Poor Kate proved herself fully equal to the emergency in which she found herself. Forgetful of John Beacham’s hasty and passionate revelations, she could only think of him in the light of an able-bodied man, ready and willing to do good service to the helpless. “Try and find her father,” she said imploringly; while the monthly nurse, who had already despatched a messenger for the physician in attendance, was endeavouring, with no apparent result, to restore animation to poor Sophy’s apparently lifeless body. “Try and find Mr. Duberly. Perhaps he will be at the Union Club; and Arthur, poor Arthur! _he_ ought to be here. Mr. Beacham,” she continued with imploring eagerness, the thought of her brother bringing back the memory of the man’s desperate words, “Mr. Beacham, at such a moment you cannot, will not, think of yourself. You see what your words have done. Poor, poor Sophy!” And the tears fell in torrents from her blinded eyes. “You will find Arthur for _her_. I do not believe in his wickedness. He may have been foolish, but he loved his wife and little child; you have been deceived; and it is all a dreadful, dreadful mistake.” John shook his head gloomily. He was too convinced of his former friend’s share in his wife’s flight for any words to alter his convictions. Men who are habitually unsuspicious are often the most tenacious of a dark idea when once it has taken root within their breasts; and John’s present belief was, he then felt assured, for _life_. But certain although he was of Arthur Vavasour’s guilt, he could not view, without the bitterest remorse, the wreck that his untamed passion had wrought in that so lately happy and prosperous home. There was no need now for Kate to press upon him the duty of forbearance. God, the Judge of sinners, had taken the task of retribution into His own hands; for if it were indeed true, as Miss Vavasour had asserted, that Arthur loved his wife, why, in that pale corse lying lifeless before him, his own wrongs, the wrongs inflicted by the bereaved husband, would indeed be fearfully and terribly avenged. Well he knew that to himself, as the acting cause of that dire catastrophe, poor Sophy’s death (if, as seemed only too probable, her pale head was never to be raised in life again) might be traced; and it was with his already heavily-burdened spirit weighted with another load, that John Beacham, with the purpose of fulfilling Kate Vavasour’s behest, and endeavouring to seek out poor Sophy’s father, prepared to leave the house where his presence had been productive of results as unexpected as they were deplorable. But he was not destined to go many steps before a fresh call was made upon his patience and his temper. On the threshold of that splendid mansion, drawing forth the latch-key with which he had just opened the door, there stood, confronting the departing visitor, no less important a personage than Arthur Vavasour himself. On seeing John, he started visibly and turned pale--not with