the survivor of the duelists on his trial before a court of law.
No jury, hearing the evidence, would find him guilty of the only

charge that could be formally brought against him--the charge of
"homicide by premeditation." Homicide by misadventure, occurring

in a duel, was not a punishable offense by the French law. My
correspondent cited many cases in proof of it, strengthened by

the publicly-expressed opinion of the illustrious Berryer
himself. In a word, we had nothing to fear.

The next page of the letter informed us that the police had
surprised the card playing community with whom we had spent the

evening at Boulogne, and that the much-bejeweled old landlady had
been sent to prison for the offense of keeping a gambling-house.

It was suspected in the town that the General was more or less
directly connected with certain disreputable circumstances

discovered by the authorities. In any case, he had retired from
active service.

He and his wife and family had left Boulogne, and had gone away
in debt. No investigation had thus far succeeded in discovering

the place of their retreat.
Reading this letter aloud to Romayne, I was interrupted by him at

the last sentence.
"The inquiries must have been carelessly made," he said. "I will

see to it myself."
"What interest can you have in the inquiries?" I exclaimed.

"The strongest possible interest," he answered. "It has been my
one hope to make some little atonement to the poor people whom I

have so cruelly wronged. If the wife and children are in
distressed circumstances (which seems to be only too likely) I

may place them beyond the reach of anxiety--anonymously, of
course. Give me the surgeon's address. I shall write instructions

for tracing them at my expense--merely announcing that an Unknown
Friend desires to be of service to the General's family."

This appeared to me to be a most imprudent thing to do. I said so
plainly--and quite in vain. With his customary impetuosity, he

wrote the letter at once, and sent it to the post that night.
X.

ON the question of submitting himself to medical advice (which I
now earnestly pressed upon him), Romayne was disposed to be

equally unreasonable. But in this case, events declared
themselves in my favor.

Lady Berrick's last reserves of strength had given way. She had
been brought to London in a dying state while we were at Vange

Abbey. Romayne was summoned to his aunt's bedside on the third
day of our residence at the hotel, and was present at her death.

The impression produced on his mind roused the better part of his
nature. He was more distrustful of himself, more accessible to

persuasion than usual. In this gentler frame of mind he received
a welcome visit from an old friend, to whom he was sincerely

attached. The visit--of no great importance in itself--led, as I
have since been informed, to very serious events in Romayne's

later life. For this reason, I brieflyrelate what took place
within my own healing.

Lord Loring--well known in society as the head of an old English
Catholic family, and the possessor of a magnificentgallery of

pictures--was distressed by the change for the worse which he
perceived in Romayne when he called at the hotel. I was present

when they met, and rose to leave the room, feeling that the two
friends might perhaps be embarrassed by the presence of a third

person. Romayne called me back. "Lord Loring ought to know what
has happened to me," he said. "I have no heart to speak of it

myself. Tell him everything, and if he agrees with you, I will
submit to see the doctors." With those words he left us together.

It is almost needless to say that Lord Loring did agree with me.
He was himself disposed to think that the moral remedy, in

Romayne's case, might prove to be the best remedy.
"With submission to what the doctors may decide," his lordship

said, "the right thing to do, in my opinion, is to divert our
friend's mind from himself. I see a plain necessity for making a

complete change in the solitary life that he has been leading for
years past. Why shouldn't he marry? A woman's influence, by

merely giving a new turn to his thoughts, might charm away that
horrible voice which haunts him. Perhaps you think this a merely

sentimental view of the case? Look at it practically, if you
like, and you come to the same conclusion. With that fine

estate--and with the fortune which he has now inherited from his
aunt--it is his duty to marry. Don't you agree with me?"

"I agree most cordially. But I see serious difficulties in your
lordship's way. Romayne dislikes society; and, as to marrying,

his coldness toward women seems (so far as I can judge) to be one
of the incurable defects of his character."

Lord Loring smiled. "My dear sir, nothing of that sort is
incurable, if we can only find the right woman."

The tone in which he spoke suggested to me that he had got "the
right woman"--and I took the liberty of saying so. He at once

acknowledged that I had guessed right.
"Romayne is, as you say, a difficult subject to deal with," he

resumed. "If I commit the slightest imprudence, I shall excite
his suspicion--and there will be an end of my hope of being of

service to him. I shall proceed carefully, I can tell you.
Luckily, poor dear fellow, he is fond of pictures! It's quite

natural that I should ask him to see some recent additions to my
gallery--isn't it? There is the trap that I set! I have a sweet

girl to tempt him, staying at my house, who is a little out of
health and spirits herself. At the right moment, I shall send

word upstairs. She may well happen to look in at the gallery (by
the merest accident) just at the time when Romayne is looking at

my new pictures. The rest depends, of course, on, the effect she
produces. If you knew her, I believe you would agree with me that

the experiment is worth trying."
Not knowing the lady, I had little faith in the success of the

experiment. No one, however, could doubt Lord Loring's admirable
devotion to his friend--and with that I was fain to be content.

When Romayne returned to us, it was decided to submit his case to
a consultation of physicians at the earliest possible moment.

When Lord Loring took his departure, I accompanied him to the
door of the hotel, perceiving that he wished to say a word more

to me in private. He had, it seemed, decided on waiting for the
result of the medicalconsultation before he tried the effect of

the young lady's attractions; and he wished to caution me against
speaking prematurely of visiting the picture gallery to our

friend.
Not feeling particularly interested in these details of the

worthy nobleman's little plot, I looked at his carriage, and
privately admired the two splendid horses that drew it. The

footman opened the door for his master, and I became aware, for
the first time, that a gentleman had accompanied Lord Loring to

the hotel, and had waited for him in the carriage. The gentleman
bent forward, and looked up from a book that he was reading. To

my astonishment, I recognized the elderly, fat and cheerful
priest who had shown such a knowledge of localities, and such an

extraordinary interest in Vange Abbey!
It struck me as an odd coincidence that I should see the man

again in London, so soon after I had met with him in Yorkshire.
This was all I thought about it, at the time. If I had known

then, what I know now, I might have dreamed, let us say, of
throwing that priest into the lake at Vange, and might have