Before he could finish his sentence, the door of the inner room was thrown open. The foreign-looking stranger Florence had seen on her previous visit emerged from it, and, seizing the fellow by the collar, shook him till he shrieked for mercy, and then flung him on the ground. “Scoundrel!” he exclaimed furiously. “Villain without a heart! Did you forget that there was some one at hand to refute your falsehoods? Has not your wretched master worked evil enough, that you make use of his name to hatch more?” The man cowered in the corner where he had been thrown--shielding his head with his arm, as if he feared another attack. “’Pon my word, sir,” he answered servilely, “’pon my word, you are too hard upon me--you are indeed! I’m only doing as I was bid.” With a contemptuous execration, the gentleman turned from him to Florence, whom his unexpected appearance had stupefied. His voice lowered to tones of the utmost gentleness and compassion as he addressed her. “I regret that I have alarmed you, but this rascal’s audacity put me into such a passion that I could not control myself. I am sorry to say that he has been willfully deceiving you.” She could not speak; but her startled glance wandered from his bronzed face to the crouching figure of the servant, who had gathered himself farther from the powerful arm of the indignant stranger. “Can you bear to hear the truth,” he asked, “even if it be worse--far worse, perhaps, than you have ever anticipated?” “Yes,” she faltered; “yes.” Studiously averting his looks so that he might not distress her by appearing to watch the effect of his words, he said slowly: “Lieutenant Mason is no longer in London--in fact, he has quitted England. Coming here this morning to take possession of these chambers, which their former tenant vacated yesterday, I accidentally learned that he had left the country, solely, I fear, to avoid the reproaches of the unfortunates who have invested their money in the bankrupt company of which he was secretary. And this rascal, it appears to me, has been bribed to tell spurious tales accounting for his absence, until he is beyond all fear of pursuit.” Long as Florence had foreboded evil, the shock was hard to bear when it actually came; and, putting out her hand, she tried to grasp at the table for support. The stranger was by her side directly. He placed her in a chair, and fetched her a glass of water. When he came back with it she had covered her pale face with her hands and found relief in tears. Her poor father! How would he bear these tidings? Ashamed to have given way to her emotions before indifferent persons, Florence silently rejected the water, bowed her thanks, and, drawing her veil more closely over her features, rose to depart; but the gentleman attempted to detain her. “You are not fit to go alone. This news, which it grieved me to tell, has quite overcome you. Pardon me, but have you no friend I could send for whose presence would be a comfort to you now?”