"Don't be foolish," she interrupted him; "shut the door, please, I'm cold. I want to pull the glass up--I want to get home. There, good-night. Pooh, are you a booby also? It was only a woman!" A brilliant light was given by the lamps in the portico, and it shone on her face as she leaned a moment from the carriage window and looked full at him, a marvellous smile on her curved lips and in her black eyes. Then the carriage was gone, and he was standing like a man in a dream. "Has Mrs. Routh come in?" George had asked, anxiously, of the English servant at Routh's lodgings, half an hour before. "Yes, sir; but she has gone to her room, and she told me to give you this." It was a note, written hastily in pencil, on a card: "I felt so ill, after you left me to get me the lemonade, that I was afraid to wait for your return, and came home at once. Pray forgive me. I know you will come here first, or I would send to your own house. "H. R." "Tell Mrs. Routh I hope to see her to-morrow," said George, "and to find her better." Then he walked slowly towards his mother's house, thinking as he went of Clare Carruthers, of the Sycamores, and of how still, and solemn, and stately that noble avenue of beeches in which he saw her first was then doubtless looking in the moonlight; thinking the harmless thoughts of a young man whom love, the purifier, has come to save. A carriage passing him with bright lamps, and a swift vision of sheeny blue seen for an instant, reminded him of Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge, and turned his thoughts to the topic of his uncle's anxiety. When he reached home, he found Mr. Felton alone; and told him at once what had passed. "You are quite correct in supposing that I don't particularly like this woman, George," said Mr. Felton, after they had talked for some time, "and that I should prefer any other channel of intelligence. But we must take what we can get, and it is a great relief to get any. It is quite evident there's nothing wrong with him. I don't allude to his conduct," said Mr. Felton, with a sigh. "I mean as to his safety. I shall call on her to-morrow." George bade his uncle good-night, and was going to his own room, when a thought struck him, and he returned. "It has just occurred to me, uncle," he said, "that Mrs. Bembridge may have a likeness of Arthur. From the account you give of her, I fancy she is likely to possess such trophies. Now we may not require to use such a thing at all, and you have sent for one under any circumstances; still, when you see her, if you consider it expedient, you might ascertain whether she has one in her possession. If her information is not satisfactory, to have a likeness at hand will save time." CHAPTER XXV. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.