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27, 1861.]

Mr. Berry left Mrs. Hawkesley, after the interview in which he had made his strange revelation, he went over to Canonbury Square, and sent in his name to her father.

Archibald Vernon was in his favourite position, on a sofa drawn so comfortably near the window as that the light fell full upon his newspaper, while the curtain shaded him from the glare. He was, of course, in a morning robe and slippers, and the air from the opened sash played pleasantly with his soft white hair—once or twice he had permitted himself the fancy that he was somewhat in a draught, but having deliberately balanced the comparative inconvenience of moving, and that of enduring the slight breeze, he had decided in favour of bearing the latter until some one else should come in and close the window for him. And he was deep in the long-winded sentences of a President’s Message.

Mr. Berry followed close upon the servant, and Mr. Vernon, though rather vexed at being interrupted so soon after breakfast, rose to receive him with the courtesy habitual to the man whom the world had used so ill.

“It is some years since we met, Mr. Vernon,” said Berry, “but I need not recall myself to your recollection.”

“My sojourn in Lipthwaite,” replied Mr. Vernon, smiling, “was so pleasant in many respects, that I am not likely to forget a Lipthwaite friend. Pray sit down.”

And being on his feet, Mr. Vernon availed himself of the opportunity of closing the window.

“Have you read the Message?” he asked, pointing to the “Times.” “It is singularly interesting.”

“What message?” replied Mr. Berry. “Some telegraph?”