“Nay my young friend,” the magistrate added, “you need not be ashamed of an honest attachment, which, in the case of this persecuted girl, must be disinterested.” “You know Britton, sir?” said Albert, confused. “I know a person of that name—in fact, I am watching his proceedings.” “There was another name too mentioned,” said Albert, “it was that of a poor maniac called Mad Maud. She seemed to know this Britton.” “She has cause to know him,” remarked Sir Frederick Hartleton. “Stay—I—” The magistrate paused, and it was evident that something had crossed his mind of an important nature. He covered his eyes with his hand, and seemed to be musing over some train of circumstances in his mind that wanted some connecting links. “Be so good,” he said, suddenly, “as to answer me as exactly as you can, what I shall ask of you.” “We will, sir,” said Mr. Seyton. “What kind of man is this Gray?” “He is rather above the middle height, of spare habit, and very pale.” “His eyes?” “Shifting and inconstant—looking here, there, and everywhere, but in the face of any one he addresses.” “You never saw Britton?” “Never.” “Now tell me as nearly as you can the age of this young girl you call Ada?” “She cannot now be above seventeen,” said Albert. “Seventeen?” The magistrate took a scrap of paper, and made some slight calculations in figures upon it—then he said,— “During all this business, did you never hear another name mentioned as a prime mover or important personage, connected with it?” “No,” said Albert, “those were all.” “Well, gentlemen,” remarked Sir Frederick; “you have said enough to interest me. Pray come here again this day next week, if I should not send to you; for which purpose be so good as to leave your address. You may depend upon my utmost exertions to solve the mystery in which this affair is at present so strangely enveloped.” Albert and his father returned their warm acknowledgments to the magistrate; and, leaving their address, they were escorted through the same door they had entered from the private room of the magistrate. CHAPTER XXXVII. The Pursuit.—The Attempted Murder.—A Providential Interference.—The Papers. For some moments after the departure of his visitors, Sir Frederick Hartleton remained in deep thought, then he commenced a diligent search among some memoranda that he took from an iron chest imbedded in the wall, and, selecting one paper, perused it attentively more than once.