‘For a time I could not believe the evidence of my eyes, but read the Baron’s billet again and again. At last, I began to fancy I had been duped. In a moment, a flood of light poured upon my mind, a thousand trifles were recollected, and my worst suspicions were confirmed. The Colonel remarked a change of countenance that threatened an explosion, and, pleading a forgotten engagement, he took a hurried leave. I rose, dressed, wrote twenty letters, and tore them; then ordered my gig, drove down two streets, and returned. I passed a miserable day--ate no dinner--drank brandy and water extensively; and retired to a private room, in a frame of mind which a demon might find pity for, to write letters. Write letters! Pshaw! merely blot paper. Twilight fell--my brain was half on fire--I rejected candles--the gloom of evening was best suited for the bitter musings of a mind like mine. I gazed from the window, objects passed, but I saw none of them. I heard the door open--a figure stood beside me. I looked carelessly up--it was Adelaide. In thought I was connecting her agency with the villany of her brother and the Baron--proofs against her appeared strong, and I had set her down a guilty thing. No wonder that I received her coldly; and my frigid civility semed to wound her more than actual rudeness. “You are changed,” said the Colonel’s sister: “had I visited you once, my reception would have been very different.” “It might,” I said, coldly. “I did not then believe that the Colonel was a scoundrel, the Baron a rogue, and yourself--” “What?” she inquired. “Why--a very convenient associate.” “I can remain here but a few minutes. The errand is urgent--the time short.” She took a small packet from her bosom, where it had been concealed, laid it on the table, and then proceeded. “To a certain extent, I admit your charges. The statement of your being-plundered is correct, and the description of the plunderers is true; the Colonel was a fencing-master first, a cheat and thief afterwards. The Baron, I believe, a swindler from his cradle. Of me--ask not _what_ I _was_--know what I am--a fallen woman--one who, in the common course of crime, has sunk by degrees, and at last, at twenty-one, become the confederate of thieves and ruffians. Oh Heaven! if women only knew what fearful penalties hang upon one lapse from virtue, how few would fall!” She wept. The tears were irresistible. “Adelaide,” I said, “you must forgive me. I have been severe--my losses have annoyed me. What is that parcel you desire me to take?” “Your watch--I purloined it.” “Good Heaven! impossible!”