“There will be another before this year, or half of it, or perhaps a quarter of it, is out.” “What makes you think so?” “Leslie, let there be confidence between us; we can help each other. Shall we be friends?” “With all my heart. But, though you may help me, how can I help you?” “You have helped me already to Frank Hazeldean—and the Casino estate. All clever men can help me. Come then, we are friends; and what I say is secret. You ask me why I think there will be a general election so soon? I will answer you frankly. Of all the public men I ever met with, there is no one who has so clear a vision of things immediately before him as Audley Egerton.” “He has that character. Not _far_-seeing, but _clear_-sighted to a certain limit.” “Exactly so. No one better, therefore, knows public opinion, and its immediate ebb and flow.” “Granted.” “Egerton, then, counts on a general election within three months; and I have lent him the money for it.” “Lent him the money! Egerton borrow money of you—the rich Audley Egerton!” “Rich!” repeated Levy in a tone impossible to describe, and accompanying the word with that movement of the middle finger and thumb, commonly called a “snap,” which indicates profound contempt. He said no more. Randal sate stupefied. At length, the latter muttered, “But if Egerton is really not rich—if he lose office, and without the hope of return to it—” “If so, he is ruined!” said Levy coldly; “and therefore, from regard to you, and feeling interest in your future fate, I say—Rest no hopes of fortune or career upon Audley Egerton. Keep your place for the present, but be prepared at the next election to stand upon popular principles. Avenel shall return you to parliament; and the rest is with luck and energy. And now, I’ll not detain you longer,” said Levy rising and ringing the bell. The servant entered. “Is my carriage here?” “Yes, Baron.” “Can I set you down any where?” “No, thank you; I prefer walking.” “Adieu, then. And mind you remember the _soirée dansante_ at Mrs. Avenel’s.” Randal mechanically shook the hand extended to him, and went down the stairs. The fresh frosty air roused his intellectual faculties, which Levy’s ominous words had almost paralyzed. And the first thing that the clever schemer said to himself was this: “But what can be the man’s motive in what he said to me?” The next was: “Egerton ruined? What am I, then?” And the third was: “And that fair remnant of the old Leslie property! £20,000 down—how to get the sum? Why should Levy have spoken to me of this?” And lastly, the soliloquy rounded back:—“The man’s motives! His motives?” Meanwhile, the Baron threw himself into his chariot—the most comfortable easy chariot you can possibly conceive—single man’s chariot—perfect taste—no married man ever has such a chariot; and in a few minutes he was at ——’s hotel, and in the presence of Giulio Franzini, Count di Peschiera.