‘I expect him home this evening,’ Laura answered kindly; ‘and if he does come to-night, as I hope he will, I have no doubt he will see you as early as you like on Monday morning. At nine, if that will not be too early for you.’ ‘I thank you, madam. That will suit me admirably.’ ‘Good evening,’ said Laura. The man lifted his hat and walked away. ‘A very decent person,’ remarked Celia; ‘not a bit like the popular notion of a burglar, but perhaps not altogether unlike the real thing. A respectable appearance must be a great advantage to a criminal.’ ‘There it is,’ cried Laura joyfully. ‘What?’ ‘The carriage. Yes, I am sure. Yes--he is coming. Let’s run on to the gate, Celia.’ They ran as fast as a brace of school-girls, and arrived at the gate in a flutter of excitement, just in time to see the neat little brougham turn into the avenue. ‘Jack,’ cried Laura. ‘Stop,’ cried Jack, with his head out of the window, and the coachman pulled up his horses, as his master jumped out of the carriage. ‘Come out, Sampson,’ said Mr. Treverton. ‘We’ll walk to the house with the ladies.’ He put his wife’s hand through his arm and walked on, leaving Celia to Mr. Sampson’s escort. They had much to say to each other, husband and wife, in this happy meeting. John Treverton was in high spirits, full of delight at returning to his wife, full of triumph in the thought that no one could oust him from the home they both loved. Tom Sampson walked in the rear with Miss Clare. She was dying to question him as to where he and his client had been, and what they had been doing, but felt that to do so would be bad manners, and knew that it would be useless. So she confined herself to general remarks of a polite nature. ‘I hope you have had what the Yankees call a good time, Mr. Sampson,’ she said. ‘Very much so, thanks, Miss Clare,’ answered Sampson, recalling a dinner eaten at Véfour’s just before leaving Paris on the previous evening. ‘The kewsine is really first-class.’ If there was one word Celia hated more than another it was this last odious adjective. ‘You came by the four o’clock express from Waterloo, I suppose,’ hazarded Celia. ‘Yes, and a capital train it is!’ ‘Ah!’ sighed Celia, ‘I wish I had a little more experience of trains. I stick in my native soil till I feel myself fast becoming a vegetable.’ ‘No fear of that,’ exclaimed Mr. Sampson. ‘Such a girl as you--all life and spirit and cleverness--no fear of your ever assimilating to the vegetable tribe. There’s my poor sister Eliza, now, there’s a good deal of the vegetable about her. Her ideas run in such a narrow groove. I know before I go down to breakfast of a morning exactly what she’ll say to me, and I get to answer her mechanically. And at dinner again we sit opposite each other like a couple of talking automatons. It’s a dismal life, Miss Clare, for a man with any pretence to mind. If you only knew how I sometimes sigh for a more congenial companion!’