Mr. Beresford put up his horse at a livery-stable, and then walked down towards the sea to while away the time until the answer should arrive. He knew Brighton thoroughly. He was a regular visitor from Saturday till Tuesday during November and December, when he stayed at the Bedford, and generally dined at the cavalry mess; but he had never seen the place in its autumnal aspect. Those who only know Brighton in the winter would scarcely recognise her in September, when she has more the aspect of Ramsgate or Margate. In place of the dashing carriages, flys at half-a-crown an hour crawl up and down the King's Road, the horses, perfectly accustomed to the dreary job, ambling along at their own sleepy pace; the riding-masters are still to the fore, but for pupils, instead of the brilliant _écuyères_, they have heavy, clumsy girls in hired habits and hideous hats. All the officers of the cavalry regiment who can get leave, take it; and those who cannot, devote themselves to tobacco in the solitude of their barrack-rooms. The Esplanade is thronged with fat people from the metropolitan suburbs, gorgeous Hebrews with their families from the Minories, and lawyers' clerks with a week's holiday. The beach is covered with children stone-digging and feet-wetting; with girls who have just bathed, with their hair down their backs, and girls who are waiting for machines; with men selling shell-toys, and women imploring purchase of crochet-dolls; with hilarious men throwing sticks for their dogs to swim after; with contemplative men reading books, and gazing off them vacantly across the sea; with drowsy men, supine, with their hats shading their faces from the sun. The whole place is changed; the rich hotel and shopkeepers have gone inland (Tunbridge Wells is a favourite place of theirs) for relaxation, and their substitutes, goaded into madness by the unchanging blue sky and burning brick pavement, are bearish and morose; men wear plaid shooting-coats of vivid patterns in the afternoon, and women, in flapping hats with draggled feathers, promenade in the Pavilion; Brill's swimming-bath shuts up for painting and decoration; and there are people seen walking on the Chain Pier. In this abnormal state of affairs Mr. Beresford found himself any thing but happy. He went to Mutton's and had some soup, and to Folthorp's and read the papers; he strolled down the King's Road, and inspected the evolutions of various young ladies who were disporting in the waves, and indulging the passers-by with the gambols of Bloomsbury-super-Mare. Then he put his legs up on a bench on the Esplanade, and smoked a cigar, and stared at the passers-by; and then, after the lapse of a couple of hours, he walked back to the telegraph-office, where he found a reply waiting for him. It was from Mr. Simnel, and merely said: "_Olet_. Three stars in Leadenhall Street and Director of L. B. and S. C. meaning ten thou. Plated heavily. If with good hand, play game."