a CONFIDENTIAL AGENT:

JAMES PAYN, AUTHOR OB" •'By Pkoxy," "Under One Roof," "Walter's Wokd," "High St'iitrrs," Etc.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

TWO LANDLADIES.

BlEak Street, Bloomsbury, is not an attractive spot, whether viewed from the aide of the comfortable or of the picturesque. It is tolerably wide, but tho houses arc low »nd of mean exterior, and very dingy. At what periods the inhabitants covenant to paint their domiciles it is impossible to jjwess, but that Home uniform date i> assigned seems certain, since they are all iv the same condition. As to cleaning within-doors, there is such a immunity among ml the tenants upon that score jh is almost affecting: by tacit c insent they appear to have agreed never to do it. The thoroughfare is so far aristocratic that, though it has a large sprinkling of public houses, it only possesses a few shops, which nro all devotoil to second-hand furniture, And iv these shops dwell the brokers whose oilic* it is to put m executions in the neigh bourhood—whieli is a great convenience. The comparative breadth of the street, which is really not required for its very moderate traffic, is rather a temptation to throw things into it which a-c elsewhere generally kept out of sight till t>>o dustman culls for them. Iv glimmer this practice has its drawbacks, but in winter a layer of mud conceals all these objectionable objects ; while a fall of snow will—for an hour or two —cv :n lend them a touch of beauty, It was under the latter circumstances that Mr Durham arrived in this Ideality, on the morning after his conversation with Mr I inflow. Tho sky was blue, the air was bright and keen, and n carpet of virgin whiteness was spread on the street as though for iin angel's visit He dismissed his cal> at tho comer, and walked to the number which be had in view, taking note of tho character of the placo as he did so. l'oor people must live somewhere, and where they live there will be signs of poverty, but such appearances need not suggest disreputabihty. In lllcak Street, however, they did so. Though the morning was advanced, 'hero were tew people up and Stirling, which is in itself a bud sign. The pavements, in fact, were deserted, oxeept when tho public-house* occurred, where there was a thick fringe of humanity of both sexes ; and oven the shops had but just begun to open. No. 80 was neither better nor worse than its neighbour houses; in common with the rest, its dingy blinds were drawn down, like a nightbiril that closes its eys to the sun ; and its bell-handle, broken by come importunate and reckless hand, projected from the door. There was a knocker, however, grim- d with the dirt of ages, to which Mr Durham ap plied hiiiHelt oueo, twice, and thrice. Even then he did not gain admittance, but a bolt was withdrawn and the door opened n very little way, rattling on its still retain ing chain. The lined mid shivvlled face of an old woman presented itself; her head was white us the blossom of tha almo.id tree, but if ievore»co was the accompani ment, as it should b>% of her silver hair, it did not manifest itself iv her manner.

" What the douce do yon w.uit ?" she in quired in ;i harsh shrill voice. "' Waking up honest people with jour clatter at this time in tho morning ! "

There were several points in this appeal to which tht) visitor might justly have taken exception. He hid imt motto mure noise thun was nccc-siry, an I only through tho legitimate chanael, the knocker; it win eleven o'clock a.m. ; and the nntiun of the woman's being honest— \o anyone who had caught sight of her face- wus ridiculous. However, .Mr Durham only inquired very civilly, " Doe* Lucy Monlock lodge here?" "No, she don't," answered the woman.

Independently of the fact that she almost shut the door in his face in she Bpoke, there was a tone of irritation in her reply that did not escape tin visitor. "Cun ynu tell me where sh ■•. does lodge?" "No ; it's nothing to me." Here she left but a mere cranny of space between them. Mr Durham and herself might have been Pyramus and Thiebe for the opportunity af forded him for communication.

• " That's a pity." he said quietly, " be. catise I've got some money for nor."

" Money ! " The yellow fnoe gleamed as though it were itself a go den coin ; the chain was rattled back as though fire w.is behind her? and the door was thrown open ■with n promptness thit U a classical mind suggested the story of Dntiao " Ilurpax, rapax," murmured Mr Dor ham, smiling upon tho old woman tiever ttae les< with much urbanity. <*s a master of fact, she was not the lea-t like a harpy, win is a full-bosomed creature with wings, but no doubt his quotation lini reference to her moral qualities However, she ha^i really claws, and Hhe worltc i them to and fro as she slowly repeated to herself the word that had be^u his "open eesjnie"— "M '"cy, money."

"Yes, I have got some mono/ for her,' he coutinued, "a ut woui" gladly pay a few shilli'ig' t> know )n-r whereabouts She lodged here once, did she tint ?" "Yes, she lo 'g:il h-rc." It was curious to se the conflict of miiotiiiis (all bad ones) that contended in I he'woumu's face. " Was this man,'"it n«mod to suv, "a friend of this girl or an enemy? If the former, it behoved her to speak civilly." Hut the eyes above the working in liith II is^ed lint-.

1 "I have nointere t in her <mo way or the other," said Mr Durham. '• lam here merely to discharge a liuiy," "You're her taiher," said the old woman shortly. " Not that I am aware of," replied Mr Durham drily; '-if it were so, nrobibly I should have heard of it Vicfo-e this. No."

"You must be a frirnd, then, a dear fri-uxli if you wish to give h*r money." " Not t all; I never saw her in my life; and, it I may j-ay so without discourtesy, I dou't want 'o sec her."

" Then I'll give her the money for you." " Then sne knows where she i*,'1 thought Mr Durham. Under le r urgent circum stances he w uld have contemplated the lady before him with much supioionasthe voluntary a'iminiatrat rjof a trust fund, for she looked the very last person in the world to inspire confidence in that capacity. " You ate most obliging," he said ; " but I must see her myself."

" How ranch is it?" she inquired. " It is ten fhillmgs." " Then, I don't know where A\". is."

Mr Durham smiled ; the little drama was inspiring him with a certain interest. Hh ilattered himself that he ciujd stc into tni* woman's he'irt; wUich was impossible, be cause she had none.

," It appears you are angry with her. Has she behaved badly to you ?" _ " Badly ! " The word perhap} had little signification for her; it might even have had a complimentary sense, had she but known it; but she had no intention of

being complimentary. "I hate her,'" ?hc answered simply; " she shall never get ten shillings through me." '■ Suppose I give you five nnd her five ?" suggested Mr Durham. "That will be pretty good commission for you." . "Too much,too much for her," muttered the old hag. "She rau away from me ; I have not even got her clothes. She had good clothes." "That seems hard," answered Mr Dur ham mechanically. For the moment, he had forgotten the object of hie mission. The individual of whom he was in search had almost vanished from his ken. He was thinking of the world in which this woman lived — n world outside the world. No doubt, in this miserable den every farthing was screwed out of the lodger ; it was very uulikely that her late tenant had cheated such a skiu-llint; she had probably lied from her in fear rather than iv debt. It was doubtless this woman's wout to take first what little money her victims might be possessed of, und then to retain their clothes in ransom for her rent. And she was enraged because the girl had escaped her clutches, with her little wardrobe.

"Hard," she repealed, in a low harsh voice like the suppressed snarl of a dog; "ay, it whs very hard." It was straDge that she did not indulge in vituperation of her late lodger ; but, as Mr Durnnm reflected, 'hat might or might not be to that young lady's credit. If she had spoken out she might have had something good to say of the girl, which to tier eyes, so long b inded to the right, would have been tne reverse of eulogy ; on the oilier hand, if she had been robbed—of which even robbers.iv their own case, perceive the iujusticß- she would certainly have Slid so, "Well, madam, 1 have made you a handsome offer," said Uncle Stephen ; "if I increase it, it wouM be still more at tins poor gils expense. Would it be fair to give you seven-and-sixpence out of this half sovereign"— and Ire produced the coin fiom his waistcoat-pocket—"and only half a-crown t'» her ? What would she say to mo—and of you ? " " Ah, tell her that" broke in the old woman vehemently ; "give me the three half-crowns, and tell ln-r thai, and you shall know where she lives. Only, you must make her understand that she would have had gold—gold—but for me. Every thing will be pawned by this time-her very shawl from her back—and it is bitter cold,"

"It is not nvj money,"faidUnclc.Stchpen, with a pretence of hesitation. " I don't know what th- gentleman will say." "The gentleman ? What gentleman?" inquired the old woman sharply. " Not <he man who would have married her if lie could ' —UncloStophen'a heart sank within him—"not Mr Hutt?"

"Yes, Mr Butt."

" Then she has seen the last of him. He would never have sent her money—only half-a-BOvercign, too—but he has cut his cable and slipped away. And she was g"ing to be so happy ever afterwards ! Oh, this is blessed news ! " And the old woman clapped her skinny hands together and looked up at the dust grimed ceiling as though it had been tbe cerulean vault of heaven.

" Uacil lie often—to come and sec her?" inquired Mr Durham. " No, not often, ' 15u>incss in the Ci'y,' ha said, prcvcnt-d him. Business that was not ovor even in the evening. Ha. Ha ! And she believed that nhe hail only to hold up her little linger to have him safe. Give me the money. She has koiiu t° a •'" '" tliu square yonder; this place wan not nearly good enough for Iht ladyship, since she was no soon to become Mrs Butt. Oh, rare uood news ! Let mo go with you, thai I may nee her when she heas it."

This prospect wffs so alarming—especially as she boijau to make her simple pronara tiotis for departure by tying her filthy cap-strings under her chin—that Uncle Stephen fairly i reiubled. His mission was embarrassing enough in any case, but to perform it in company with this harridan he felt 11 be impossible. Luckily, a thought struck her.

"No, I won't go," she faid abruptly. " If she saw me with you, she would guess th»t there was something wrong." " Very lik-ly," observed Uncle Stephen with unconscious irony; " indeed, most likely. I had better go alone. No. 50 in Hleak Square, you said ?" ' That h it: that's where you are to leave her her last half-crown.1'

The sources of happiness are very diverse; but it was really astonishing to sec the satisfaction that the contemplation of the disappointment; about to befal a fellow creature afforded this aged crone. The last Mr Durham saw of her was in the «ct of performing a sort of fandango -a Spanish dance illustrative of the happiness of two young hearts—on her own doorstep " I hope the luodlady of No. ~>o will not be like that," sighxl Mr Durham, as he went his way, wiping his brow as though it had been midsummer.

Bleak Square, although by no mentis a fashionable locality, was much more superior to the street of the same name 'ban squares in general are to staveta. The houses, though dingy nml dull looking, were of good size, and looked out on a plot of grass the object of whicli, though by n» means carrion out, was the semblance of :i gurdeu. In the midst of it stood a statue, the name <>f which was unknown, but which tromthc circumstance of its having one arm broken oil' was erroneously supposed to be Lord Ncl'Oii. Mr Durham's knock at No. 50 was answered' without the precautions used in Bleak Street, yet, as in that case, by the landlady'herself, a buxom, pleasant looking widow, who pmi'cd as buxom widows who let lodgings always do smile up >n old gentleman presumably iv scti'ch of them.

"Dues Lucy Mortlock live here?1' \ The smile tried from the woman's lips and was replaced by a look of genuine in terest.

" She did, sir, up to a week ago." " Where has she gone ?" " Well, sir, I do not oxac'ly know, but I believe they went to Paris." " They ? 'Wlid do you mean by they ?" There was a look of dismay and appre hension in Uncle Stepheu's face which at once reflected itself in that of the landlady. " Well, with her husband, sir; I hope you don't know nnything'to the contary. "What do you mean by 'to the con trary ?'" "Oh, nothing, sir, I'm sure. I have not a word to say against her to any friend of the young lady's ; quite the reverse, so far as I know. But it has been always on my mind that there might be something amiss with—Mr Butt."

"Why?"

" Well,! can't exactly say. It was a long engagement, as I understand, which is always so far satisfactory ; and yet.perhaps you will step inside, sir. This was her sitting-room. She was not with me many days, out a more quiet, well-behaved young person I never hail to do with." Mr Durham had his questions to ask, of course ; but his curiosity was tame indeed beside that expressed in the countenance of his companion. It seemed a* though it was be who was there to impart information.and she to seek it. *

"Of course I only speak as I find," she went on. " I know nothing of her belong

ings, though I have every cause to believe" —and here slie looked at Mr Durham in a, very complimentary way—"that they are most respectable, the brought no reference with her, by reason of her having to move suddenly from her last lodgings — the. woman,"it appears, took advantage of her friendless condition to treat her vcy cruelly. The poor young lady ha<l very little money, and, betweeu ourselves. I sometimes fancied it was that which drove her to take up with Mr Butt. But doubtless you know the gentleman, and I may be quite mis taken."

" I am not sure whether I know him or not. What sort of man was he ?"

" Well, sir, I never saw him more than a minute or two together, and th*t only ou two occasions. He was not as tall as ymir. self by many inches, £ should sa> ; rather a heavy-built man, with short brown hair. His manner was peculiar; it may have been my fancy,but he always seemed to mo to be desirous of concealment,"

Mr Durham could hardly repress a groan; the description, though vague, tallied with his nephew's appearance; ami those last words seemed to corroborate his worst fears. '•Do you know, fir," continued the hind lady confiden'inlly, "1 have some imes thought that Butt mk'ht not have been his real name?"

" Why so," iiujaired Mr Durham.

" Because once when I addressed him by that name he seemed 10 take no notic-. Yet Miss Mortlock always called him Mr Butt"

The last thing Uncle Stephen had had in his mind before leaving home had been to posse h hiinsclt of Matthew's portrait,which lie knew Sabey possessed ; but as we know Mr Signet hud removed it for his own pur poses, and it had not yet bc-n retiirDed. In h.s heart of hearts he now felt relieved that he had not icot it with him. It would have cleared up his doubts, of course ; but also, perhaps, cxtioguishrd his last hope. "You say that Mr Butt and this young woman were married ?"

"He took her away with him from this house, as 1 believe, to the registrar's oflic. I don't hold with marriages, myself, as is done out of church, but they are none the less binding, they toll me. Th -t Mr Butt was fond of her in his way, I don't doutit, and let us on'y hope it will last. Howso ever I never saw it man on his wedding-day look so muci as though he had something—quite different from a bride and a trip to Paris — up in his mind Our Sally, who is a blunt one, but sharp too—said he looked for all ill*: world like some one as knew the police wore after him-"

" And on what day did this happen ?" "On Saturday morning : the last Satur day as ever was."

This was Saturday the 12th of December; the morning on which Matthew Ilelston had disappearc'l.

Uncle Stephen answered nothing, but looked round him in a helpless manner. Uis intelligence wits as keen as ever, but in old age, a mental shock causes the energies to flag instead of stimulating them. The vital power which prompts one to return blow for blow is wanting. "That's her photo you're a-lookiag at." continued the landlady, mistaking the cause of his silence, and pe-civing his listless gaze had liveil itself upon a photograph case upon tile table. "She gave it me—p c dear, it was the only thing -ho had to uive —the day before she went away. It's as like her as like—only, it took her at her best and brightest. I've seen h-r very woful and ca-t down. Even then she was pretty, but, not like this."

She placed the portrait in the old man's trembling hand. It w >s, as she said, v pretty face, but oin> could easily imagine that the smi'e upon it had been a forced one ; th<? eyes were too .*oft not to have been acquamed with tears, and yet they were not all softness. The general i'lipres sion of the features was not ho attractive after the first glance. "To think," muttered Uncle Stephen to himself, " that a fare like this should have stolen Matthew Helton from Sabey's peep ing !" Tnen he added aloud, "Might Ibe permitted to purchase this picture ?' " J»ay,sir,you must not ask i hat," answer ed the landlady quickly. " 1 should be sorry to part with it—md still more for mmey. But if it will noi be used to her disadvantage in any way—you must promise me that

" To her disadvantage!"

" Well, sir, I may be mistaken, but it strikes me that you look upon the young woman with some disfavour ; your interest in her, I conclude, is upon her husband's account, and not on her own." Mr Durham inclined his head.

"I thought so. Well, I have known mischief made before now bewecn newly married couples by their relatives ; things have been cast up by them against one or the other—gmicrally the bride. Her life before marriage has been put under the microsconc l'kc ; her photograph is handed about, till it sometimes ff<-ts into the Divorce Court to be a witness against her." "And you think it might be so in this case ?" observed Mr Signet significantly.

" I don't say that," answered the widow, " but I know tint the path of life for young women who are poor is set with snares, aim that beauty is often a curse to them ins'ead of a blcssiir.'. «n"i when such a girl—with a good heart, mind you, and a tender one too, though maybe she may have a temper of her o*n— go's respectably married. I fir one don't hold with the pack as is always hunting with their noses to the ground for every bit of dirt, and giving'ongne when they have found it, in hopes of tearing he rcputation to pieces. I speak warmly, sir," added the good laily apologetically, wiping her ample face with her pocketbanderchicf, "boauso I foci warmly."

" And your feeling* do you honour," said Undo Stephen 'imply. " Heaven for bid that I should seek to lurm'this Vou''g w»ni«n. I ionic hero with no nich intention, hut, in order to do her a material bcncli', which can only no effected by find ing out where she is to be found. This photograph may help me if you will let me have thi 1-an of it.

To this the landlady readily agreed : nnd putting tli»! portrait in his pocket, Uoclo Stephen sliook her very cordially by the hand and took his leave.

His intention was to have the picture copied, and v search secretly made for' the original; for wherever Lucy Mo-tlock was t'i be found he ha I now the strongest con viction iliac Matthew Helston would not be far off.

CHUTER XXXVIII.

DESEUTERS,

The ordinary proceedings of Uncle Stephen, though it is true he did not often stir abroad, were too erratic to cause inquiry ns to his absence from home ; and moreover the only person who would have becu privileged to ask questions—and had, indeed, done so in her unless way— was much too absorbed in, her own sad thoughts to do so now. But neverthele-s Mr Durham Was on thorns throughout tilt day lest someallusion should b« made t'> his visit that morning to Blooms bury. He fanciod that he read suspicion in Amy's eyes, although at most she could ouly guess, ot course, that he had been en g ged on some expedition, concerning Mat

thew ; and he felt—what that gentleman's society had ne»er before ■ifforded him-a great relief and satisfaction when the hour came round-for Mr Frank Barlow's roturn from business. No practical help, indeed, was likely to come from him - nor, indeed, from any quarter-but jn communicating what had happened to him he felt that the burden on his own shoulders, which was becoming intolerable, would at least be lightened by beina chared.

Until after dinner, however, nothing could be said, on account of Amy's presence, who seemed more depressed about her sis ter's condition than usual.

"It is not only that she cannot sl'cp," she said, "but her restlessness aid anxiety during the daytime ha* become more acute. She is very still; but walks about her room continually, except when she is writing at her desk."

"What dow she write?" inquired Mr Barlow.

'• That she will not tell me. When lam with her nhe does not do it ; sho shutshcr desk and locks it (as though, poor dailing, she'feared even I should pry into lie secret), and somctinwu I have seen quite a heap of notcpaper toru up to slueds aud lyint: at her feet."

•'lt is a serious sign," mused Uncle Stephen. " I fear so. Oh, Mr Durham, I come times tremble formv sweet sister's reason."

" Hush, hush. Ictus not anticipate, Amy, Evil enough, God knows, has already be fallen her."

" Yes, He knows it; that is my only comfort. He will surely find a way for her to escape that wor*t of calamities I could almost wish—deeply as I love, deeply as I revere him—that Matthew's death and innocence could be established together This suspense is becoming beyond her power to bear. If his fate could be put beyond a doubt, and his calumniators to shame, that would almost be b-tier." "They say 'time cures all,1 continued A my, "hat can it cure this ? I try to look forward to some future when this calamity shall scetii even to her to be overpast; it will leave its shadow, of course, for many a year ; but, with her child to love and live for No, I cannot realise it," she added, with a little sob. •■ Oh, my poor Sabey !"

"Mv dear Amy," said Frank gently, "it will be realised ; the day of comfort for us all seems far off at present, but it will Mirely come. Life will have new con ditions for Sabey, and, as you say, very hard ones; but we shall have your sister with us, and in the end like her old self."

He put his hand on hers, the open palm of which she had placed forlornly ou the table ; but it did not return the pressure. " No, Frank, not like herself."

To Uncle Stephen, who was watching these two young people attentively, the contrast in their manner of speech was significant. Mr Barlow, of course, was wrapped up in his promised bride: "we shall have your sister with us;" whereas Amy did not appear to contemplate the future as regarded herself at all For the future at least, it was evident she enter tained no dreams of wedded bliss Her life, like his, was wrapped up in another's— but that other was not her lover. Mr Durham knew the passionate devotion which Amy entertained for her sister, and how capable she was of self-sacrifice ; and he felt,that if bis fearx, founded on what h'! had heard tint morning, should he con firmed, the eif-ct of tin calamity that had befallen their little household might extend beyond it.

" If "lily that sting- of the world's fal«e judgment could be taken away,' c mtinued Amy meditatively, " I should have hopes for lit. "

" But my dear Amy," urged Mr Bar'ow, "I thought we had agreed that tii jt very sting, iii rousing her to resent iiontj had in some meisure miiiga'cd her despondency, and so far was therefore not to be deplored." "It gave her a fictitious s rehitH, Frank," she answered sorrowfu'ly, "but ill producing her preseut excit' ment and disquiet, has, I fear, disclosed a new danger. It is a sad lot to have hut one hope in the. world —that the iMcmory of him we have lost should be rescued from execration."

"Nevertheless, darling, when that has been fulfilled there will be other hopes " "It is po-sible," answered Amy, rising fom her seat to go upstairs. " \Vhen one sees what has happened here to th= noblest—to the gentlest—everything seems Eossible in the way of evil. And it may c so in the way of good."

" When things are at their worst, as they are with Sabey, they must surely amend, mv Hear."

She only answered with a sigh and left the room.

The two men looked at one another signilicantly.

" I never saw dear Amy like that before," said Mr Biirlow.

" Have you never known what it is to lose faith ia good?" inquired U nclu Stephen abruptly.

"Well, really, I don't quits understand the phrase. No night is so d <rk but it precedes the d<»wn. There is shadow as well as sunshine in the world, of course. If one reid one's Bible "

''Yon will see if you read that," inter rupted Uncle Stephen, " that there is a time when the clouds instead of the sun shine return after the rain. I have reached that time in the ordinary course. These poor girls have arrived there prematurely— God help them!" " Still, as I have said, whcnUimgs are at tliMr worst they must n>'cds m-ii.i." "Bu','what is their worst? It has no* been reached in this case. I have been to Bleak Street."

" Great Heavens ! Have you heard news of Helston ?''

"You n«ed to call him Matthew," ob served Uncle Stephen.

" Of course—did I ray Helston ?"' " You did, because you read in my face th'it he had gone off with Lucy Morciock." 11 And with the diamonds ?' gasped Mr Barlow.

"The one fact—if it be a fact -I con elude, involves the other."

.But, i< it a fact? It nppears to me in credible." ;

" Then how must it appear to n\c, ?" asturned Uncle Stephen bitterly. " You shall judge, however, for youiself."

Then he told him all that had happened on his expedition that morning, even to the very words used by the two landladies, of which he had taken not*. In this respect the identification of the man Butt with Matthew seemed omp'cte. The personal description of him—middle or even under sized -'not so tall as yourself (Mr Dur ham) 'by many inches,' rather 'heavy built, with short brown hair,' and es pecially with a manner suggestive of concealment—tallied with him as much as description could do. But the other circumstances were still more conclusive. The first woman had said that the man only called in the 'daytimn; probab'y between one and tivo, wlipii Matthew w.y» supposed to leave Pjiulet Street for his dinner. Then, again, there was the date ; on the very morning of that fatal Saturday he had called io.- the girl with the intention, as she believed, or pretended to believe, of marrying her, '-And he looked," as the lodging-housemaid had observed, "likb one as knows the police is after him."

"These things are terrible," said Mr Barlow after a long filence, "but still they may be mere coincidences. Circumstantial' evidence is at once the Btrongcstand weakest of proofs You saw with your own eyes and heard with your own ears, and are^ therefore the better judge ; still By.. the bye, you went to the registrar's office,, of course?"

"No ; ihe woman did not indicate it j they.had oiry toM her, it seems, that it was in the neighliourhood.' " Well it does not much matter"

"Youmea'i that a fraudulent marriage would only add ano'her crime to—give me a. i»lass of "win", Barlow——ell, we must go through with thin ; though, since my help, is useless, I would that I had been in luy gravo tirst. Where this woman is, there is this man, of course ; and I forgot to say that I obtained her photograph. Here it is." And he threw it across tke table to hi» companion. Mr Barlow took it up as though it had been a dead adder, an^l opened it, holding it a long war off. "To think," said Uncle Stephen, "that that was Sabey's rival ! " " It is a pretty face," sad Mr Barlow, a little mollified by the inspection.

"True," replied the other. bitterly; "I had forgotton you were a young man. For a pretty face empires have been lost, and much more than empires—friendship and love and honour. Why should, we wonder ? "

"I wonder still," said Mr Barlow gravely. "Rut, do you still believe Matthew1 innocent ? "

" I think it is still p -ssible it may be so. Yes, I do." "Mr Barlow.'" exclaimed. Uncle S'ephen. with emotion, "you are a god fello\y; you have a sound heart. I have misjudged you. You a>e wo'thy of the girl of your choice. Hie is " Here the door opened and Amy entered. She saw that something had occurred to mo^cthem b'th, and looked from one to. the other inquiringly. As they did not speak, however, "I am come for a glass of" wine f'r Sabey," slie said; and her eye, glancing to the tabL', fell on the open, photojraph. "Where did you find this?" cried she excitedly. "It belongs to Matthew, of' course?"

Uncle Stephen nodded assent. It did,, alas ! belong to him in a sense; and iai thus answeriDg her own question she had relieved them irom a great embarrassment.. "For Heaven's sjikc," she continued, •'do not let Sabey seeir."

"Why no' ? " inquired Uncle Stephen. " liccaiißC just now it would give her pain. That is the portrait of one to whom—years ago—poor Matthew was much attached. It was a boyish love, and, as I liave heard, sadly misplaced." " Did you know her 1" "Yes; she was ;he mil ci's daughter at Latbury. It is as id story, bui Matthew was in noway to blame."

"I will take charge of this," said Mr Barlow, putiing ihe portrait into hispoket " It Avill be better uniier the circumstances to keep it out ot the hou>e." •' As you say, Frann, under the circum stances, perhaps it will," said /Mny. "The matter, however, you should understand, was never kept sec-iet from dear Matthew was incapable of coocealment^ even if anything had been to hi* discredit in the affair, which was uot. the case."

She took up the glas- of wm« which Mr Barow had poured nut, and left the room wifcU a somewhat firmer t'tep than usual. Though not a word had b-en >poken> agiint Matthew by either of her auditors',, her tone had been fi'iii too. Perhaps be cause th-y were men she suspeotrd them of: sii-pecting ill of lira in suou a matter../, As the door clos-ri b liind Ijer, Uucle- S'cphcn and Mr Barlow exchanged a look, ot terrible significance "Tlier-, 'lii-n, is the key of it all," said the former despairingly. "The theory of mere coincidence is no longer tenable. If? Lucy Monloek i« Phuji'e Miij>on, as file uuduubtcdly is, our last, ho^e is gone. Is it not so ?"

Mr fca low b>w d hishe<din melancholy assent. Another of Matthew Hclston's all es bad deserted his e>nn--. There was no one now who be ieved in his integrity save two helpless women.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

HER LADYSHIP AXD SABEY.

" AMY, dear," ssjid Saboy upon the morn ing after Uucle Stephen's visit to Blooms bur}', "Lady Pargiter is coming here this morning."

"Lady Farther? And coming here?" reiterated Amy in a tone that had at least m much disgust as surprise in it.

" Yes ; I have written to her about Mat thew. As to the wicked thoughts of others —what the world at large, I mean, may choose to b*licvfl of my poor husband—that is a mattei for their own consciences. The uncharitable and the tiierc:less, God will judge. But thii woman has been robbed ny some one." '" Mr Signet does not think so," obsetv«d Amy. " Well, he says he doe» not; and perhaps he does not. But Uncle Stephen and Frank think him quite mistaken ; and indeed so do we. It i« impossi"le that any woman can be so abandoned—so heartless—as not only to have stolen those diamonds, but to suiter the Uame to be l»id on innocent shouldo's. Shs lays the blame on shouU ders which- she honestly believes to be guilty—and tiat is what I cannot bear. If she saw me, if she herd me—a wife speak ing fr hr 10-t husband—she would be convitic d t"at he was not t-> blame."

Amy shook her head. '• No, Sabey, it is just b'ecausH. you arc Mathew's wife that she would not believe you. What did you write to her?"

" I wro'e to her as one woman to another, as one wife to another ; I bcought her, for God's sake and charity's, not to wrong Mat thew's menory by her unjust suspicions. , I (aid that I knew what was said against her by some pc sons, but that I for one did not believe her guilty." .. "You sai«i that? " exclaimed Amy, ~. "Yes; why liot? If. she is tempted to believe ill of others, am not I also tempted t Arc her lost diamonds dearer to her than my lo*t, Matthew is to me ?" "" It is not that, Sab-y; but I was think ing that yonr • xpressins confidence m het innocence might be of disadvantage to our friends—for has not Mr Signet proved him» self our friend?" . .' " Yes, I feel that But I cannot see how my letter can interfere with any proceed ings of Jfr Signet; nay, if I convince Lady Parjnter of the truth, )t must bo beneficial to him."

"Nevertheless, darling, I am sorry you wrote without consulting with Undo Ste phen or with Frank." '•And I urn sorry too, so far," she an swered quietly. " Heaven knows they huve a claim upon my confidence. And you —you abive all, dear my " . Here her voic* trembled and sank. " Do not n>cak of me, "abey ; my advice would have been "f »"iall va'uo." . ... ; " No, no; oo the contrary, it would have been vrifeleFS. It is your words, your loye, your fealty to Matthew, that keep mo alive' though it is not on that Hccouir, alas ! I thank you for them. But this was a matter

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, MAY 13 S 1882

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