M. le Comte was busy in trying to shake his trousers down over his patent-leather half-boots, so that the stockingless state of his feet might not be discovered, and he stamped on the floor, apparently with the energy of his devotion, but really in the hope of forcing down his pantaloons; he exclaimed that he was her slave for life, and, hearing the gate close, proceeded, with all possible haste, to ensconce himself once more beneath the leathern cover of the celestial globe, kissing his hand passionately several times to the young lady before finally disappearing from her sight. Miss Chutney had only time enough to place the devotional close against the wall, and to arrange the back so that it would not immediately appear to have been broken, when she heard the key placed in the door, and in a minute afterwards Miss Wewitz made her appearance. To Chutney’s great horror, on looking at her a second time, she discovered that Miss Wewitz had positively brought her work, and had evidently made up her mind to sit with her the whole time. What ever should she do? The poor dear Count would be smothered, even if he could remain quiet in his hiding-place all that time. Would it not be better to tell her all that had occurred—but then she would be sure to scold so—besides, it never would be possible to tell her all that the Count had said—and really she’d have to make up so many fibs, if she confessed, that perhaps, after all, it would be more honest of her to keep the whole affair secret from her. Miss Wewitz merely observing that she thought she had not exceeded her half-hour by many minutes, and that Miss Chutney had not been very lonely during her absence, sat herself down in the easy chair, saying that she had ordered the servant to bring the tea in there, and that they would have a nice long evening’s chat together. As soon as Miss Wewitz had settled herself fairly down to her work—she was busy fresh trimming one of her old last year’s bonnets for her dear mother—she commenced informing Miss Chutney, in the most confidential manner, as to the issue of her visit to the inspector. That gentleman—and a perfect gentleman he certainly was—for he was always exceedingly civil to her, though, for the life of her, she couldn’t tell why—well, that gentleman had been kind enough to advise her to get rid of the Frenchmen as rapidly as she could, saying that they were all a pack of swindlers together, and that there was one whom the Detectives had traced to her house—a Count de Sangshimmy, the inspector called him, and whom they well knew to be nothing more nor less than a _Chevalier d’Industrie_, or, in plain English, a common pickpocket. Here the cover of the celestial globe betrayed evident symptoms of internal uneasiness, and Miss Chutney, attracted by the motion of the cover, could not help casting a side glance towards the spot.