“I will tell you, Mr. Prescott. You remember coming one night to me, and telling me that Frank had picked a man up from almost underneath the wheels of an omnibus, and had had a narrow escape of being run over himself?” “Yes, I remember perfectly; his name was—let me see—ah—Walker.” “Just so, Mr. Prescott. Some little time after, Frank came in one evening and told me that he had been to see Mr. Walker, that he was a superior person for his station of life, and that he had an extremely pretty daughter. I am a man of the world, Mr. Prescott, and I know how these sort of things end. I remember I told him that they were certain to end badly, that a man either made a fool of himself and married her, or a rascal of himself and seduced her. Frank was at first inclined to laugh at my advice, but at last he owned that I was right, that the girl was a pretty, loveable sort of girl, and that it would be just as well perhaps that he should not call again.” “I remember perfectly,” Prescott said, “Frank coming up to my rooms and telling me. I know he said, ‘Uncle’s a good old boy, and I won’t go there any more.’ And I really don’t think he did. Frank is as open as the day, and he would have been certain to mention it to me.” “I am sure he is, Mr. Prescott; but like an old fool, as I was, I doubted him afterwards, and you must confess I had reason. Somewhere about a year afterwards, Frank was married, and went off on his travels. Well, a fortnight after that a man came to me, nearly out of his mind. He said his name was Walker, that his daughter had been seduced by my nephew under a promise of marriage, that he had promised solemnly to marry her secretly at once, and to make it public at my death, which, he thought, could not be far off. The old man offered to show me letters proving this, and said that his daughter had drowned herself at the news of my nephew’s marriage, and he had just been down to see her body. Now, Mr. Prescott, I appeal to you, how could I doubt that Frank Maynard was a miserable scoundrel?” Prescott was perfectly thunderstruck. “But it could not be true, sir. I will wager my life it was not true.” “But it was true, Mr. Prescott; the proofs are undoubted; every word the old man uttered was truth, except that he was mistaken as to the body; for his daughter, after all, did not commit suicide, and is still alive. Now, Mr. Prescott, what could Miss Heathcote and myself think, but that Frank Maynard was utterly unworthy of our esteem?” “I do not, of course, doubt what you say, Captain Bradshaw,” Prescott said, warmly; “I have no doubt you are confident in the proofs you have received; but only from Frank Maynard’s own lips will I believe this terrible charge against him.”