“Yes; for your sister Letty's, Walter; I frankly own that. Come, give us your hand, man.--Well, another time, then, when you are more like yourself.--But before I go, I want to find this man Derrick, for I have a letter for him of importance from Mistress Forest.” “You had better ask as you go down stairs, Mr Haldane; I know nothing about him.” And with that, Captain Walter Lisgard deliberately turned his back upon his visitor, and looked gloomily out of the window; while his white hand stroked his silken moustaches as though it were a pumice-stone, and it was his intention to stroke them off. Arthur made his inquiry of the servant who opened the hall-door to let him out. “Mr Derrick--if that was the gentleman with the large beard--had come and gone within the last quarter of an hour, while he (Haldane) had been talking with the other gentleman up stairs. He had called for his bill, and paid it, and packed his portmanteau, and there it was in the passage at the present moment.” “Then he must come back for _that_,” exclaimed Arthur eagerly. “No. He had left directions that it was to be sent on to him in a week or so to some place in the South. He had said that he should be walking, and therefore would not be there himself for several days. He had taken a knapsack with him as for a regular tour. He was a strange gentleman altogether.” Arthur Haldane stooped down, and read the address on the portmanteau--_Mr R. Derrick, Coveton_; then stepped very thoughtfully into the roaring street. “I don't know exactly why, and I certainly have no desire to know,” muttered the young barrister to himself; “but of all the bad news I have learned to-night, I fear _ma mère_ will consider this the worst. Why the deuce should this fellow be going to Coveton, of all places least calculated to attract such a scampish vagabond? Coveton, Coveton--yes, that is the place where my Lady came ashore from the wreck of the _North Star_.” CHAPTER XII. THE LETTER FROM PARIS. |IT is the morning after the Derby Day, and Sir Richard, who has never had a shilling upon that national event, yet reads with interest the prose-poem upon the subject in the _Times_, over the breakfast-table, and even favours Letty--which is so unusual a piece of graciousness, that it almost suggests the idea of making amends for something--with extracts from the same, aloud. He and his sister are alone at the morning meal, for my Lady, as is often the case now, has had her tea and dry toast sent up to her in her own room, as also a couple of letters--one from Arthur Haldane, and one with the Paris post-mark, and in a foreign hand. “Lord Stonart is said to have netted forty thousand pounds: just think of that, Letty.” “Yes, Richard; but then think of the poor people that lost it.”