"I am her friend," said the lawyer. "And if you must know, I rather wish her to meet you and get it over. Will you come here again at five o'clock?" "All right," said Monckton. Monckton was struck with lawyer Middleton's manner, and went away puzzling over it. "What's _his_ little game, I wonder?" said he. The lawyer went post-haste to his client's house. He found her in tears. She handed him an open letter. Braham was utterly ruined, and besides that had done something or other he did not care to name; he was off to America, leaving her what money she could find in the house and the furniture, which he advised her to sell at once before others claimed it; in short, the man was wild with fear, and at present thought but little of anybody but himself. Then the lawyer set himself to comfort her as well as he could, and renewed his request that she would give Monckton a meeting. "Yes," said she, wearily--"it is no use trying to resist _him_; he can come here." The lawyer demurred to that. "No," said he, "keep your own counsel, don't let him know you are deserted and ruined; make a favor of coming, but _come_: and a word in your ear--he can do more for you than Braham can, or will ever do again. So don't you thwart him if you can help." She was quick enough to see there was something weighty behind, and she consented. He took her back with him; only she was such a long time removing the traces of tears, and choosing the bonnet she thought she should look best in, that she made him twenty minutes late and rather cross. It is a way women have of souring that honeycomb, a man. When the trio met at the office the husband was pale, the wife dull and sullen. "It's the last time I shall trouble you, Lucy," said Monckton. "As you please, Leonard." "And I want you to make my fortune." "You have only to tell me how." (Quite incredulously.) "You must accompany me to Derbyshire, or else meet me at Derby, whichever you please. Oh, don't be alarmed. I don't ask you to travel with me as man and wife." "It doesn't much matter, I suppose," said Lucy, doggedly. "Well, you are accommodating; I'll be considerate." "No doubt you will," said Lucy; then turning her glorious eyes full upon him, "WHAT'S THE CRIME?" "The crime!" said Monckton, looking all about the room to find it. "What crime?" "The crime I'm wanted for; all your schemes are criminal, you know." "Well, you're complimentary. It's not a crime this time; it's only a confession." "Ah! What am I to confess--bigamy?" "The idea! No. You are to confess--in a distant part of England, what you can deny in London next day--that on a certain day you married a gentleman called Walter Clifford." "I'll say that on the eleventh day of June, 1868, I married a gentleman who was called Walter Clifford." This was Lucy's reply, and given very doggedly. "Bravo! and will you stand to it if the real Walter Clifford says it is a lie?" Lucy reflected. "No, I will not."