It would never do to let those poems come out. Never. There was but one alternative. He must marry the lady to whom they were addressed, and thus make them his property again, unless—well, unless he could get possession of the poems without taking possession of the owner. Could he? That was the question. Mr. Jabez had been brought up to the law, and he knew what he might do and what he might not do. He would do a good deal to get those letters back again. He sat down in the office with a deed in front of him, which he was expected to read, but his thoughts were elsewhere. They were on a deed of daring in which he was the hero. Idea after idea floated through his brain. Wills and valuable documents he had seen abstracted by the score in dramas and comedies, but then the purloiner only had to walk from the wings and enter R. U. E. or L. U. E., as the case might be’. There was no front-door to be got through without ringing the bell; no owner of the property handy to call the police. Dramatic authors always keep the coast so beautifully dear for their evil-doers. If, however, Mr. Jabez was constrained, after consideration, to abandon all idea of imitating the heroes of melodrama in their wilder flights of daring, his thoughts had not wandered in that direction quite in vain. From the villain of the domestic drama he determined at least to take a hint. That interesting personage does not generally go about his nefarious deeps openly. He dissembles. That was exactly what Jabez determined to do. Instead of rushing headlong into the imminent deadly breach—breach of promise—he would bide his time and dissemble. He commenced dissembling that very evening, by calling on his way home and assuring Mrs. Turvey that her accusations were quite unjust, and that he should be happy to eat the pipelet of peace and drink the tea of tranquillity with her whenever she would condescend to invite him. Mrs. Turvey was partially appeased, and exerted herself to win the wanderer back again. Jabez had no reason to complain of the result of his first essay in the art of dissembling. He learned where Susan kept his letters. CHAPTER XXIII. THE ADRIANS AT HOME. The home of Ruth Adrian was not altogether a happy one, and yet her father and mother idolized her, and were both very worthy and lovable people. Mr. Adrian was a kind-hearted old gentleman, who had made enough in trade to enable him to retire, and live modestly in a sixty pound a year house, keep two servants, and go out of town for a month once a year. He had been out of business some years, and was prepared to pass the rest of his life quietly with the _Times_ newspaper, half-price after four o’clock, and the books of a non-fictional character which he borrowed from the local circulating library.