"You are too good, sir,' said he, with a bow, and with bitter irony.

"At any rate,' I said, 'I have some right to be an executioner-no right to be a butcher. These hundred and twenty letters would simply kill you, without doing you any good. Please read only those passages that I have marked in blue ink.' For," said Edgar, "I took the same trouble for him that I did for you. I shortened his punishment by letting him read only those that were of importance. Oh! I can assure you, my old friend, that was enough. My eyes, fixed upon his face, watched his smallest movements. I told you how well he looked when

I first saw him. In less than ten minutes you would have fancied him a convalescent from a fever hospital. Taking his white silk pocket-handkerchief, he put it first to his mouth, then in it, biting the thick folds of silk in his agony; but he let no word escape him. Thick drops of sweat, drops of agony, gathered on his forehead; his hands trembled; his lips turned white; his very hair, which was crisp and curled when he came to welcome me, seemed to grow weak and lank before me." "Poor devil!" said the old man.

"Yes," cried Edgar, as if to forestall his pity, "I pitied him —I, even I, who had been so much injured. But he showed marvellous pluck-a bitter and a costly bravery. Had he uttered one word, I should have flung my arms round his neck and cried, Philip, are you not my brother? Let us forget all. Remain where you are. I have been inured to toil and strife. I can endure difficulty and privation. Let us only recognise, know, and love each other!""

Worn by his emotions, the barrister walked up and down his room, taking the stage much as Mr Kean, the great tragedian of the day, did, when he cried out, in "Richard the Third ""Shadows to-night

Have wrought more terror on the soul of Richard."

Old Daylight watched his adopted son with delight. "Go on, go on, my boy," he murmured. And then, to himself, he said, "But his wonderful generosity will make a fool of him."

"But then," continued Edgar, "a very black and guilty reflection—so I take it-made me pause. I have been edu

cated into caution; and as I was about to play the generous fool, and burn the letters myself, something whispered, 'Those letters, once burnt, what becomes of your evidence? Lord Wimpole might turn round and laugh at you.'

"Ah," said Forster, drawing a long breath, and somewhat relieved, "there is that reflection to be made. The boy is all right," he cogitated. "Now this is what I call a man—a brain to reflect, a heart to feel, a hand to execute. Dash my old wig!" said he to himself, in a state of great triumph, "this is the man for my money; just like myself when I was a boy. But where are your young men now?" (Here the old gentleman gave a vacant look round the apartment, as much as to say, that the young men at present did not exist, and that nature had been remiss in furnishing that article.) "Why, dash my wig! they are all Tom and Jerrying, knocking down old Charleys, and chevying the New Police when they see 'em. Oh, they can chaff a cabman, fight a ticket-porter, or get into Fleet Prison. But for young men-bah!"

Edgar had paused while the old man's rapid thoughts were regretting the good old times of his youth; and the barrister had fixed his eyes on dreamy vacancy, as if debating whether the generous pathway he had pointed out would not have been the best to have trodden. Then he suddenly went on, speaking more rapidly than before.

"At last the reading of those letters was finished, and Philip Stanfield, with haughty determination and an immense struggle, which, in spite of his pride, I could see, arose and put the letters in my hand. He did this frankly, even with a certain boldness.

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"If,' he said, and he emphasised the word, if these letters were written by my father, then, sir, your suggestion is just: I am not the son of the Countess of Chesterton. Have you any other proofs ?'

"I was startled at his asking for more. I have compared the writing,' I answered, ' and it is that of your father. Proofs are in this house. You have the valet Gustave-a confidential servant, no doubt-he has not left you.'

"Gustave,' said the young nobleman, 'died two or three years ago. Your sneer is quite right, sir, he was a confidential

servant to the end. My father was with him when he died. What secrets he had he carried with him, even beyond the grave.''

"Just what you said," interrupted Old Forster. "Ah, if we could only get on the other side of that, what secrets we should know!"

"Then,' said I, 'the only other witness is the old nurse, Estelle Martin. I have ascertained from the papers of Madame Wade that she lives at Kensal-Green,'”

"Eh!" cried the old Bow Street amateur, opening his eyes somewhat wider, and rising as he looked at Edgar.

said he to that?"

"What

"Not much," replied the barrister, carelessly, while Old Forster, playing with his red bandana, watched him with interest. "Not much. His face fell a little, and he owned freely that he knew the name.

"It is a woman whom I have seen,' he said. She lives at a little house called Acacia Villa. I have been there with my father,' he continued, slowly, as if the words were wrung from him; 'and I have seen him pay money to her. He told me that her husband had done him good service.'

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'There, then,' I cried, triumphantly; 'there, then, is a coincidence which you must, at least, say is strange. I claim that woman as my witness.'"

"Phew!" whistled Forster; "and what did my lord say to that? You had him in a cleft stick there."

"He did not answer for some time," continued Edgar; "and then, after patting the ground for some time with his foot, he looked up suddenly into my face, and rising, stood opposite me.

"Tell me,' he said-looking on me as does an artist who takes your portrait-tell me this one thing: do you, Mr Edgar Wade'—the name he emphasised-' do you know the true and lawful son of the Earl of Chesterton?'

"I do,' I answered, too much moved to conceal anything; ‘I do know him, and I-am he!'

"The young man's head fell upon his breast, and he trembled; but it was only for a moment.

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"I do not doubt it,' he said; 'I have had a presentiment

of something of the sort for some moments.' Then he took my hand, and, in an almost inarticulate voice, murmured, 'My brother, I am satisfied that it should be so.""

"Noble words," ejaculated Old Daylight-"noble words, no doubt. But what of words? What were his actions ?”

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Spare him," said Edgar, in a tone of reproach; “he was and is to be pitied. He has fallen from his high estate. The little things that he despised have become dear to him; those which he thought luxuries have grown into necessities. Brought up amidst delicacies, which his soft soul has yet to be weaned from, the prospect before him is dreadful. He knows the truth. Comprehend, Mr Forster, the poor man's strugglewho cannot keep his position but with a guilty knowledge. The Nemesis has, indeed, come upon the house of Chesterton. And he, Philip, my brother, is more to be pitied than I."

"My dear Edgar-my lord, I shall call you, for you are a lord,” babbled Old Forster, full of feeling, and delighted with the goodness the barrister had exhibited-"I quite comprehend it all. I know the struggle. I, you see-I have read a good deal-Dash my wig! I shall let it all out" (this was said aside)—“and I know how a man's soul is shaken when he is suddenly brought face to face with a strong temptation." Temptation?" asked the barrister, as if Old Forster was wandering from the point.

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"Yes, temptation. You see, he might wish to get you off your guard and to burn those letters."

"Oh, no! He behaved like one of a noble house, poor fellow, although on the wrong side. You see, he has as much blood of the Chestertons in his veins as I have."

"How blindly this generous young man excuses him!" thought Forster. "But there, that was to have been foreseen by the true inductive process. Given a fellow of such generous, noble ideas".

"At last," continued Edgar, "for I must end my story, and we must get to bed-at last, after a long, long silence-in which I was torn by different emotions, and in which I watched the autumn leaves fall in the London garden outside: they fall only here-the young lord arose, and drawing himself up, said

"Mr Edgar Wade-for so you are called at present'—the words stuck in his throat a bit-'you must excuse me if I ask time to consider what to do. Ten years, or even five years ago, I should have at once admitted your rights, and should have retired to some far-off settlement, or to the New World, there to have built up a name for myself, and in that New World to have forgotten the sorrows of the Old. But now I am of mature age; and age, if it makes us wiser, makes us less generous. And even though I be like one struck with a thunderbolt from a clear sky, but yet by some miracle alive, I must reflect, and I must consult the Earl, my father. Give me leave to say that I feel my position deeply; but also that I feel for you. The Earl will come from the Continent in eight or nine days. I will tell him all. You shall see him. And if all this is-as I suspect it is—true, then justice shall be done you. Pray, sir, make no mistake. My word has been as good as my bond hitherto, and shall be yet. Here are your letters; keep them carefully. They have cost me all, but— pray, sir, leave me. I will send for you in eight or ten days. I can say no more. I wish to be alone.'

"And that was all?" asked Forster.

"All!" cried the barrister.

more? Was it not noble ?"

"Could any one have said

"My dear boy," said old Tom Forster, rising, and taking his brandy bottle, previous to saying good night, "it was more than noble, it was superhuman; but take care of those letters."

And with another yawn and a caution, he hobbled off, muttering to himself, "Yes, he was right; justice shall be done him, justice-justice to both."

CHAPTER IX.

LADY SĀRK'S PROtégée, and how SHE CAME BY HER. THE inductive philosopher went to bed very much pleased with himself: all the more so because, having upon some pretence returned to Edgar's room, and by delicate processes of