The conference between Mr. Rugge and Mr. Losely terminated in an appointment to meet, the next day, at the village in which this story opened. Meanwhile Mr. Rugge would return to his “orphans,” and arrange performances in which for some days they might dispense with a father’s part. Losely, on his side, undertook to devote the intervening hours to consultation with a solicitor to whom Mr. Rugge recommended him as to the prompt obtaining of legal powers to enforce the authority he asserted himself to possess. He would also persuade Mrs. Crane to accompany him to the village and aid in the requisite investigations; entertaining a tacit but instinctive belief in the superiority of her acuteness. “Set a female to catch a female,” quoth Mr. Rugge.

On the day and in the place thus fixed the three hunters opened their chase. They threw off at the Cobbler’s stall. They soon caught the same scent which had been followed by the lawyer’s clerk. They arrived at Mrs. Saunders’s; there the two men would have been at fault like their predecessor. But the female was more astute. To drop the metaphor Mrs. Saunders could not stand the sharp cross-examination of one of her own sex. “That woman deceives us,” said Mrs. Crane on leaving the house.” They have not gone to London. What could they do there? Any man with a few stage juggling tricks can get on in country villages but would be lost in cities. Perhaps, as it seems he has got a dog,—we have found out that from Mrs. Saunders,—he will make use of it for an itinerant puppet-show.”

“Punch!” said Mr. Rugge; “not a doubt of it.”

“In that case,” observed Mrs. Crane, “they are probably not far off. Let us print handbills, offering a reward for their clew, and luring the old man himself by an assurance that the inquiry is made in order that he may learn of something to his advantage.”

In the course of the evening the handbills were printed. The next day they were posted up on the walls, not only of that village, but on those of the small towns and hamlets for some miles round. The handbills ran invitingly thus, “If William Waife, who left—on the 20th ult., will apply at the Red Lion Inn at ———-, for X. X., he will learn of something greatly to his advantage. A reward of L5 will be given to any one who will furnish information where the said William Waife and the little girl who accompanies him may be found. The said William Waife is about sixty years of age, of middle stature, strongly built, has lost one eye, and is lame of one leg. The little girl, called Sophy, is twelve years old, but looks younger; has blue eyes and light brown hair. They had with them a white French poodle dog. This bill is printed by the friends of the missing party.” The next day passed; no information: but on the day following, a young gentleman of good mien, dressed in black, rode into the town, stopped at the Red Lion Inn, and asked to see X. X. The two men were out on their researches; Mrs. Crane stayed at home to answer inquiries.

The gentleman was requested to dismount, and walk in. Mrs. Crane received him in the inn parlour, which swarmed with flies. She stood in the centre,—vigilant, grim spider of the place.

“I c-ca-call,” said the gentleman, stammering fearfully, in con—consequence of a b-b-bill—I—ch-chanced to see in my ri-ri-ri-ride yesterday—on a wa-wa-wall. You-you, I—sup-sup—”

“Am X. X.,” put in Mrs. Crane, growing impatient, “one of the friends of Mr. Waife, by whom the handbill has been circulated; it will indeed be a great relief to us to know where they are,—the little girl more especially.”

Mrs. Crane was respectably dressed,—in silk iron-gray; she had crisped her flaky tresses into stiff hard ringlets, that fell like long screws from under a black velvet band. Mrs. Crane never wore a cap, nor could you fancy her in a cap; but the velvet band looked as rigid as if gummed to a hoop of steel. Her manner and tone of voice were those of an educated person, not unused to some society above the vulgar; and yet the visitor, in whom the reader recognizes the piscatorial Oxonian, with whom Waife had interchanged philosophy on the marge of the running brooklet, drew back as she advanced and spoke; and, bent on an errand of kindness, he was seized with a vague misgiving.

MRS. CRANE (blandly).—“I fear they must be badly off. I hope they are not wanting the necessaries of life. But pray be seated, sir.” She looked at him again, and with more respect in her address than she had before thrown into it, added, with a half courtesy, as she seated herself by his side, “A clergyman of the Established Church, I presume, sir?”

OXONIAN (stammer, as on a former occasion, respectfully omitted).—“With this defect, ma’am!—But to the point. Some days ago I happened to fall in with an elderly person, such as is described, with a very pretty female child and a French dog. The man—gentleman, perhaps I may call him, judging from his conversation—interested me much; so did the little girl. And if I could be the means of directing real friends anxious to serve them—”

Mrs. CRANE.—“You would indeed be a benefactor. And where are they now, sir?”

OXONIAN.—“That I cannot positively tell you. But before I say more, will you kindly satisfy my curiosity? He is perhaps an eccentric person,—this Mr. Waife?—a little—” The Oxonian stopped, and touched his forehead. Mrs. Crane made no prompt reply: she was musing. Unwarily the scholar continued: “Because, in that case, I should not like to interfere.”

MRS. CRANE.—“Quite right, sir. His own friends would not interfere with his roving ways, his little whims on any account. Poor man, why should they? He has no property for them to covet. But it is a long story. I had the care of that dear little girl from her infancy, sweet child!”

OXONIAN.—“So she seems.”

MRS. CRANE.—“And now she has a most comfortable home provided for her; and a young girl, with good friends, ought not to be tramping about the country, whatever an old man may do. You must allow that, sir?”

OXONIAN.—“Well,—yes, I allow that; it occurred to me. But what is the man?—the gentleman?”

MRS. CRANE.—“Very ‘eccentric,’ as you say, and inconsiderate, perhaps, as to the little girl. We will not call it insane, sir. But—are you married?”

OXONIAN (blushing).—“No, ma’am.”

MRS. CRANE.—“But you have a sister, perhaps?”

OXONIAN.—“Yes; I have one sister.”

MRS. CRANE.—“Would you like your sister to be running about the country in that way,—carried off from her home, kindred, and friends?”

OXONIAN.—“Ah! I understand. The poor little girl is fond of the old man,—a relation, grandfather perhaps? and he has taken her from her home; and though not actually insane, he is still—”

MRS. CRANE.—“An unsafe guide for a female child, delicately reared. I reared her; of good prospects, too. O sir, let us save the child! Look—” She drew from a sidepocket in her stiff iron-gray apron a folded paper; she placed it in the Oxonian’s hand; he glanced over and returned it.

“I see, ma’am. I cannot hesitate after this. It is a good many miles off where I met the persons whom I have no doubt that you seek; and two or three days ago my father received a letter from a very worthy, excellent man, with whom he is often brought into communication upon benevolent objects,—a Mr. Hartopp, the Mayor of Gatesboro’, in which, among other matters, the Mayor mentioned briefly that the Literary Institute of that town had been much delighted by the performance of a very remarkable man with one eye, about whom there seemed some mystery, with a little girl and a learned dog; and I can’t help thinking that the man, the girl, and the dog, must be those whom I saw and you seek.”

MRS. CRANE.—“At Gatesboro’? is that far?”

OXONIAN.—“Some way; but you can get a cross train from this village. I hope that the old man will not be separated from the little girl; they seemed very fond of each other.”

MRS. CRANE.—“No doubt of it; very fond: it would be cruel to separate them. A comfortable home for both. I don’t know, sir, if I dare offer to a gentleman of your evident rank the reward,—but for the poor of your parish.”

OXONIAN.—“Oh, ma’am, our poor want for nothing: my father is rich. But if you would oblige me by a line after you have found these interesting persons; I am going to a distant part of the country to-morrow,—to Montfort Court, in ———-shire.”

MRS. CRANE.—“To Lord Montfort, the head of the noble family of Vipont?”

OXONIAN.—“Yes; do you know any of the family, ma’am? If you could refer me to one of them, I should feel more satisfied as to—”

MRS. CRANE (hastily).—“Indeed, sir, every one must know that great family by name and repute. I know no more. So you are going to Lord Montfort’s! The Marchioness, they say, is very beautiful.”

OXONIAN.—“And good as beautiful. I have the honour to be connected both with her and Lord Montfort; they are cousins, and my grandfather was a Vipont. I should have told you my name,—Morley; George Vipont Morley.”

Mrs. Crane made a profound courtesy, and, with an unmistakable smile of satisfaction, said, as if half in soliloquy, “So it is to one of that noble family—to a Vipont—that the dear child will owe her restoration to my embrace! Bless you, sir!”

“I hope I have done right,” said George Vipont Morley, as he mounted his horse. “I must have done right, surely!” he said again, when he was on the high road. “I fear I have not done right,” he said a third time, as the face of Mrs. Crane began to haunt him; and when at sunset he reached his home, tired out, horse and man, with an unusually long ride, and the green water-bank on which he had overheard poor Waife’s simple grace and joyous babble came in sight, “After all,” he said dolefully, “it was no business of mine.”

“I meant well; but—” His little sister ran to the gate to greet him. “Yes, I did quite right. How should I like my sister to be roving the country, and acting at Literary Institutes ‘with a poodle dog? Quite right; kiss me, Jane!”