We naturally went into the office of the hotel, and brother, carelessly turning over the register, and noting the arrivals of the evening before, called to me: "See here--here's a 'mare's nest,' perhaps. I would swear that the man who writes so much to Mrs. Stevens wrote that name," said he, pointing to an inscription--"C. B. Le Roy, New York,"--made in a style which it would be almost impossible to successfully imitate; as markedly singular as a style of writing could well be. "I will swear it. What do you think?" asked my brother. "Why, nothing, only that Mr. Le Roy is here, and that his coming accounts for the sudden departure of Mrs. Stevens. We must get a view of him," I said. I had hardly uttered the words, before a man entered the room, and said to the young man behind the desk of the office,-- "Is not that Goshen stage behindhand this morning? I thought it was to arrive a half hour ago." "Yes, sir, 'tis a little late this morning, but it has come," replied the young man. "Come?" exclaimed the man; "and whom did it bring?" "Those two men only," said the clerk. The man inquiring was a dark-complexioned, black-whiskered fellow, dressed a little _outre_, in a dandy-sort of style, had a half-professional look, but something very hard in the muscles of his cheek. He was evidently a little vexed at the stage's having brought no other freight, and a little nervous withal; and when in one of those spasms of nervousness in which men do this or that, or what not, without consciousness, he raised his hat from his head, I saw in him the imperious, heartless wretch, who could do anything which his baseness might chance to incline him to. He could play the merciless tyrant--if need were, cold-blooded, and without a pulse of sympathy for any suffering: and I saw more. That head was one never to be forgotten in its singular shape; a head that sends a thrill of disgust through one; and I at once saw that "C. B. Le Roy" (for I was sure the man before me was the man who had made the entry in the strange handwriting), was no other than a very wicked, low-lived lawyer, of whom I had had occasion to know something; but the name Le Roy was assumed. At last the wagon came, and Mr. "Le Roy" was on the piazza in time, having been pacing the hall, evidently making up his mind to do something, he knew not what--something desperate, perhaps; and he bounded across the "walk" in front of the house, reached out his hand to Mrs. Stevens, caught the little girl in his arms first, and handed Mrs. Stevens to the ground. I happened to be watching the scene. The lady's face, on which for a moment was a forced smile, betrayed terribly conflicting emotions in her soul, as she passed into the hotel parlor behind Le Roy, who led the little girl playfully by the hand.