Then he remembered how recklessly he had gone to the door to purchase the paper, and, returning, had turned on the full blaze of gas to read by, and, before he had read half a dozen lines, his strange client had appeared, and the paper had been entirely forgotten from that time. Doubtless it would have been destroyed, and he never would have seen this, to him, highly important paragraph had it not been used as a wrapper for the papers which the little, thin-visaged, wiry man had brought him. “It is hardly six months now since this paper was printed,” he said, with a shade of anxiety on his face, as he turned to look at the date again. Then he sat down to think, evidently deeply troubled and perplexed about something. Meanwhile the boy brought him in his evening paper, for he could afford to have one regularly now, and mechanically he unfolded it and began to read. He had nearly looked it through, when, under the heading of “Gleanings,” he read this: “It will be remembered by the frequenters of Newport that Mr. Paul Tressalia was suddenly recalled abroad, at the last of the season, by the serious illness of his uncle, the Marquis of Wycliffe, who has since died, and, being childless, Mr. Tressalia thus becomes heir to his vast possessions in both England and France, and also to his title.” Earle’s face was startlingly pale as he read this, while his broad chest rose and fell heavily, as if he found a difficulty in breathing. “That must be the Paul Tressalia who was here last winter, and—who was so attentive to Editha,” he said, with white lips. For an hour he sat with bent head, deeply-lined brow, and an expression of deep pain and perplexity on his face. “I must do it,” he said at last, “and the quicker the better.” He turned to the shipping list and looked to see what steamers sailed soon. He found two that were to sail on the morrow. “That will do,” he said, and laid aside his paper, with an expression of resolution on his face. Then he arose, locked his safe, donned his coat and hat, and made his way directly to Mr. Dalton’s aristocratic mansion on ——th street. He inquired for Editha of the servant who answered his ring, and was immediately shown into the drawing-room, where she sat alone. Her face lighted and flushed with pleasure as she arose to greet him. “Earle, you are very, _very_ much of a stranger,” she said, half reproachfully. “I have been very, _very_ busy,” he answered, smiling. “I know—I read of your great success, and the papers speak very creditably of the rising young lawyer, and the friends of that young lawyer would be glad to see more of him. Just think, you have only called once since our return from Newport, and then I had other callers, and only saw you for a few moments, while I have only met you once or twice since on the street.” “It would be very pleasant to come oftener, but you know duty before pleasure and I fear my friends, what few I have, will see even less of me in the future.”