“Fixed as fate, Uncle Dan.” “So be it. Your faithful kinsman has been at work in your absence, and has made things smooth for you.” “Is it possible, dear friend?” “There’s nothing a man of the world can’t do when he’s put to it. A reperusal of Dion’s autobiography enabled me to identify the divine Carlitz of that narrative with a lady who took the town by storm when I was a young man, and who afterwards married a nobleman of eccentric repute. Once possessed of this clue, it was easy for me to identify her _fidus Achates_, the amiable H., as Mr. Elderton Hollis, a gentleman connected with dramatic affairs for the last quarter of a century, and still floating, gay and _débonnaire_, upon the border land of the theatrical world,--a gentleman with whom I myself have some acquaintance. To make a long story short, I contrived to throw myself in Hollis’s way at the Quin Club; and after a glance at the theatrical horizon of to-day, drifted into the usual commonplaces about the decay of dramatic talent. ‘Where are our Fawcetts, our Nisbetts, our Keeleys, our Carlitzes?’ I sighed; and at the last familiar name, the old fellow pricked up his ears, like a hound at the huntsman’s ‘Hark forward!’” “‘Ah, my dear Mayfield, that _was_ a woman!’ he exclaimed. ‘You are, of course, aware that I was her secretary, her adviser, her treasurer,--I may say, her guardian angel,--before her brilliant marriage; and now, sir, she cuts me, though I give you my word of honour that marriage could never have taken place but for my management of her affairs.” “This bears out the autobiography,” cried Eustace, eagerly. “To the letter. I first sympathized with Mr. Hollis, and then pumped him. I found him somewhat reserved upon the subject of that northern expedition; but after some beating about the bush, I got from him the admission that the lady whom we will still call Carlitz was in Scotland just before her marriage with Lord V.; and by and by he let slip that the spot was in the extreme north of Aberdeen. This much, and no more, could I obtain. Examination of a tourist’s map showed me a headland called Halko’s Head, in the north of Aberdeenshire. This is likely to be the H. H. of Dion’s book, and thither we must direct our steps.” “My dear uncle, you have done wonders!” “And when you find the place, what then?” “I shall discover the name of the man.” “Who knows? The chase of the wild-goose is a sport congenial to youth; but April is a cold month in Scotland, and I wish the expedition could have been contrived later.” Eustace would fain have started next morning, had it been possible; but two days were necessary for Mr. Mayfield’s literary affairs, and the agreement with the editors as to what contributions he was to send to the _Areopagus_ and another journal during his absence, and so on. “I must scribble _en route_, you see, Eustace,” he said; “the mill will not stop because I want a holiday.” CHAPTER XIII.