"Good gracious, Edgar!" he said; "what is the matter? You have been working too hard of late."

"Perhaps so, sir," said Edgar; "however, I have enough to make me. Here is my dear mother fallen suddenly into a most terrible and distressing illness, from which, I fear, she will never recover."

Mr Tom Forster, who had nourished, as we have said, a secret passion for the lady, jumped up from his seat with a bound.

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Nothing so serious as that, my dear boy, I hope."

Edgar shook his head sadly, and passed his white hand over his forehead.

"Yes, indeed," he said, with a sad smile, which touched the old man to the heart; "she is my only relation-is the only one whom I have ever known; the only one who ever loved me, at least."

"Your father, then, is dead, long ago?" said Old Daylight, interrogatively;-and the word brought back the dead woman he had seen. "Dead!" he murmured. "Dead enough! Will anything bring back the dead."

"Would to God something could !" said the barrister, with an earnestness that brought Tom Forster back from his wanderings. "No; he is not dead, and she nearly is. Look here! you see this paper ?"

Here he held out the Evening Meal, with his finger on a marked paragraph.

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My mother was quite well till this evening. As she was reading the paper I always bring home for her, her eye fell upon that paragraph."

And sure enough, Mr Edgar Wade's finger pointed out the very paragraph which had been received with such warm applause in the little circle ornamented by Mr Samuel Smiles, cabman!

Much as Mr Forster admired the press, he had been seldom so much astonished at its quickness as he was then. How men could get the type together and printed, let alone putting it into such wonderful English, was to him a matter of mystery. But all his wonder was absorbed in the more wonderful fact that the murder at Kensal-Green should have an effect, and

There was that about his tone that rendered the woman

silent and respectful.

"Yes, sir; Mr Wade has come home, and was asking for you. Mrs Wade is but middling, sir-not very well."

"God bless me! I'm sorry for that. Bring tea at once." The old gentleman was as hungry as a hunter.

"If you have any cold meat, bring it too," he said. And he entered the back dining-room-a handsome apartment, with a capital fire, and surrounded by books. There, sinking into a chair, the old gentleman divested himself of his Hessian boots, and fell musing over the events of the day. The tea and cold meat came, and were despatched; and then, with his head still full of the complicated inductions of the case, Old Daylight sent his compliments to Mr Edgar Wadeand said that he would wait on him. With the housekeeper, that gentleman, who was the only person Mr Forster much cared for in the world-save, indeed, his mother, Mrs Wadeentered, and, having shaken the old gentleman's hand warmly, he sat down. He had in his hand the evening paper-the Meal-and a packet of letters, neatly tied with red tape.

Mr Edgar Wade was a handsome, aristocratic-looking man, well dressed, with a black coat, a roll collar of velvet, a deep black satin stock, and his hair worn à la Brutus-that is, cut short over his well-formed head-showing, however, a fine white forehead, massive, broad, and high. The rest of the face was in keeping: the eyes brilliant and rather deep-set, which gave them a penetrating glance; the mouth very fine, and closely shut; the lips somewhat thin, but of good colour; the chin full of firmness. He was compactly built, and about the middle height; but looked tall, being spare and muscular. His face bore lines of study, and his whole manner was that of a self-possessed gentleman of a noble p had already made a mark. Mr Forste most industrious and hard worker, an indeed, left him all his propert

shed, but still was lowers, and one of ordinary mind, to had helped Edgar. luxury and pretty ther hand, vigorous and de student than the man three fine mezzotints of room; but there were pugilistic encounters, or Testlers, or even of Captain hatch; nor even those capital ay, which have descended to ting or stage-coach adventures

so sad an effect, upon the peaceful house of Mr Thomas Forster, who, with his brain full of his own inductive process, was about unravelling the mystery. Mrs Wade must, of course, have known something about that woman. Here, then, was a clue that Mr Brownjohn would have given his ears for!

The old man's eyes wandered over the paragraph, and his mind noted, in its own quiet way, the error at the end; but all that the philosophic detective could ask was, "Did your mother know her, then?"

"Know her! know the Widow Martin! of course she did. She was intimately connected with her; and she no sooner read of her dreadful death, than, with a scream, she fell in a fit. I rushed to her, and found her hand convulsively clasped upon that paragraph. Then I knew the cause."

"Knew the cause?" stammered Old Daylight, more and more puzzled ; "knew the cause?"

"Of course I did. Madame Martin was my nurse!"

CHAPTER V.

EDGAR WADE SEEKS AN ADVISER.

A SECRET, as was sagely said in the last chapter, is a secret; and, whether it be good or bad, is often a trouble to the owner, even if he wishes to conceal it for honourable purposes. So it was with Old Forster. Events had succeeded themselves at such a rate during that eventful day, that, as he followed Edgar Wade up his own handsome stone staircase, he had need of undergoing a process-not unknown to him-of mentally shaking and pulling himself together.

"Hallo!" said he to himself, "I had nearly let the cat out of the bag! Why is this old fellow so interested in this particular murder?' my boy will ask; for, although he is as innocent as a lamb, he is a barrister, and sharp-dev'lish sharp!"

All persons have a belief, which you shall not tear from them with red-hot pincers, that their own barrister, and particular lawyer or physician, know a great deal more than any one else's barrister, lawyer, or physician. It is a portion of our

conceit. Let us borrow Old Daylight's expression as we for a moment pause over it, and exclaim, "Poor human nature!"

But, sharp as Mr Edgar Wade was, he was so absorbed in his own misfortune, and his mother's sickness, that he never gave one thought to Daylight's agitation, and it is therefore to be presumed that he did not notice it. Old Forster hugged himself for his lucky escape, for he loved his hobby as much as he loved his secretly adopted son; and he feared that if his occupation as detective were found out, Edgar Wade would at once cut him.

"A high-spirited young chap like that," said Forster, "wouldn't go to consort with an old thief-taking, crime-tracking, murder-marking individual like myself! Not a bit. The wonder is he's never found it out. But he's a tip-top barrister, he is-none of your Old Bailey prowlers. If he has anything to do with crime, it's the forging of a duke's will, or the running away of a baronet's wife with a young and spirited marquis-that's the game for him! High game, indeed! None of your low, vulgar murders."

But, after all, crime is a vulgar matter; and so the more reflective Daylight thought as he sat down in Edgar Wade's easy chair, and glanced round the barrister's room. Edgar, in the meantime, let down the flap of an antique cabinet, and, placing the light near him, arranged his letters properly, and then prepared to speak.

The room was well and substantially furnished, but still was the room of a student; although vases of flowers, and one or two feminine knick-nacks seemed, to the ordinary mind, to betray a woman's hand. But no woman had helped Edgar. His mind was feminine, delicate, fond of luxury and pretty adornments; while it was, on the other hand, vigorous and full of life. But there was more of the student than the man of the world in the room. Two or three fine mezzotints of judges were framed, and adorned the room; but there were none of Messrs Fores' celebrated pugilistic encounters, or portraits of celebrated fighters or wrestlers, or even of Captain Barclay walking his world-famed match; nor even those capital caricatures of the beaux of the day, which have descended to our time; nor of the spirited hunting or stage-coach adventures