“One cannot help surmising, my dearest Paul. Perhaps the girl is a nursemaid, or a milliner’s apprentice, and misuses her aspirates, and is a budding Malaprop,” Mrs. Desfrayne persisted. “However, we shall see. Go with me this evening to the opera, if you have nothing better to do. Lady Quaintree has lent me her box.” As she was folding her opera-cloak about her youthful-looking person the good lady said to herself: “There is some mystery here; but of what kind? Paul is not quite his own frank self. What has happened? He has kept something from me. I could not help fancying something occurred during his absence in Venice three years ago. I wonder if he knows more about this girl, the fortunate legatee of the eccentric old iron-founder, than he chooses to acknowledge? But he must have some most powerful reason to induce him to hide anything from me; and he said twice most distinctly that he had never seen her and did not know her name. I do not believe Paul could be guilty of deceit.” CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN DESFRAYNE’S PERPLEXITY. The midday sun made an abortive effort to struggle down between the tall rows of houses on either side of busy, hurrying Alderman’s Lane, glinting here and glancing there, showering royal largesse. The big building devoted to the offices of Messrs. Salmon, Joyner & Joyner was lying completely bathed in the golden radiance; for it occupied the corner, where the opening of a street running transverse allowed the glorious beams to descend unimpeded. A great barracklike edifice, more like a bank than a lawyer’s city abode. A wide flight of steps led up to a handsome swing door, on which a brightly burnished plate blazoned forth the name of the firm. This opened upon an oblong hall, in which were posted two doleful-looking boys, each immured in a kind of walled-off cell; a spacious staircase ran from this hall to a succession of small, cell-like apartments, all furnished in as frugal a manner as was compatible with use; a long table, covered with piles of papers of various descriptions; three or four hard chairs; a bookcase crammed with tall books bound in vellum, and morose-looking tin deed-boxes labeled with names. In one of these dim, uninviting cells sat a gentleman, apparently quite at ease, his employment at the moment the scene draws back and reveals him to view being the leisurely perusal of the _Times_; a man of perhaps the same age as Captain Desfrayne--a pleasant, grave-looking gentleman, with kindly dark eyes, a carefully trimmed dark-brown beard, a pale complexion, and a symmetrical figure. One of the melancholy walled-in youths suddenly appeared to disturb the half-dreamy studies of this serene personage. Throwing open the door, he announced: “Captain Desfrayne.” The captain walked in, and the door was shut. The occupant of the apartment had risen as the youth ushered in the visitor, and advanced the few steps the limited space permitted, smiling with a peculiarly winning expression.