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5, 1862.] that the claim I can make for the information your replies would afford to me must be of the very slightest. Briefly, I have no right to ask you for information; still, Monsieur, I venture to hope for your aid.” (They bowed to each other here, removing their hats—indeed, a like ceremony was gone through at nearly every full stop). “You understand, Monsieur—you can appreciate with that intimate acquaintance with the habits and perceptions and sympathies of this country which you have manifested in the course of this evening in a manner so full of charm and interest” (Monsieur Chose quite purred with pleasure), “that in England what is known as ‘the home,’ ‘the hearth,’ ‘the peace of the domestic circle,’ is of a value inestimable. In an English family dear to me, and in whose happiness I take an interest which may seem to you extraordinary, but which is, in fact, capable of an easy explanation, some events of an unhappy nature have recently occurred. Monsieur Wilford, a husband, a father, has been subjected to a claim on the part of Mademoiselle Boisfleury; but I need not, I am sure, go further with this painful case. Your admirable intelligence anticipates me. My interest in this family is very great, as I have said.”

“Does he love Madame, the other wife?” was Monsieur Chose’s sinister French suggestion. But he kept it to himself.

“I feel that you are in possession of information in regard to Mademoiselle Boisfleury that may be of vital consequence to this family. You are the member of the executive of a foreign government whose knowledge is justly reputed to be universal. In the course of your professional career you have become acquainted with certain valuable facts. But, Monsieur, it is not in your character of a member of the executive that I elect to address you. No. Monsieur, I ask you to put on one side wholly these considerations. I, an Englishman, in sorrow and suffering, appeal to you as one man imploring assistance from another. I address myself to those sentiments of the heart to which a gentleman of the glorious country of France has ever responded. Monsieur, I appeal to that elevated sensibility, to that chivalrous devotion, to that generosity, grand and simple, the peculiar privilege of Frenchmen; and, Monsieur, I am satisfied I shall not in vain request your assistance. You will help me. You will join with me in the effort to restore peace to this sad English home. You will tell me all you know concerning this Mademoiselle Stephanie Boisfleury.Boisfleury.” [sic]

“Monsieur!” cried the Frenchman, radiant with delight. “How you are a poet! how you are sublime—superb. I am yours—for always—I consecrate my life to your service. But one thing remains, embrassons nous.”

And Martin found himself hugged to the heart of the Frenchman. There was a strange look in Martin’s face as it appeared over the shoulder of Monsieur Chose. The Englishman was certainly convulsed—it might have been with poetical expansion—but it was a little like suppressed laughter.

Afterwards Martin handed his card to Monsieur Chose, who promised to call upon him without loss of time. Finally they parted upon terms of a remarkable cordiality, with protestations of affection.

“Well,” said Martin, smiling, as he walked towards the Temple, “I might have talked a long time to an English ‘peeler’ about sentiment, and chivalry, and devotion before I should have got anything out of him. There is a wonderful charm in bathos. I do believe that with an appropriate burst of sentimental rubbish, judicious smiling, and incessant taking off one’s hat, a Frenchman can be made to say or do anything.” Then he added, rather gloomily, “It remains to be seen, however, whether this man has really any information to give, after all. What can he tell me that I don’t know already? Who is he? The lover of Mademoiselle Regine? To turn from Wilford to him! Heaven! what are women not capable of! How horrible all this is. Yet—no—don’t let me censure all women in one breath.”

He was very sad indeed as he entered his darkened rooms, and felt for the matches on the chimney-piece.

“A letter!” he said, “from whom? An answer already from the lawyer?”

And he read aloud.

“So then,” said Martin, “there is no hope in that quarter. I have now only this broken reed of a Frenchman to lean upon. A broken reed, indeed. ‘René,’ she called him. René what? I don’t even know his name. He may not come after all—he may wake and think I have fooled him. I have not the slightest hold upon him, and perhaps I may never see him again. It’s a sad, sad business. Poor Wilford! Poor Violet! I must go round to Freer Street to-morrow. I wish I could have spoken to him to-night, after the accident, and stopped him. Poor fellow! What will he do when he finds that Violet is gone?” He stopped and shuddered. “Nothing rash—I trust he will do nothing rash. But I did not like the expression of his face as he hurried from the theatre.”

For some time Martin remained, holding the lawyer’s letter in his hand. He was oppressed with very painful thoughts—very strange dreads.

When at last he took his candle and went to