INA KLOSKING'S cure was retarded by the state of her mind. The excitement and sharp agony her physician had feared died away as the fever of the brain subsided; but then there settled down a grim, listless lethargy, which obstructed her return to health and vigor. Once she said to Rhoda Gale, “But I have nothing to get well for.”

As a rule, she did not speak her mind, but thought a great deal. She often asked after Zoe; and her nurses could see that her one languid anxiety was somehow connected with that lady. Yet she did not seem hostile to her now, nor jealous. It was hard to understand her; she was reserved, and very deep.

The first relief to the deadly languor of her mind came to her from Music. That was no great wonder; but, strange to say, the music that did her good was neither old enough to be revered, nor new enough to be fashionable. It was English music too, and passe'' music. She came across a collection of Anglican anthems and services—written, most of it, toward the end of the last century and the beginning of this. The composers' names promised little: they were Blow, Nares, Green, Kent, King, Jackson, etc. The words and the music of these compositions seemed to suit one another; and, as they were all quite new to her, she went through them almost eagerly, and hummed several of the strains, and with her white but now thin hand beat time to others. She even sent for Vizard, and said to him, “You have a treasure here. Do you know these compositions?”

He inspected his treasure. “I remember,” said he, “my mother used to sing this one, 'When the Eye saw Her, then it blessed Her;' and parts of this one, 'Hear my Prayer;' and, let me see, she used to sing this psalm, 'Praise the Lord,' by Jackson. I am ashamed to say I used to ask for 'Praise the Lord Jackson,' meaning to be funny, not devout.”

“She did not choose ill,” said Ina. “I thought I knew English music, yet here is a whole stream of it new to me. Is it esteemed?”

“I think it was once, but it has had its day.”

“That is strange; for here are some immortal qualities. These composers had brains, and began at the right end; they selected grand and tuneful words, great and pious thoughts; they impregnated themselves with those words and produced appropriate music. The harmonies are sometimes thin, and the writers seem scarcely to know the skillful use of discords; but they had heart and invention; they saw their way clear before they wrote the first note; there is an inspired simplicity and fervor: if all these choice things are dead, they must have fallen upon bad interpreters.”

“No doubt,” said Vizard; “so please get well, and let me hear these pious strains, which my poor dear mother loved so well, interpreted worthily.”

The Klosking's eyes filled. “That is a temptation,” said she, simply. Then she turned to Rhoda Gale. “Sweet physician, he has done me good. He has given me something to get well for.”

Vizard's heart yearned. “Do not talk like that,” said he, buoyantly; then, in a broken voice, “Heaven forbid you should have nothing better to live for than that.”

“Sir,” said she, gravely, “I have nothing better to live for now than to interpret good music worthily.”

There was a painful silence.

Ina broke it. She said, quite calmly, “First of all, I wish to know how others interpret these strains your mother loved, and I have the honor to agree with her.”

“Oh,” said Vizard, “we will soon manage that for you. These things are not defunct, only unfashionable. Every choir in England has sung them, and can sing them, after a fashion; so, at twelve o'clock to-morrow, look out—for squalls!”

He mounted his horse, rode into the cathedral town—distant eight miles—and arranged with the organist for himself, four leading boys, and three lay clerks. He was to send a carriage in for them after the morning service, and return them in good time for vespers.

Fanny told Ina Klosking, and she insisted on getting up.

By this time Doctress Gale had satisfied herself that a little excitement was downright good for her patient, and led to refreshing sleep. So they dressed her loosely but very warmly, and rolled her to the window on her invalid couch, set at a high angle. It was a fine clear day in October, keen but genial; and after muffling her well, they opened the window.

While she sat there, propped high, and inhaling the pure air, Vizard conveyed his little choir, by another staircase, into the antechamber; and, under his advice, they avoided preludes and opened in full chorus with Jackson's song of praise.

At the first burst of sacred harmony, Ina Klosking was observed to quiver all over.

They sung it rather coarsely, but correctly and boldly, and with a certain fervor. There were no operatic artifices to remind her of earth; the purity and the harmony struck her full. The great singer and sufferer lifted her clasped hands to God, and the tears flowed fast down her cheeks.

These tears were balm to that poor lacerated soul, tormented by many blows.

“O lacrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducemtium ortus ex animo, quater Felix, in imo qui scatentem Pectore, te, pia nympha, sensit.”

Rhoda Gale, who hated music like poison, crept up to her, and, infolding her delicately, laid a pair of wet eyes softly on her shoulder.

Vizard now tapped at the door, and was admitted from the music-room. He begged Ina to choose another composition from her book. She marked a service and two anthems, and handed him the volume, but begged they might not be done too soon, one after the other. That would be quite enough for one day, especially if they would be good enough to repeat the hymn of praise to conclude; “for,” said she, “these are things to be digested.”

Soon the boys' pure voices rose again and those poor dead English composers, with prosaic names, found their way again to the great foreign singer's soul.

They sung an anthem, which is now especially despised by those great critics, the organists of the country—“My Song shall be of Mercy and Judgment.”

The Klosking forgave the thinness of the harmony, and many little faults in the vocal execution. The words, no doubt, went far with her, being clearly spoken. She sat meditating, with her moist eyes raised, and her face transfigured, and at the end she murmured to Vizard, with her eyes still raised, “After all, they are great and pious words, and the music has at least this crowning virtue—it means the words.” Then she suddenly turned upon him and said, “There is another person in this house who needs this consolation as much as I do. Why does she not come? But perhaps she is with the musicians.”

“Whom do you mean?”

“Your sister.”

“Why, she is not in the house.”

Ina Klosking started at that information, and bent her eyes keenly and inquiringly on him.

“She left two days ago.”

“Indeed!”

“To nurse a sick aunt.”

“Indeed! Had she no other reason?”

“Not that I know of,” said Vizard; but he could not help coloring a little.

The little choir now sung a service, King in F. They sung “The Magnificat” rudely, and rather profanely, but recovered themselves in the “Dimittis.”

When it was over, Ina whispered, “'To be a light to lighten the Gentiles.' That is an inspired duet. Oh, how it might be sung!”

“Of course it might,” whispered Vizard; “so you have something to get well for.”

“Yes, my friend—thanks to you and your sainted mother.”

This, uttered in a voice which, under the healing influence of music, seemed to have regained some of its rich melody, was too much for our cynic, and he bustled off to hide his emotion, and invited the musicians to lunch.

All the servants had been listening on the stairs, and the hospitable old butler plied the boys with sparkling Moselle, which, being himself reared on mighty Port; he thought a light and playful wine—just the thing for women and children. So after luncheon they sung rather wild, and the Klosking told Vizard, dryly, that would do for the present.

Then he ordered the carriage for them, and asked Mademoiselle Klosking when she would like them again.

“When can I?” she inquired, rather timidly.

“Every day, if you like—Sundays and all.”

“I must be content with every other day.”

Vizard said he would arrange it so, and was leaving her; but she begged him to stay a moment.

“She would be safer here,” said she, very gravely.

Vizard was taken aback by the suddenness of this return to a topic he was simple enough to think she had abandoned. However, he said, “She is safe enough. I have taken care of that, you may be sure.”

“You have done well, sir,” said Ina, very gravely.

She said no more to him; but just before dinner Fanny came in, and Miss Gale went for a walk in the garden. Ina pinned Fanny directly. “Where is Miss Vizard?” said she, quietly.

Fanny colored up; but seeing in a moment that fibs would be dangerous, said, mighty carelessly, “She is at Aunt Maitland's.”

“Where does she live, dear?”

“In a poky little place called 'Somerville Villa.'”

“Far from this?”

“Not very. It is forty miles by the railway, but not thirty by the road; and Zoe went in the barouche all the way.”

Mademoiselle Klosking thought a little, and then taking Fanny Dover's hand, said to her, very sweetly, “I beg you to honor me with your confidence, and tell me something. Believe me, it is for no selfish motive I ask you; but I think Miss Vizard is in danger. She is too far from her brother, and too far from me. Mr. Vizard says she is safe. Now, can you tell me what he means? How can she be safe? Is her heart turned to stone, like mine?”

“No, indeed,” said Fanny. “Yes, I will be frank with you; for I believe you are wiser than any one of us. Zoe is not safe, left to herself. Her heart is anything but stone; and Heaven knows what wild, mad thing she might be led into. But I know perfectly well what Vizard means: no, I don't like to tell it you all; it will give you pain.”

“There is little hope of that. I am past pain.”

“Well, then—Miss Gale will scold me.”

“No, she shall not.”

“Oh, I know you have got the upper hand even of her; so if you promise I shall not be scolded, I'll tell you. You see, I had my misgivings about this very thing; and as soon as Vizard came home—it was he who took her to Aunt Maitland—I asked him what precautions he had taken to hinder that man from getting hold of her again. Well, then—oh, I ought to have begun by telling you Mr. Severne forged bills to get money out of Harrington.”

“Good Heavens!”

“Oh, Harrington will never punish him, if he keeps his distance; but he has advertised in all the papers, warning him that if he sets foot in Barfordshire he will be arrested and sent to prison.”

Ina Klosking shook her head. “When a man is in love with such a woman as that, dangers could hardly deter him.”

“That depends upon the man, I think. But Harrington has done better than that. He has provided her with a watch-dog—the best of all watch-dogs—another lover. Lord Uxmoor lives near Aunt Maitland, and he adores Zoe; so Harrington has commissioned him to watch her, and cure her, and all. I wish he'd cure me—an earl's coronet and twenty thousand a year!”

“You relieve my mind,” said Ina. Then after a pause—“But let me ask you one question more. Why did you not tell me Miss Vizard was gone?”

“I don't know,” said Fanny, coloring up. “She told me not.”

“Who?”

“Why, the Vixen in command. She orders everybody.”

“And why did she forbid you?”

“Don't know.”

“Yes, you do. Kiss me, dear. There, I will distress you with no more questions. Why should I? Our instincts seldom deceive us. Well, so be it: I have something more to get well for, and I will.”

Fanny looked up at her inquiringly.

“Yes,” said she; “the daughter of this hospitable house will never return to it while I am in it. Poor girl; she thinks she is the injured woman. So be it. I will get well—and leave it.”

Fanny communicated this to Miss Gale, and all she said was, “She shall go no further than Hillstoke then; for I love her better than any man can love her.”

Fanny did not tell Vizard; and he was downright happy, seeing the woman he loved recover, by slow degrees, her health, her strength, her color, her voice. Parting was not threatened. He did not realize that they should ever part at all. He had vague hopes that, while she was under his roof, opportunity might stand his friend, and she might requite his affection. All this would not bear looking into very closely: for that very reason he took particular care not to look into it very closely; but hoped all things, and was happy. In this condition he received a little shock.

A one-horse fly was driven up to the door, and a card brought in—

“MR. JOSEPH ASHMEAD.”

Vizard was always at home at Vizard Court, except to convicted Bores. Mr. Ashmead was shown into his study.

Vizard knew him at a glance. The velveteen coat had yielded to tweed; but another loud tie had succeeded to the one “that fired the air at Homburg.” There, too, was the wash-leather face, and other traits Vizard professed to know an actress's lover by. Yes, it was the very man at sight of whom he had fought down his admiration of La Klosking, and declined an introduction to her. Vizard knew the lady better now. But still he was a little jealous even of her acquaintances, and thought this one unworthy of her; so he received him with stiff but guarded politeness, leaving him to open his business.

Ashmead, overawed by the avenue, the dozen gables, four-score chimneys, etc., addressed him rather obsequiously, but with a certain honest trouble, that soon softened the bad impression caused by his appearance.

“Sir,” said he, “pray excuse this intrusion of a stranger, but I am in great anxiety. It is not for myself, but for a lady, a very distinguished lady, whose interests I am charged with. It is Mademoiselle Klosking, the famous singer.”

Vizard maintained a grim silence.

“You may have heard of her.”

“I have.”

“I almost fancy you once heard her sing—at Homburg.”

“I did.”

“Then I am sure you must have admired her, being a gentleman of taste. Well, sir, it is near a fortnight since I heard from her.”

“Well, sir?”

“You will say what is that to you? But the truth is, she left me, in London, to do certain business for her, and she went down to this very place. I offered to come with her, but she declined. To be sure, it was a delicate matter, and not at all in my way. She was to write to me and report progress, and give me her address, that I might write to her; but nearly a fortnight has passed. I have not received a single letter. I am in real distress and anxiety. A great career awaits her in England, sir; but this silence is so mysterious, so alarming, that I begin actually to hope she has played the fool, and thrown it all up, and gone abroad with that blackguard.”

“What blackguard, sir?”

Joseph drew in his horns. “I spoke too quick, sir,” said he; “it is no business of mine. But these brilliant women are as mad as the rest in throwing away their affections. They prefer a blackguard to a good man. It is the rule. Excuse my plain speaking.”

“Mr. Ashmead,” said Vizard, “I may be able to answer your questions about this lady; but, before I do so, it is right I should know how far you possess her confidence. To speak plainly, have you any objection to tell me what is the precise relation between you and her?”

“Certainly not, sir. I am her theatrical agent.”

“Is that all?”

“Not quite. I have been a good deal about her lately, and have seen her in deep distress. I think I may almost say I am her friend, though a very humble one.”

Vizard did not yet quite realize the truth that this Bohemian had in his heart one holy spot—his pure devotion and unsexual friendship for that great artist. Still, his prejudices were disarmed, and he said, “Well, Mr. Ashmead, excuse my cross-questioning you. I will now give myself the pleasure of setting your anxieties at rest. Mademoiselle Klosking is in this house.”

Ashmead stared at him, and then broke out, “In this house! O Lord! How can that be?”

“It happened in a way very distressing to us all, though the result is now so delightful. Mademoiselle Klosking called here on a business with which, perhaps, you are acquainted.”

“I am, sir.”

“Unfortunately she met with an accident in my very hall, an accident that endangered her life, sir; and of course we took charge of her. She has had a zealous physician and good nurses, and she is recovering slowly. She is quite out of danger, but still weak. I have no doubt she will be delighted to see you. Only, as we are all under the orders of her physician, and that physician is a woman, and a bit of a vixen, you must allow me to go and consult her first.” Vizard retired, leaving Joseph happy, but mystified.

He was not long alone. In less than a minute he had for companions some well-buttered sandwiches made with smoked ham, and a bottle of old Madeira. The solids melted in his mouth, the liquid ran through his veins like oil charged with electricity and elixir vitoe.

By-and-by a female servant came for him, and ushered him into Ina Klosking's room.

She received him with undisguised affection, and he had much ado to keep from crying. She made him sit down near her in the vast embrasure of the window, and gave him a letter to read she had just written to him.

They compared notes very rapidly; but their discourse will not be given here, because so much of it would be repetition.

They were left alone to talk, and they did talk for more than an hour. The first interruption, indeed, was a recitativo with chords, followed by a verse from the leading treble.

Mr. Ashmead looked puzzled; the Klosking eyed him demurely.

Before the anthem concluded, Vizard tapped, and was admitted from the music-room. Ina smiled, and waved him to a chair. Both the men saw, by her manner, they were not to utter a sound while the music was going on. When it ceased, she said, “Do you approve that, my friend?”

“If it pleases you, madam,” replied the wary Ashmead.

“It does more than please me; it does me good.”

“That reconciles me to it at once.”

“Oh, then you do not admire it for itself.”

“Not—very—much.”

“Pray, speak plainly. I am not a tyrant, to impose my tastes.”

“Well then, madam, I feel very grateful to anything that does you good: otherwise, I should say the music was—rather dreary; and the singing—very insipid.”

The open struggle between Joseph's honesty and his awe of the Klosking tickled Vizard so that he leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

The Klosking smiled superior. “He means,” said she, “that the music is not operatic, and the boys do not clasp their hands, and shake their shoulders, and sing passionately, as women do in a theater. Heaven forbid they should! If this world is all passion, there is another which is all peace; and these boys' sweet, artless tones are the nearest thing we shall get in this world to the unimpassioned voices of the angels. They are fit instruments for pious words set by composers, who, however obscure they may be, were men inspired, and have written immortal strains, which, as I hear them, seem hardly of this world—they are so free from all mortal dross.”

Vizard assented warmly. Ashmead asked permission to hear another. They sung the “Magnificat” by King, in F.

“Upon my word,” said Ashmead, “there is a deal of 'go' in that.”

Then they sung the “Nuno Dimittis.” He said, a little dryly, there was plenty of repose in that.

“My friend,” said she, “there is—to the honor of the composer: the 'Magnificat' is the bright and lofty exultation of a young woman who has borne the Messiah, and does not foresee His sufferings, only the boon to the world and the glory to herself. But the 'Dimittis' is the very opposite. It is a gentle joy, and the world contentedly resigned by a good old man, fatigued, who has run his race, and longs to sleep after life's fever. When next you have the good fortune to hear that song, think you see the sun descending red and calm after a day of storms, and an aged Christian saying, 'Good-night,' and you will honor poor dead King as I do. The music that truly reflects great words was never yet small music, write it who may.”

“You are right, madam.” said Ashmead. “When I doubted its being good music, I suppose I meant salable.”

“Ah, voil'a!” said the Klosking. Then, turning to Vizard for sympathy, “What this faithful friend understands by good music is music that can be sold for a good deal of money.”

“That is so,” said Ashmead, stoutly. “I am a theatrical agent. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. You have tried it more than once, you know, but it would not work.”

Ashmead amused Vizard, and he took him into his study, and had some more conversation with him. He even asked him to stay in the house; but Ashmead was shy, and there was a theater at Taddington. So he said he had a good deal of business to do; he had better make the “Swan” his headquarters. “I shall be at your service all the same, sir, or Mademoiselle Klosking's.”

“Have a glass of Madeira, Mr. Ashmead.”

“Well, sir, to tell the truth, I have had one or two.”

“Then it knows the road.”

“You are very good, sir. What Madeira! Is this the wine the doctors ran down a few years ago? They couldn't have tasted it.”

“Well, it is like ourselves, improved by traveling. That has been twice to India.”

“It will never go again past me,” said Ashmead, gayly. “My mouth is a cape it will never weather.”

He went to his inn.

Before he had been there ten minutes, up rattled a smart servant in a smart dogcart.

“Hamper—for Joseph Ashmead, Esquire.”

“Anything to pay?”

“What for?—it's from Vizard Court.”

And the dog-cart rattled away.

Joseph was in the hall, and witnessed this phenomenon. He said to himself, “I wish I had a vast acquaintance—ALL COUNTRY GENTLEMEN.”

That afternoon Ina Klosking insisted on walking up and down the room, supported by Mesdemoiselles Gale and Dover. The result was fatigue and sleep; that is all.

“To-morrow,” said she, “I will have but one live crutch. I must and will recover my strength.”

In the evening she insisted on both ladies dining with Mr. Vizard. Here, too, she had her way.

Vizard was in very good spirits, and, when the servants were gone, complimented Miss Gale on her skill.

“Our skill, you mean,” said she. “It was you who prescribed this new medicine of the mind, the psalms and hymns and spiritual songs; and it was you who administered the Ashmead, and he made her laugh, or nearly—and that we have never been able to do. She must take a few grains of Ashmead every day. The worst of it is, I am afraid we shall cure her too quickly; and then we shall lose her. But that was to be expected. I am very unfortunate in my attachments; I always was. If I fall in love with a woman, she is sure to hate me, or else die, or else fly away. I love this one to distraction, so she is sure to desert me, because she couldn't misbehave, and I won't let her die.”

“Well,” said Vizard, “you know what to do—retard the cure. That is one of the arts of your profession.”

“And so it is; but how can I, when I love her? No, we must have recourse to our benevolent tyrant again. He must get Miss Vizard back here, before my goddess is well enough to spread her wings and fly.”

Vizard looked puzzled. “This,” said he “sounds like a riddle, or female logic.”

“It is both,” said Rhoda. “Miss Dover, give him the mot d'e'nigme. I'm off—to the patient I adore.”

She vanished swiftly, and Vizard looked to Fanny for a solution. But Fanny seemed rather vexed with Miss Gale, and said nothing. Then he pressed her to explain.

She answered him, with a certain reluctance, “Mademoiselle Klosking has taken into her head that Zoe will never return to this house while she is in it.”

“Who put that into her head, now?” said Vizard, bitterly.

“Nobody, upon my honor. A woman's instinct.”

“Well?”

“She is horrified at the idea of keeping your sister out of her own house, so she is getting well to go; and the strength of her will is such that she will get well.”

“All the better; but Zoe will soon get tired of Somerville Villa. A little persuasion will bring her home, especially if you were to offer to take her place.”

“Oh, I would do that, to oblige you, Harrington, if I saw any good at the end of it. But please think twice. How can Zoe and that lady ever stay under the same roof? How can they meet at your table, and speak to each other? They are rivals.”

“They are both getting cured, and neither will ever see the villain again.”

“I hope not; but who can tell? Well, never mind them. If their eyes are not opened by this time, they will get no pity from me. It is you I think of now.” Then, in a hesitating way, and her cheeks mantling higher and higher with honest blushes—“You have suffered enough already from women. I know it is not my business, but it does grieve me to see you going into trouble again. What good can come of it? Her connection with that man, so recent, and so—strange. The world will interpret its own way. Your position in the county—every eye upon you. I see the way in—no doubt it is strewed with flowers; but I see no way out. Be brave in time, Harrington. It will not be the first time. She must be a good woman, somehow, or faces, eyes and voices, and ways, are all a lie. But if she is good, she is very unfortunate; and she will give you a sore heart for life, if you don't mind. I'd clinch my teeth and shut my eyes, and let her go in time.”

Vizard groaned aloud, and at that a tear or two rolled down Fanny's burning cheeks.

“You are a good little girl,” said Vizard, affectionately; “but I cannot.”

He hung his head despondently and muttered, “I see no way out either. But I yield to fate. I feared her, and fled from her. She has followed me. I can resist no more. I drift. Some men never know happiness. I shall have had a happy fortnight, at all events. I thank you, and respect you for your advice; but I can't take it. So now I suppose you will be too much offended to oblige me.”

“Oh dear, no.”

“Would you mind writing to Aunt Maitland, and saying you would like to take Zoe's place?”

“I will do it with pleasure to oblige you. Besides, it will be a fib, and it is so long since I have told a good fib. When shall I write?”

“Oh, about the end of the week.”

“Yes, that will be time enough. Miss Gale won't let her go till next week. Ah, after all, how nice and natural it is to be naughty! Fibs and flirtation, welcome home! This is the beauty of being good—and I shall recommend it to all my friends on this very account—you can always leave it off at a moment's notice, without any trouble. Now, naughtiness sticks to you like a burr.”

So, with no more ado, this new Mentor became Vizard's accomplice, and they agreed to get Zoe back before the Klosking could get strong enough to move with her physician's consent.

As the hamper of Madeira was landed in the hall of the “Swan” inn, a genial voice cried, “You are in luck.” Ashmead turned, and there was Poikilus peering at him from the doorway of the commercial room.

“What is the game now?” thought Ashmead. But what he said was, “Why, I know that face. I declare, it is the gent that treated me at Homburg. Bring in the hamper, Dick.” Then to Poikilus, “Have ye dined yet?”

“No. Going to dine in half an hour. Roast gosling. Just enough for two.”

“We'll divide it, if you like, and I'll stand a bottle of old Madeira. My old friend, Squire Vizard, has just sent it me. I'll just have a splash; dinner will be ready by then.” He bustled out of the room, but said, as he went, “I say, old man, open the hamper, and put two bottles just within the smile of the fire.”

He then went upstairs, and plunged his head in cold water, to clear his faculties for the encounter.

The friends sat down to dinner, and afterward to the Madeira, both gay and genial outside, but within full of design—their object being to pump one another.

In the encounter at Homburg, Ashmead had an advantage; Poikilus thought himself unknown to Ashmead. But this time there was a change. Poikilus knew by this time that La Klosking had gone to Vizard Court. How she had known Severne was there puzzled him a good deal; but he had ended by suspecting Ashmead, in a vague way.

The parties, therefore, met on even terms. Ashmead resolved to learn what he could about Severne, and Poikilus to learn what he could about Zoe Vizard and Mademoiselle Klosking.

Ashmead opened the ball: “Been long here?”

“Just come.”

“Business?”

“Yes. Want to see if there's any chance of my getting paid for that job.”

“What job?”

“Why, the Homburg job. Look here—I don't know why I should have any secrets from a good fellow like you; only you must not tell anybody else.”

“Oh, honor bright!”

“Well, then, I am a detective.”

“Ye don't mean that?”

“I'm Poikilus.”

“Good heavens! Well, I don't care. I haven't murdered anybody. Here's your health, Poikilus. I say, you could tell a tale or two.”

“That I could. But I'm out of luck this time. The gentleman that employed me has mizzled, and he promised me fifty pounds. I came down here in hopes of finding him. Saw him once in this neighborhood.”

“Well, you won't find him here, I don't think. You must excuse me, but your employer is a villain. He has knocked a lady down, and nearly killed her.”

“You don't say that?”

“Yes; that beautiful lady, the singer, you saw in Homburg.”

“What! the lady that said he should have his money?”

“The same.”

“Why, he must be mad.”

“No. A scoundrel. That is all.”

“Then she won't give him his money after that.”

“Not if I can help it. But if she likes to pay you your commission, I shall not object to that.”

“You are a good fellow.”

“What is more, I shall see her to-morrow, and I will put the question to her for you.”

Poikilus was profuse in his thanks, and said he began to think it was his only chance. Then he had a misgiving. “I have no claim on the lady,” said he; “and I am afraid I have been a bad friend to her. I did not mean it, though, and the whole affair is dark to me.”

“You are not very sharp, then, for a detective,” said Ashmead. “Well, shut your mouth and open your eyes. Your Mr. Severne was the lady's lover, and preyed upon her. He left her; she was fool enough to love him still, and pined for him. He is a gambler, and was gambling by my side when Mademoiselle Klosking came in; so he cut his lucky, and left me fifty pounds to play for him, and she put the pot on, and broke the bank. I didn't know who he was, but we found it out by his photograph. Then you came smelling after the money, and we sold you nicely, my fine detective. We made it our business to know where you wrote to—Vizard Court. She went down there, and found him just going to be married to a beautiful young lady. She collared him. He flung her down, and cut her temple open—nearly killed her. She lies ill in the house, and the other young lady is gone away broken-hearted.”

“Where to?”

“How should I know? What is that to you?”

“Why don't you see? Wherever she is, he won't be far off. He likes her best, don't he?”

“It don't follow that she likes him, now she has found him out. He had better not go after her, or he'll get a skinful of broken bones. My friend, Squire Vizard, is the man to make short work with him, if he caught the blackguard spooning after his sister.”

“And serve him right. Still, I wish I knew where that young lady is.”

“I dare say I could learn if I made it my business.”

Having brought the matter to that point, Poikilus left it, and simply made himself agreeable. He told Ashmead his experiences; and as they were, many of them, strange and dramatic, he kept him a delighted listener till midnight.

The next day Ashmead visited Mademoiselle Klosking, and found her walking up and down the room, with her hand on Miss Gale's shoulder.

She withdrew into the embrasure, and had some confidential talk with him. As a matter of course, he told her about Poikilus, and that he was hunting down Severne for his money.

“Indeed!” said the Klosking. “Please tell me every word that passed between you.”

He did so, as nearly as he could remember.

Mademoiselle Klosking leaned her brow upon her hand a considerable time in thought. Then she turned on Ashmead, and said, quietly, “That Poikilus is still acting for him, and the one thing they desire to learn is where to find Miss Vizard, and delude her to her ruin.”

“No, no,” cried Ashmead violently; but the next moment his countenance fell. “You are wiser than I am,” said he; “it may be. Confound the sneak! I'll give it him next time I see him! Why, he must love villainy for its own sake. I as good as said you would pay him his fifty pounds.”

“What fifty pounds? His fifty pounds is a falsehood, like himself. Now, my friend, please take my instructions, my positive instructions.”

“Yes, madam.”

“You will not change your friendly manner: show no suspicion nor anger. If they are cunning, we must be wise; and the wise always keep their temper. You will say Miss Vizard has gone to Ireland, but to what part is only known to her brother. Tell him this, and be very free and communicative on all other subjects; for this alone has any importance now. As for me, I can easily learn where Somerville Villa is, and in a day or two shall send you to look after her. One thing is clear—I had better lose no time in recovering my strength. Well, my will is strong. I will lose no time—your arm, monsieur;” and she resumed her promenade.

Ashmead, instructed as above, dined again with the detective; but out of revenge gave him but one bottle of Madeira. As they sipped it, he delivered a great many words; and in the middle of them said, “Oh, by-the-by, I asked after that poor young lady. Gone to Ireland, but they didn't know what part.”

After dinner Ashmead went to the theater. When he came back Poikilus was gone.

So did Wisdom baffle Cunning that time.

But Cunning did not really leave the field: that very evening an aged man, in green spectacles, was inquiring about the postal arrangements to Vizard Court; and next day he might have been seen, in a back street of Taddington, talking to the village postman, and afterward drinking with him. It was Poikilus groping his way.