“Do you remember my remarking a few days ago, on another subject, how meaningless our observations are until we are given the right thread to string them on?” “Yes,” said “Webber, disconcerted by the allusion. “My acquaintance with this man is a case in point. He has obtruded his horrible profession upon me every time we have met. I have actually seen him publicly cheered as a pugilist-hero; and yet, being off the track, and ignorant of the very existence of such a calling, I have looked on and seen nothing.” Lydia then narrated her adventure in Soho, and listened with the perfect patience of indifference to his censure of her imprudence in going there alone. “And now, Lydia,” he added, “may I ask what you intend to do in this matter?” “What would you have me do?” “Drop his acquaintance at once. Forbid him your house in the most explicit terms.” “A pleasant task!” said Lydia, ironically. “But I will do it--not so much, perhaps, because he is a prize-fighter, as because he is an impostor. Now go to the writing-table and draft me a proper letter to send him.” Lucian’s face elongated. “I think,” he said, “you can do that better for yourself. It is a delicate sort of thing.” “Yes. It is not so easy as you implied a moment ago. Otherwise I should not require your assistance. As it is--” She pointed again to the table. Lucian was not ready with an excuse. He sat down reluctantly, and, after some consideration, indited the following: “Miss Carew presents her compliments to Mr. Cashel Byron, and begs to inform him that she will not be at home during the remainder of the season as heretofore. She therefore regrets that she cannot have the pleasure of receiving him on Friday afternoon.” “I think you will find that sufficient,” said Lucian. “Probably,” said Lydia, smiling as she read it. “But what shall I do if he takes offence; calls here, breaks the windows, and beats Bashville? Were I in his place, that is what such a letter would provoke me to do.” “He dare not give any trouble. But I will warn the police if you feel anxious.” “By no means. We must not show ourselves inferior to him in courage, which is, I suppose, his cardinal virtue.” “If you write the note now, I will post it for you.” “No, thank you. I will send it with my other letters.” Lucian would rather have waited; but she would not write while he was there. So he left, satisfied on the whole with the success of his mission. When he was gone, she took a pen, endorsed his draft neatly, placed it in a drawer, and wrote to Cashel thus: “Dear Mr. Cashel Byron,--I have just discovered your secret. I am sorry; but you must not come again. Farewell. Yours faithfully, “Lydia Carew.” Lydia kept this note by her until next morning, when she read it through carefully. She then sent Bashville to the post with it. CHAPTER IX