reliable intelligence of his whereabouts?”

“To be absolutely frank with you, my dear Vicomte, it is a matter of the most perfect indifference to me where he is, or what becomes of him.”

“Heavens!” he exclaimed. “I cannot understand such a feeling.”

“Had you seen as much of him as I did, even when he was trying to appear at his best as Fitzjames; had you been a daily spectator of the inconceivable folly with which every chance was mismanaged, every opportunity let slip; of the childish prejudice with which every true friend was estranged, and of the silly vanity which daily demanded new incense during the whole of this miserable affair—you might understand without difficulty,” I returned, with some little heat.

“But, Chevalier,” he inquired, soothingly, “may I ask why you followed his fortunes?”

“From that, Vicomte, which I doubt not has ever guided your own course in life, from the one motive that has alone influenced me—principle. My people followed the fortunes of his grandfather after the Boyne, and on both sides of my house, Maxwells and Geraldines, our name has been synonymous with loyalty to the Stuart cause abroad as well as at home.”

“I know your name and its equivalent, Chevalier. May I ask to which branch you belong?”

“I scarce know how to qualify my standing,” I answered, laughing; “we have been proscribed rebels so long that I have lost touch with those things men most value in regard to family. Just as I am a Chevalier without so much as a steed whereon to mount my knightship, so am I a Maxwell of Kirkconnel without title to a rood of ground or a kinsman within measurable distance; and my father before me held naught he could call his own save his honour, my lady mother, and my unworthy self. No! if there be a Spanish branch, I swear I'll lay claim to that, for 'tis Spain assuredly that must hold my flocks and herds, not to name my chateaux.”

“Chevalier,” he began, earnestly, “I shall esteem it a favour—”

“Not for the world, my dear Vicomte! Money is the one anxiety which seldom causes me a second thought. My habit of life is simple, and my only ambition my profession. But to go back to the happy chance of our meeting, may I inquire, without indiscretion, the name of the young lady whom you rescued?”

“Oh, come, come! Honour where honour is due. I am no more responsible for the rescue than yourself. The young lady is a Miss Grey, living with her aunt in temporary lodgings in Essex Street, off the Strand.”

“I have a suspicion, sir, that the name may be as temporary as her lodging, and that I am fortunate in applying to one who can give me reliable information.”

To this, however, the Vicomte only bowed somewhat stiffly, and being unwilling that any contretemps should arise to mar so promising an acquaintance—though the Lord only knows what umbrage any one could take from my remark—I made my adieux, the Vicomte most obligingly offering me his services should I wish to pass over to France. But of these I could not as yet avail myself, as it was necessary I should know of Lady Jane's intentions more definitely; so, with my acknowledgments, the interview ended.

CHAPTER II

I DISCOVER A NEW INTEREST IN LIFE

On my way back to Soho I turned over matters with interest. I had but little difficulty in placing the Vicomte; he was one of those clear, simple souls, very charming at times in woman, but less acceptable in the man of the world.

No one can admire purity of mind in a woman more than myself, but I have no hesitation in stating that at times I find it positively disconcerting when displayed in too obvious a degree by a man. In woman, it is to be desired above all things, and woman is so far superior to man in the manipulation of the more delicate qualities, that she seldom errs in her concealments, and when she reveals, she does so at the most opportune moment, and so effectively that, though it be no more than a glimpse, it suffices.

And these reflections brought me naturally to Miss Grey; indeed, in fancy I had never been away from her since we met. The Vicomte's manner absolutely confirmed me in my belief that the name was assumed.

Now if a man does not wish to tell you the truth, and the occasion be important, he has just one of two alternatives: the one, is to tell a lie with such assurance and bearing that it carries conviction with it; but, egad! if he won't do that, then the only other is to run you through.

The Vicomte not having been ready for either, I was so far in his confidence that I knew “Miss Grey” was an assumed name; and I shrewdly suspected, from the familiarity of her manner with him, that their mutual relation might be closer than he cared to admit—a suspicion I resolved to put to the touch. Accordingly, the next day I made as careful a toilet as my cursed disguise would admit of, and took my way to Essex Street.

Giving my name to the man at the door, for the lodgings were genteel beyond the ordinary, which advanced me in my surmise as to the fair one's condition, I was ushered into a drawing-room which would have been much better for a little more light than was permitted to enter through the drawn curtains.

In a few moments the door opened and an elderly lady entered, whom I conjectured to be the aunt.

“Madam,” I said, bowing low, “it was my good fortune to be of some slight service to your niece yesterday, and I have ventured to call and inquire if the shock has proved at all serious. My name, madam, is—”

“Tut, tut, boy! None of your airs and graces with me! Your name is Hughie Maxwell, and many's the time I've skelped you into good manners. Come here and kiss your old cousin, you scamp!” And without waiting for me to comply with her invitation, she threw her arms about me and discomposed me sadly enough with an unexpected outburst of weeping.

When she had recovered somewhat we settled down to explanations; questionings from her and answers from me, until at length she was satisfied on all my movements. Then came my turn, and I began with a definite object in view, but carefully guarding my advances, when she cut my finessing short:

“Now, Hughie, stop your fiddle-faddle, and ask me who 'my niece' is. You stupid blockhead, don't you know your curiosity is peeking out at every corner of your eyes? 'My niece' is Margaret Nairn.”

“A relation of Lord Nairne?”

“No one would count her so save a Highlander; they are from the far North, not the Perth people; but don't interrupt! Her mother and I were school-mates and friends somewhat more than a hundred years ago. I have had the girl with me in Edinburgh and Paris, and when I found she was doomed to be buried alive with her father in their lonely old house in the Highlands, and neither woman nor protector about, I took her, the child of my oldest friend, to my care, and at no time have I been more thankful than now, when the whole country is set by the ears. We are in London masquerading as 'Mistress Grey and her niece,' as her only brother, Archie, an officer in the French service, is mixed up in this unfortunate affair, and it is probably only a matter of time until he gets into trouble and will need every effort I may be able to put forth in his behalf. No, you have not come across him, for he was on some secret mission; and it is possible he may not have set foot in Scotland at all. We can but wait and see. Now that your curiosity is satisfied, doubtless you are longing to see the young lady herself; but let me warn you, Master Hughie, I will have none of your philandering. Margaret is as dear to me as if she were my own daughter born, and I may as well tell you at once I have plans for her future with which I will brook no interference.”

“May I ask, cousin, if your plans include M. de Trincardel?”

“My certes! But it is like your impudence to know my mind quicker than I tell it. Yes, since you must know, a