“Ah, you should then purchase, M. de Vilby,” said the banker, oracularly. “It is, on the whole, I assure you, cheaper—more satisfactory.” To this, however, he received a decided negative; Colonel Willoughby had as little interest in the idea presented to him by Monsieur Blaise, of a profitable re-sale at a future period, as of possessing property or forming permanent ties in France, or of leaving his son a landowner there. He was about to mount his horse amidst the attentions of the banker and his Swiss porter, when a depressed-looking clerk from the banking-office hastened out, with an air of some timidity, to offer a paper to his master. The latter frowned, while he received a hurried statement from the official. “What is this? not to be found!” he inquired. “It is a trifle, Monsieur,” added he, turning round; “the woman, it seems, to whom your communication referred, has for some time removed her residence. Inquiries shall be made, however. These poor people are of the most changeable habit—the notary of the proprietor is naturally ignorant of their new destination—the neighbours, they affect an unconsciousness which is probably feigned, on account of some sympathy with a fault, a defalcation in rent,—a crime, perhaps. But in this case, there is the police, under whom the emigrant necessarily falls, though unconsciously—and our police are now more efficient than ever. Yes, M. le Baron, this person shall be promptly discovered, believe me—if, indeed, this payment is still considered proper to be made?” The indifferent, languidly commercial tone of Monsieur Blaise, at that moment, jarred disagreeably on Sir Godfrey’s ear, in the full sunlight of the street, while its gay throng poured on either way like a twofold procession.