On I went. With the acute auditor I had to deal with, it would be useless to attempt concealment; and he listened with deep interest, and, as I fancied, no trifling mixture of displeasure, until I brought my story to a close. “You have had a marvellous deliverance, Mr. O’Halloran”--(He _mistered_ me, and that looked squally)--“and you seem a man born to be the dupe of villains, through the agency of that worst of curses, a vicious woman. One would have thought that your recent escape from spoliation and disgrace by that amiable coterie in Jermyn Street, would have made you rather cautious in forming acquaintanceships with strangers, and believing every fabricated tale you heard. I am a candid man, and pardon me, while I give you a proof of my sincerity. “I credit your tale, and totally disbelieve your motives. You could not be fool enough to remain for a second, in ignorance of the true character of this lady of the fog; for none but the profligate of her sex would accede to the request of a young gentleman of twenty-one, and, at first sight, grant him a nocturnal interview. This may seem impertinence in me, who, apparently, have no right or interest in inquiring into your love affairs--although I must confess, that in the selection of your female acquaintances you have not been particularly fortunate.” “However imprudent, or, indeed, improbable my conduct may appear, I assure you, sir, upon the unblemished honour of a gentleman, that my motives were precisely what I described them,” I replied, with a firmness of voice and manner, that at once guaranteed my truth. Mr. Hartley looked at me for a moment. He saw that his suspicions had hurt me; and, convinced of my sincerity, he held out his hand, which I accepted. “Hector, I believe you, and acquit you of every thing but concealment. Did you know the deep interest I feel in all that concerns your character and future fortunes, you would forgive me in testing your motives and actions so rigidly as I do, and have done. No more of this at present. Where is that scrawl you received this evening from the woman whom you encountered with my daughter in the park? Your hand is feverish. Although you may not feel it at present, you could not have passed through the deadly struggle you have described uninjured. To bed, friend Hector; Dominique, a second time, shall look to your wounds, and I for once play gallant, and keep your appointment with the lady of the bridge. Hark! the clock chimes. Half-past eleven. The ‘trysted hour’ is twelve.”