Now the story stands out complete,” said Julia, “and this Pracontal belonged to neither Bramleigh nor Lami.”

“Make me a literal translation of that letter,” said Sedley. “It is of more moment than almost all we have yet read. I do not mean now, Miss Julia,” said he, seeing she had already commenced to write, “for we have these fragments still to look over.”

While the lawyer occupied himself with drawing up a memorandum for his own guidance, Julia, by his directions, went carefully over the remaining papers. Few were of any interest; but these she docketed accurately, and with such brevity and clearness combined, that Sedley, little given to compliments, could not but praise her skill. It was not till the day began to decline that their labors drew to a close. It was a day of intense attention and great work; but only when it was over did she feel the exhaustion of overwrought powers.

“You are very, very tired,” said Sedley. “It was too thoughtless of me. I ought to have remembered how unused you must be to fatigue like this.”

“But I couldn't have left it; the interest was intense, and nothing would have persuaded me to leave the case without seeing how it ended.”

“It will be necessary to authenticate these,” said he, laying his hand on the papers; “and then we must show how we came by them.”

“Jack can tell you this,” said she; and now her strength failed her outright, and she lay back, overcome, and almost fainting. Sedley hurriedly rang for help; but before any one arrived Julia rallied, and with a faint smile, said, “Don't make a fuss about me. You have what is really important to occupy you. I will go and lie down till evening;” and so she left him.