The bill-broker was no fool; he saw now how the land lay; he followed her down the stairs, and tried to stammer excuses. "Charing Cross Hotel," said she faintly, and laid her face against the cushion to avoid the sight of him. When she got home, she cried bitterly at her feminine weakness and her incapacity; and she entered this pitiable failure in her journal with a severity our male readers will hardly, we think, be disposed to imitate; and she added, by way of comment: "Is this how I carry out my poor Robert's precept: Be obstinate as a man; be supple as a woman?" That night she consulted her father on this difficulty, so slight to any but an inexperienced girl. He told her there must be a report of the trial in the newspapers, and the report would probably mention the counsel; she had better consult a file. Then the thing was where to find a file. After one or two failures, the British Museum was suggested. She went thither, and could not get in to read without certain formalities. While these were being complied with, she was at a stand-still. That same evening came a line from Arthur Wardlaw: "DEAREST HELEN--I hear from Mr. Adams that you desire to know the name of the counsel who defended Robert Penfold. It was Mr. Tollemache. He has chambers in Lincoln's Inn. "Ever devotedly yours, "ARTHUR WARDLAW." Helen was touched with this letter, and put it away indorsed with a few words of gratitude and esteem; and copied it into her diary, and remarked: "This is one more warning not to judge hastily. Arthur's agitation was probably only great emotion at the sudden mention of one whose innocence he believes, and whose sad fate distresses him." She wrote back and thanked him sweetly, and in terms that encouraged a visit. Next day she went to Mr. Tollemache. A seedy man followed her at a distance. Mr. Tollemache was not at his chambers, nor expected till four o'clock. He was in court. She left her card, and wrote on it in pencil that she would call at four. She went at ten minutes after four. Mr. Tollemache declined, through his clerk, to see her if she was a client; he could only be approached by her solicitor. She felt inclined to go away and cry; but this time she remembered she was to be obstinate as a man and supple as a woman. She wrote on a card: "I am not a client of Mr. Tollemache, but a lady deeply interested in obtaining some information, which Mr. Tollemache can with perfect propriety give me. I trust to his courtesy as a gentleman not to refuse me a short interview." "Admit the lady," said a sharp little voice. She was ushered in, and found Mr. Tollemache standing before the fire. "Now, madam, what can I do for you?" "Some years ago you defended Mr. Robert Penfold; he was accused of forgery." "Oh, was he? I think I remember something about it. A banker's clerk--wasn't he?" "Oh, no, sir. A clergyman." "A clergyman? I remember it perfectly. He was convicted." "Do you think he was guilty, sir?"