But he can regulate what he does after he comes to man's estate. God bless me !" said Tom Forster, looking round the room, "it cannot matter much whether a man be born a nigger or a British admiral; but it does matter whether he be a good nigger and a good admiral."

Mr Edgar Wade said nothing, but puffed his cigar gloomily. "I have read in some old divine," continued the detective, "that if an angel from Heaven "Tom bowed his head here, speaking as if it were customary to one of his reverential nature to show respect to principalities and powers—“ were to be offered on earth the choice of being an emperor or a servant, he would choose the latter office, and perform his work without repining."

"That may be. It does not concern me. I hate these speculations; they prove nothing. I can only feel that I am here, kept out of my just rights, hampered with people about whom I care nothing, and disappointed in my love."

"I did not know you were in love," answered the old man. "I am perhaps foolish; but I thought the study of the law, with, above all, the great trial you are engaged in, was enough to absorb all your energy and attention."

"As if a man could be nourished on such stuff," returned Edgar, bitterly. And then, since trouble and disappointment go far to make a man indulge in strange confidants, Edgar told his old friend of his passion for Natalie Fifine.

"You love her," said Tom Forster, in a kindly way; for the story explained many of the suspicions which had grown up in the philosopher's mind during the time that he was watching his protégé. "But, surely, under the altered circumstances of your fortune, you would not marry her?"

"I have chosen my part," said Edgar, bitterly. "This love is one of the circumstances that I cannot control. It masters me. Why not marry her? Did not Lord Ffarrinton—an old name, spelt like the Ffrenchs' name with two F's-did not he marry an actress?"

"Yes," returned Tom; "but I have my prejudices. Lady Ffarrinton was an actress of great merit, a lady of education, and much personal beauty; but, excuse me, she was not a French dancer."

"Nor was she Natalie Fifine."

Mr Tom Forster said nothing; but with a sigh, recalled the adage

"Where love's in the case,

The doctor's an ass."

His ideal was slowly melting away before him.

"Could there be," thought the romantic old dreamer, "a more enviable position, for a young man of talent and ambition, than that of filling the place of an English nobleman, full of opportunities of resuscitating the ancient glory of his race; of leading, nay, of wielding the proud democracy which of late. had shown so great an ambition and so marvellous a power? And yet, here was this young fellow, brought up in a lower sphere, and educated so that he could fully appreciate his advantages, about to throw all away on a dancer!"

"And she," continued the old man, "I think you said, seemed to show a preference for Lord-Lord "

"Lord Montcastel," said Edgar, with something like an oath which would carry anything but good fortune to that amiable and eccentric Irish peer.

"A man old enough to be her father," said Tom Forster. "I have seen his lordship before to-night. But, then, he has a title, which at present you have not. And the young lady is ambitious."

"Poor Natalie! She works, she tells me, for the sake of an old father and mother, and is full of devotion to them. How beautiful such a devotion; how different from the sordid selfishness of the world!

"It is a beautiful thing to witness," returned Mr Forster, drily; "and is, perhaps, more frequently heard of than seen. But I hope you are not deceived."

"Few people can deceive me," said Edgar Wade. "I have been brought up in a hard school, and that has sharpened my wits. I have cast in my lot. I will do anything to obtain Natalie. She must only be cajoling that villainously ugly old reprobate, with his high cheek bones and his ginger whiskers."

The conference was at an end; and Mr Edgar Wade, still

gloomy, and full of disgust, threw the end of his cigar into the fire, and stalked off to bed like an ill-used man.

As Tom Forster divested himself of his clothing, and put himself to bed, he kept revolving on the new complexion which the episode of the night had given to matters. Edgar had a plain right to fall in love with anybody; but Mr Forster had so identified him with a noble career, which he hoped he would have run, that he felt the step Edgar had taken to be something like a blow and a disappointment.

"Man is born to trouble," said the philosopher to himself, in a desponding voice, "as the sparks fly upwards.' He was a wise man who made that queer simile. Here am I, an old fellow who had performed that difficult task of living for another, and of absolutely forgetting myself, and a pretty mess I have made of it. Cast in his lot, indeed! There are two things I don't like about her-she is a foreigner and a dancer; and though she may leave off her trade, she can't get over her breed."

And the prejudiced old party, placing his head and his bandana on the pillow, soon forgot himself otherwise than unselfishly and in sleep.

"O Natalie! Natalie! can it be possible that you don't love me?" murmured the barrister; "and after all that I have done for you-and when fate was about to turn the golden side of Fortune's shield towards me!"

And then he thought of the complication that he was in ; of the desire that Lord Chesterton had exhibited of seeing the unhappy woman who lay so ill not far from him; of Lord Wimpole, whom he had promised to defend; of the pressure of that business, and yet of his overwhelming desire to forestall Lord Montcastel; and of his growing suspicion, which he could not master nor cast out, of Natalie's falseness.

"It is enough to make a man mad," he said. "One might also believe there was a devil, and that he mixed in human affairs. What a terrible position is mine." (It is plain that Edgar Wade, clever and generous as he was, could feel for himself as well as for others.) "These matters come upon us when we are so tied and hampered. But it is late, and I must sleep."

And to sleep he endeavoured to compose himself; saying, as he slept

"It will but make matters worse. The old nobleman is already half demented: he must not see Mrs Wade."

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

MR SCOREM MAKES HIS DEBUT, AND IS HIMSELF TAKEN BY SURPRISE.

A whole day was

POOR Mr Checketts was disconsolate. passed, and the greater part of another, and yet his master did not return. There was something so peculiarly depressing and mysterious in this, that Checketts consulted Mr Gurgles; but received from him nothing but of a proverbial and prophetic character, which, truly, did not comfort Checketts, being of a shadowy nature, while the food demanded by the truly British mind of Checketts must necessarily be solid.

"Mr Gurgles," said Checketts, with a sigh.

"Sir," said Gurgles, "you were about to consult me. 'Truly,' as the editor remarks, there is a price in the hand of a fool for wisdom, and the way of transgressors is hard.'”

Checketts could not for the life of him see what those mystic sentences, of which he by no means disputed the truth, had to do with the matter; so he was silent and meditative.

"It's all very true," said Gurgles, thinking he had shut up his companion; "yes, very true; the beginning of strife,' he said in another article, 'is like the letting out of waters.'

"I wish I could let out at somebody," muttered Checketts, viciously. "What I want you to tell me, Mr Gurgles, is thiswhat have they done with my lord ?"

"Truly," returned Mr Gurgles, in the same misty way, "the crown of a wise man is his riches;' and again he tells us, 'Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.' We are born to disappointment, my young friend."

Hope deferred! The homely truth fell upon the ear of poor Checketts with a mournful sound. The great deep was broken up; the house of Chesterton had been entered by the

police; the aristocracy had been defied; and the grand old Earl-who, as Checketts thought, could do anything-was, as Gurgles said, nothing better than "a broken reed, or a lodge in a garden of cucumbers."

"He is an original man, that Mr Gurgles," said Checketts. "He is deep-so deep-but he confuses me. He has a gigantic mind, no doubt; but he is beyond me." Here the faithful servant fell again to meditating on his master's fate; and at last got so nervous that he could not stay indoors, but preferred a request to Mr Roskell for leave of absence.

That being granted, although it was late in the afternoon, Checketts went down to the Temple, with a vague idea of calling upon Mr Edgar Wade; but not having the courage to do so for the barrister had impressed him with a sense of fear and of power-he wandered round and round the plashing little fountain, and looked over the garden to the placid river, glittering and shining in a mild October evening.

While he was thus engaged, looking dreamily askance rather than before him, he was nearly knocked down by a person hurrying out of the very door he lingered about; and, even with the blow, he was conscious of a faint smell of apples.

66

Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure," cried Scorem, for it was he! "beg pardon." The clerk, studying his speech with the absorption of a born orator, had hardly noticed where he was running.

"Don't mention it," returned Checketts, rubbing his shoulder. "Hallo!" cried Scorem; "the gentleman from Chesterton House, I see. Do you want Mr Edgar Wade?"

"Not particularly," returned Checketts, confusedly. wanted to know if he's heard anything of Lord Wimpole, d'ye see?"

"He will communicate, sir," said Scorem, officially. "He is sure to do so; he is a gentleman of eminent business capacity. A wonderful man, sir. He was in the Robing Room." 66 What's that?" asked Checketts.

Why, where barristers put on their war paint-the gowns, bands, and those wonderful wigs! Ah, sir, you should see my governor in 'em; he looks beautiful. A fine forehead, has he not?"