A month had now passed, and that was a little more than half the dreary time she had to wade through. She began to count the days, and that made her pine all the more. Time is like a kettle. Be blind to him, he flies; watch him, he lags. Her sweet temper was a little affected, and she even reproached Ashmead for holding her out false hopes that his advertisements of her gains would induce Severne to come to her, or even write. “No,” said she; “there must be some greater attraction. Karl says that Miss Vizard, who called upon me, was a beauty, and dark. Perhaps she was the lovely girl I saw at the opera. She has never been there since: and he is gone to England with people of that name.” “Well, but that Miss Vizard called on you. She can't intend to steal him from you.” “But she may not know; a woman may injure another without intending. He may deceive her; he has betrayed me. Her extraordinary beauty terrifies me. It enchanted me; and how much more a man?” Joseph said he thought this was all fancy; and as for his advertisements, it was too early yet to pronounce on their effect. The very day after this conversation he bounced into her room in great dudgeon. “There, madam! the advertisements _have_ produced an effect; and not a pleasant one. Here's a detective on to us. He is feeling his way with Karl. I knew the man in a moment; calls himself Poikilus in print, and Smith to talk to; but he is Aaron at the bottom of it all, and can speak several languages. Confound their impudence! putting a detective on to _us,_ when it is they that are keeping dark.” “Who do you think has sent him?” asked Ina, intently. “The party interested, I suppose.” “Interested in what?” “Why, in the money you won; for he was drawing Karl about that.” “Then _he_ sent the man!” And Ina began to pant and change color. “Well, now you put it to me, I think so. Come to look at it, it is certain. Who else _could_ it be? Here is a brace of sweeps. They wouldn't be the worse for a good kicking. You say the word, and Smith shall have one, at all events.” “Alas! my friend,” said Ina, “for once you are slow. What! a messenger comes here direct from _him;_ and are we so dull we can learn nothing from him who comes to question us? Let me think.” She leaned her forehead on her white hand, and her face seemed slowly to fill with intellectual power. “That man,” said she at last, “is the only link between him and me. I must speak to him.” Then she thought again. “No, not yet. He must be detained in the house. Letters may come to him, and their postmarks may give us some clew.” “I'll recommend the house to him.” “Oh, that is not necessary. He will lodge here of his own accord. Does he know you?” “I think not.” “Do not give him the least suspicion that you know he is a detective.” “All right, I won't.”