"And you are going to leave Mr Denville in trouble?" "Perhaps," said his lordship drily. "We're a heartless lot down here, and I'm one of the worst." "And you think that poor old man killed Lady Teigne." "No, I don't, my dear Miss Dean; but even if he had done so I don't think he ought to be punished. It was a meritorious action." "Oh, Lord Carboro'!" "It was, my dear madam; and if some enterprising party would come and kill off Lady Drelincourt and your humble servant, and a few more of that stamp, it would be a blessing to society. What do you think?" "I think that a poor old man is lying in prison," said Cora Dean, tightening her reins; "that his broken-hearted child is tending a sick sister, and that the world of society talks about it all as if it were stuff sent on purpose to supply them with news. Lord Carboro', I used to wish I were well in society. I don't wish it now. Good morning." "One moment," said the old man hastily. "You'll shake hands?" He held out his, but Cora gave it a tap with her whip handle, and her ponies went off at a canter, leaving his lordship hat in hand. "And looking dooced ridiculous," he said angrily. And then, "Confound the jade!" he muttered. "How dare she!" Then his wrinkled countenance changed, and a pleasant smile took the place of the angry look. "Confound her! What a dig to give me with her sharp tongue. Well, it's true enough, and I like her for it. Does she like Claire, or does she hate her and pretend to feel all this? Who can say? The more you know of a woman, the greater mystery she seems. Poor old Denville! The place doesn't seem natural without him and his snuff-box. I miss him horribly. Now I wonder whether they'd miss me if I were to go--as I shall go--soon." He walked thoughtfully on. "Yes; they'd miss me, and talk about me as if I were a confounded old curiosity, and make jocular remarks about my donkey--by George, how my corns shoot, I wish he were here. But no one will care when I'm gone-- not one; and no one will be the better for my having lived." He walked on slowly, thinking of the last time he had seen Claire, and of the troubles that had fallen to her share, and then he muttered: "Yes! something must be done." Volume Three, Chapter XII. FROM PARADE TO PRISON. Sunken of eye, hollow of cheek, with the silvery stubble of many days' growth upon his chin, glistening in the bar of light that came through the grated window, Stuart Denville, Master of the Ceremonies at Saltinville, high-priest to the votaries of fashion who worshipped at that seaside shrine, sat upon his truckle bed, his head down upon his hands, his elbows on his knees, gazing apparently at the dancing motes in the well-defined ray of sunshine that illumined his cell.