I did like—the more so because I found him, again and again, drawing round to the subject of Mr. Braithwaite and of Nellie. He slipped away smoothly enough when he saw I avoided the matter, complimenting me greasily upon my delicacy and discretion. I was torn two ways—by longing to hear something of both father and daughter, and repulsion that this man should soil the name of her whom I loved by so much as daring to pronounce it. But of all living creatures lovers are the most self-contradictory, fearing the thing they desire, desiring that which they fear. At last one day, when he had invaded my rooms after hall, he said something which forced me to talk about Hover with him. He had been praising, in his fulsome fashion, Mademoiselle Fédore among the rest. She too, it appeared, was under gracious influences, aware of her soul’s danger and all but converted—the very dogs and cats of the house were qualifying for salvation, I believe, in his suddenly charitable eyes. He finished up with—‘And how nobly the poor thing behaved, too, when that villain Marsigli absconded.’ ‘Marsigli absconded?’ I exclaimed, in great surprise. ‘Of course—I thought you knew⸺’ ‘I know nothing of what happens at Hover now,’ I said, foolishly allowing bitterness to get the better of caution. ‘No—you don’t tell me so!—Really, very strange,’ and he eyed me sharply. ‘But the facts are simple and lamentable enough. This villain, this viper, the trusted and pampered servant—for far too much kindness had been lavished upon him by my lord and lady, as upon all—yes, all—my unworthy self included.—How refreshing, how inspiring is condescension in the great!—This pampered menial, I say—ah I what a thing is human nature when unregenerate!—as was to be expected—for what after all, my dear Brownlow, can you hope from a Papist?—disappeared one fine morning, and with him jewels and plate—plate belonging to our sainted friend and patron, in whose service the viper had fattened so long, to the amount of four thousand pounds.’ I listened in deepening interest. ‘This is serious,’ I said. ‘Has any of the property been traced and recovered?’ ‘Not one brass farthing’s worth.’ ‘And is there no clue?’ ‘None, alas! save what Mademoiselle Fédore gave. With wonderful subtlety and instinct—Ah! that it were further quickened by divine grace!—she pieced together little incidents, little trifling indications, which enabled the police to track the miscreant as far as Liverpool. But, after that, no trace. They concluded he must have sailed for America, where he is doubtless even now wantoning, amid the licentious democracy of the West, upon the plunder of the saints.’ He buried his face in his hands and appeared to weep.