“My dear, all things are possible,” the old man said, sadly. “You were reading to me last week a book where a man, seemingly as open and popular and straightforward as Frank, did the same thing, and you did not see any impossibility in it then. Steerforth was just such another as Frank—he treated little Emily just as Frank has treated this poor girl.” “Oh, uncle, I can't believe it—I can't believe it!” Alice wailed. Captain Bradshaw was silent. Presently he said,— “Although there can be no doubt as to the circumstances, Alice, still of course we have only heard one side. Frank may have something to urge in his defence—something which may mitigate, although nothing could possibly excuse, the terrible fault he has committed. I shall write to him to-morrow. If he has anything to urge in his defence, he will do so. I trust that he will. I can never know him again; never. But I should be glad, if possible, to think that he has not been such a cold-blooded rascal as he appears to have been. There, Alice, don't cry any more, dear. Think that it is worse for me than it is for you. You are young, and will make fresh loves, fresh friends. I am old. For me there is no future hope. I have lost my son. I find that my confidence and love have been misplaced. I cannot begin again. You are all I have in the world now, Alice; for although I like him, I can never love the man who must now be my heir.” CHAPTER XII. FOLLOWING IT UP. STEPHEN WALKER turned away from Lowndes Square with a feeling of stern satisfaction. At least, the destroyer of his daughter would not go unpunished. He should pay with the loss of his expected fortune for the damage he had wrought. So far, Stephen Walker thought that his success had been all that he could have wished for; but his task was but begun yet. He had resolved upon blighting his enemy's prospects through life. He had determined that he would devote his whole life to this purpose; that he would everywhere dog his footsteps; that wherever he went, whatever he did, he would follow him, and tell the tale to all who would listen to him. Fred Bingham's friends, his work-people, everyone with whom he associated, should know that the pleasant, laughing young gentleman was a heartless scoundrel. “No doubt he had imagined that there was nothing to fear from Carry's father, that the nervous old man would do him no harm, would give him no trouble. Ha, ha!—we shall see.” And Stephen Walker laughed fiercely aloud, and shook his clenched fists as he strode along across Sloane Street into Hans Place. With the dignity of a great passion in him, he felt, and was, more of a man than he had ever before been during his life. He stopped at Mr. Bingham's house and rang, sent in his name, and was shown into the study, where Mr. Bingham was engaged upon some plans. He looked up. “Ah, Mr. Walker; is it you? Haven't I paid your last quarter's account for newspapers?”