mummy, or than one of the waxwork figures in the novel exhibition by Madame Tussaud, the ingenious old lady who had set up her tabernacle in the fashionable quarter of Baker Street. The wrongs of the Countess, Philip dwelt upon much more eagerly than his own; and here, indeed, Lord Chesterton seemed to glean some faint hope of comfort.

"Speak no more of her," he said. "She knows all now, and is beyond our mortal feeling. At any rate, Philip, cruel as I have been in my misguided policy, I have only done to you that which I thought at least was kind and good." "Oh, my lord," returned Philip, "how foolish and shortsighted we are! You tell me that you tried to benefit me, and to do good. What good can now remain to me? I seem even to have lost myself; and hardly, indeed, my identity remains. Seneca makes his heroine, when all melts from her, comfort herself with the proud saying, 'Medea superest;' but what is there that is mine! I am not even what I thought I was."

Chesterton had bent down his proud head, and the tears which were now silently running through his thin fingers showed how much he felt his son's grief.

"Come, come," he said, rising and placing his hand on his son's shoulder, "all is surely not lost. If we concede that this barrister makes good what he avows, which I by no means say that he will," continued the Earl, "splendide mendax ;— which, mind you, I can promise."

"Oh, my lord, you have others to convince besides that gentleman who was lately called Edgar Wade. The enemy you have to conquer is not on the outposts, but in the city itself. You have to convince ourselves. We cannot act as if truth were untruth."

These sentences brought Lord Chesterton down on his chair again.

"O Philip! O my son!" he sobbed, "you indeed teach me how I ought to have felt! What remains for you, my boy? You asked me that just now. My deeper, holier love —your own education, knowledge, and goodness—your unbroken honour, your uncontaminated faith"

"Alas-alas!" sobbed the young man-for the father had

broken down as he spoke, and could not finish his sentence"alas! my father, your very kindness has proved poison to me. The education you have given me has made me appreciate the luxuries with which I was surrounded, and it has added another and more bitter sting to the sorrow with which I part from them. I seemed not proud; but I loved, with a deeper pride because it was concealed, the marks of riches, of place, of power, around me. I loved the decent order of your house, your well-tutored servants, and the respectful, even tender, deference they showed me. I was the heir of all your inherited honours, of the goodness of the Countess, of the ancient lineage and noble blood of my father. And all this time I was an unconscious impostor—a cuckoo in the nest of the hedge-sparrow; no true man, no real son of yours, but a”

"Stop, Philip!" said the Earl. "Press not upon me so hardly for my sin. In spite of all you may say, listen to what I say. I will not neglect nor leave you. You are this day ten times my son."

He put his arms round the younger man, as if to shield him from any harm. His words and action touched the heart of Philip, who, taking his father's hands in his, kissed them tenderly, and then put them away.

"No, my lord," he said, "you can do nothing."

"I will go with you to America. We can live together, Philip."

"Too late! This is too late, my lord. You cannot take property which belongs to him. You are, no doubt, very strong and powerful as Earl of Chesterton; but there is something infinitely stronger-the laws of England. What they pronounce, that we must abide by; and their voice must be on the side upon which both our consciences are ranged. Every benefit that you have heaped upon me has been but a trial. The tender education makes me feel more deeply my position; the love of power and position you have inculcated has made me cling more deeply than you can think to the false position I innocently found myself in. Oh, my lord! you have tried me too much. There are crimes which angels seem to lead to-crimes made venial by the temptation; and temptations too strong to put fairly before weak human nature.

How do you know but, as the result of your crime, my brain has not been taxed to save my seat-that my hands have not been dyed in human blood?"

The Earl trembled as these words fell upon his ear.

Philip!" he cried, "I can bear no more.

Let me go at

once. Let me sleep over the events of this day. To-morrow we may meet with and temporise with this young man.

night! good night!"

Good

The Earl hastily unfastened the door, and hurried across the corridor; and Philip watched his retreating form.

"Good night, my father," he murmured; "good night. Tomorrow we may temporise! Alas! what new difficulties may not to-morrow bring forth?"

CHAPTER XVII.

SAMUEL BROWNJOHN'S QUEST AND GUEST.

CÉSAR NEGRETTI stood in a rather desponding attitude in the front salon of the Hôtel des Etrangères, in Rupert Street, Soho. And, to say the truth, the Strangers' Hotel, though it was frequented, according to its prospectus, by gentlemen of every rank, from the diplomatist to the crowned head, who came to worm secrets out of the mysterious man, did not look very inviting—at least, not to a British eye.

There were no comfortable boxes and snowy white cloths, no steaming potatoes and smoking chops in the salon of this hotel; but merely four round tables, painted, and very cheaply painted too, in imitation of marble. A cruet-stand, with some dark mustard, some pepper and salt mixed, and a little vase of oil adorned each table; and on each table, also, was a dirty carte, which had upon its face the price of various dishes, and upon its back a list of wines. Common Burgundy and Vin de Grave, a thin white wine, seemed to be all in the cellar; while the pièces de résistance were haricot, bouilly, and fried potatoes, with an omelette, sweet, or with chopped herbs. Biftek was to be had, but it was curiously unlike the dish in England or France; and the small slices of mutton served up always

puzzled the stranger with their feeble struggle to remain as far from being like a mutton chop as they were a French cutlet. To tell the truth, the Haymarket and Soho Square not being in so advanced a state of civilisation as they are at present, the Strangers' Hotel saw kings and diplomatists very seldom ; and had fallen into being a mere house of call for gentlemen's servants, valets, couriers, and the lower rank of hangers-on of great families. Hence, César Negretti, who stood between the four tables, lightly attired as garçon, in neat black jean jacket and white apron, might well yawn.

He was as handsome, this man, as the Greek faun; and had as merry and as wicked a grin upon his countenance when he laughed, which he did when, by a cautious and clever flap of his napkin, he killed two or three flies which, all of a row, were the only guests who were feasting at the hotel. Every attitude he fell into had grace and elegance in it. His waiter's jacket seemed to be the fitting uniform of a king. His apron, tied lightly round his waist, seemed to have been put there out of coxcombry, so well it looked; and his old waiter's pumps fitted as if they had been elegantly made for the most supreme dandy of Bond Street.

César's face was a puzzle. He looked any age between fifteen and fifty. He was one moment a radiant, joyous youth -and certainly he was young; another, he fell to pieces, and became old. Just now, he looked miserably thin and worn; but as he was wonderfully successful in killing flies, he brightened up a bit, and said—

"Peste! this won't do for me. This hotel will yield nothing. I shall go back to Malta, whence my patron drew me."

Here he cleverly sprinkled a little pepper and salt upon the nose and into the eyes of a kitten that was playing at his feet, and burst into a most radiant smile as he watched the agony of the little creature, and listened to its sneezes. Happily, with kittens, as with all young things, pain and troubles soon pass. The kitten licked its nose, and washed out its eyes, in some wonderful way, with the ball of its foot. Its tail grew smaller, its sputterings less; and César's smile died down.

But, melancholy or merry, this handsome face still peered towards the door, as if awaiting guests. The thick, crisp hair

curled over a high and narrow forehead; the face, shaped into a sharp angle, ended in a somewhat round chin, which was adorned with a little peaked beard. The face was otherwise clean shaven. The ears were quick, large, and animal, and seemed almost motive; and the scalp was loose on the forehead; so that, when César shrugged his foreign shoulders, or frowned with his brown, foreign forehead, the hair went up or came down, and played a not unimportant part in the dialogue. The tint of the face was a rich brown ; the cheeks just reddened rather more deeply. The eyes were black, lustrous, full of laughter and merriment, or of gloomy, wild sadness, as the case may be. César looked like a man who had played many parts; and he had. He was, it was understood, a protégé of Lord Chesterton, and had been brought by that nobleman from Malta; but it was supposed, from his name, that he was the son of an Italian. However, from being the protégé and valet of the great Lord Chesterton, César had fallen to be the waiter at this foreign hotel, and was apparently regretting the change; for the kitten, having recovered from the pepper, and playing with the shoe-tie of the pensive Italian, was incautious enough to prick its claws through the thin stocking, and was rewarded by being sent flying, by a vigorous kick, right into the red. waistcoat of a portly customer who entered at the moment. "Hallo!" said that gentleman, with a good-natured English voice, catching the frightened animal and fondling it, "is that how you furriners treat kittens ?"

"I beg pardon, m'sieu," answered the waiter, in very good English, "the cat has been scratching me, the brute! Why, if it isn't Mr Brownjohn!" cried César, turning pale, and his eyes falling before the honest outlook of the Bow Street

runner.

"César Negretti!" said that person. "So you've come down to this! Well, after being so well tiled in as you were, you deserve it. That little trick you had of borrowing his lordship's diamond buttons

That

"Hush!" said the waiter, putting his hand before the Bow Street runner's mouth. "Please be as silent as you can. was a mistake."

"For which many a better man has danced on nothing