Randal accepted the arm proffered to him; and Lord L’Estrange, as is usual with one long absent from his native land, bore part as a questioner in the dialogue that ensued. “Egerton is always the same man, I suppose—too busy for illness, and too firm for sorrow?” “If he ever feel either he will never stoop to complain. But indeed, my dear Lord, I should like much to know what you think of his health.” “How? You alarm me!” “Nay, I did not mean to do that; and, pray, do not let him know that I went so far. But I have fancied that he looks a little worn and suffering.” “Poor Audley!” said L’Estrange, in a tone of deep affection. “I will sound him, and, be assured, without naming you; for I know well how little he likes to be supposed capable of human infirmity. I am obliged to you for your hint—obliged to you for your interest in one so dear to me.” And Harley’s voice was more cordial to Randal than it had ever been before. He then began to inquire what Randal thought of the rumors that had reached himself as to the probable defeat of the government, and how far Audley’s spirits were affected by such risks. But Randal here, seeing that Harley could communicate nothing, was reserved and guarded. “Loss of office could not, I think, affect a man like Audley,” observed Lord L’Estrange. “He would be as great in opposition—perhaps greater; and as to emoluments—” “The emoluments are good,” interposed Randal, with, a half sigh. “Good enough, I suppose, to pay him back about a tenth of what his place costs our magnificent friend—no, I will say one thing for English statesmen, no man among them ever yet was the richer for place.” “And Mr. Egerton’s private fortune must be large, I take for granted,” said Randal, carelessly. “It ought to be, if he has time look to it.” Here they passed by the hotel in which lodged the Count di Peschiera. Randal stopped. “Will you excuse me for an instant? As we are passing this hotel, I will just leave my card here.” So saying, he gave his card to a waiter lounging by the door. “For the Count di Peschiera,” said he, aloud. L’Estrange started; and as Randal again took his arm, said, “So that Italian lodges here? and you know him?” “I know him but slightly, as one knows any foreigner who makes a sensation.” “He makes a sensation?” “Naturally; for he is handsome, witty, and said to be very rich—that is, as long as he receives the revenues of his exiled kinsman.” “I see you are well informed, Mr. Leslie. And what is supposed to bring hither the Count di Peschiera?” “I did hear something, which I did not quite understand, about a bet of his that he would marry his kinsman’s daughter; and so, I conclude, secure to himself all the inheritance; and that he is therefore here to discover the kinsman and win the heiress. But probably you know the rights of the story, and can tell me what credit to give to such gossip.”