“Should you recognise your wife’s handwriting?” demanded Percival, a diabolical grin still distorting features which, once handsome, had been marred and rendered repulsive by time and evil passions. “Though she is now stricken in years and has become positively hideous in personal appearance, that handwriting retains all the grace and fluency which ever characterised it.” With these words, he took a perfumed note from his pocket-book, and handed it to Torrens, who, hastily glancing over its contents, read the following words:-- “Mrs. Fitzhardinge presents her compliments to Mr. Percival, and will call upon him between nine and ten o’clock this evening on very particular business. She therefore hopes that Mr. Percival will have the kindness to remain at home to receive her.” “Now are you satisfied?” demanded Percival, who perceived by the workings of Torrens’ countenance that the handwriting had been fully recognised. “And on what matters is she--that vile woman--coming to you?” asked Torrens, impatiently. “I cannot answer the question. You perceive that she speaks only of _particular business_ in a vague fashion. I met her by accident some few days ago--and have not seen her since.” “And she comes between nine and ten,” mused Torrens: “and it is already close upon ten o’clock! I would not meet her for the world: ’twould recall to my mind, with intolerable force, all the anguish--all the sufferings----No--no,” he cried, suddenly interrupting himself and starting from his chair; “I will not--I cannot meet her!” “Then you had better depart at once,” said Percival, evidently most anxious to see the unwelcome visitor turn his back upon the house. “Yes--I shall depart indeed,” exclaimed Torrens: “but you must give me money first. Nay--no more excuses: I am a desperate man----” At that instant a double knock at the street door echoed through the little dwelling. “’Tis your wife!” said Percival. “Hide me--or let me escape,” cried Torrens, manifesting a violent and most unfeigned reluctance to encounter the woman whom for so many reasons he loathed and abhorred. “Here--by the back gate,” said Percival; and, taking the light in his hand, he hastily conducted the almost bewildered Torrens along the passage--down a few steps--and thence to a door opening upon a piece of unenclosed waste ground at the back of the house. At that instant the double knock was repeated--more loudly than before and evidently with impatience. “Good night, Mr. Torrens,” said Percival, scarcely able to subdue a spice of lurking satire in his tone. “Good night,” returned the other, savagely. “But I shall visit you again to-morrow morning.” Percival closed the back gate as if to shut out this intimation from his ears; and, hurrying to the front door, he gave admittance to Perdita and her mother. CHAPTER CXXXVIII. THE MONEY-LENDER.