For some time Vincent sat with this letter in his hand, in a sort of stupefaction. Curiously enough his first question to himself was—What if Mrs. Ellison should get to know?—would she not triumphantly declare that her worst suspicions had been confirmed? That was but a first thought. There must be some explanation! He had not associated so continually with George Bethune—he had not heard the old man’s voice thrill with proud emotion as he spoke of Scotland’s hills and dales—he had not seen his eyes fill with unbidden tears as he talked of his granddaughter and the loneliness that might be in store for her—all for nothing: not at once could he be convinced that this old man was a mere charlatan, a thief, a begging-letter impostor. But he had been startled; and when he reached his lodgings in that small thoroughfare, he hardly dared look across the way: he knew not what to think. END OF VOL. I. LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.