He left the building and crossed the street, but went into at least a dozen places without finding any one disengaged. At length, however, he paused before the last and plainest on the block, which bore the sign: “Patrick McLoughlin, Attorney and Counsellor at Law.” He entered a shabby little room, where a very young and briefless lawyer sat at a dusty desk, and seemed to have no heavier labor on hand than the perusal of the morning paper. To this young fellow David Lindsay introduced himself, and stated his case, omitting only two circumstances—that the marriage proposal had come from the lady herself, and that immediately after the ceremony she had repulsed him. The knowledge of these unusual facts was, however, not at all essential to the right understanding of the situation. The young Irishman, with all the ardor and frankness of his race, heartily congratulated his client on having so successfully run away with an heiress; for that was the light in which he viewed the affair. He made no pretense of being busy, but announced himself ready to attend Mr. Lindsay at once. They crossed over together to the City Hall, and went to the Registrar’s office, where McLoughlin read the recorded will, while David Lindsay stood by. Then he closed the folio with a rap, clapped his client on the shoulder, and exclaimed: “That’s all right! Take the lady home to the finest house she possesses, my dear fellow, and tell the old guardian, if he comes bothering around, to go to the divil; his consent was not necessary!” Not very elegant language to couch a lawyer’s opinion in; but McLoughlin has improved since then, and now you would hardly find a more dignified man at the Washington bar than he is. The young lawyer thought he had found a “big bonanza” in this fortunate young fellow, who had married an heiress, and so he charged him fifty dollars for his advice. (He would charge five hundred for the same service now, bless you.) David Lindsay paid the fee without demur; but he was appalled, it reduced his funds so alarmingly low. He had left home with only two hundred dollars—the accumulated savings of ten or twelve years. Traveling expenses, and clergymen’s and lawyer’s fees had reduced it to less than a hundred already, and this circumstance warned him that he must lose no time in stopping expenses at the hotel, but must take Gloria to her home, while yet he had the means of doing so—for he was resolved that he would not draw upon her resources. He took leave of young McLoughlin and walked rapidly towards their hotel. He went up stairs to their private parlor and rapped at her door. “Well?” she said, in a subdued voice. “Will you come out, dear, and let me speak to you?” “Yes,” she murmured, in a low tone; and presently she appeared, closed the door behind her, and sat down on the nearest chair. She did not wait for him to speak, but, with a dry sob, commenced: