Having secured the precious packet of papers and the money about her person, the beautiful Perdita rose from her chair, saying, “We may now take our departure, mother.” “One word first!” exclaimed Percival, a sudden reminiscence striking him: then, turning towards Mrs. Fitzhardinge, he said, “My dear madam, I have some news to impart which I had almost forgotten in the absorbing nature of the business that has occupied us for the last hour,--news which will not a little astonish you----” “Then pray keep me no longer in suspense!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge, Perdita’s conduct not having put her into the best of possible humours. “Just before you knocked at the door this night----” “Well, well?” ejaculated the impatient woman. “A man was with me----” “And that man?” repeated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, gasping for breath, as if she anticipated the reply. “Was your husband!” added the miser. A hideous expression passed over the countenance of Mrs. Fitzhardinge,--an expression of mingled hate, apprehension, and rage; and she staggered for a moment as if she were about to fall. But subduing her emotions, she approached the miser, and said in a low, hoarse, grating tone, “Does he know that I am in London?--is he aware that I am in England--passing by the name of Fitzhardinge----” “No--no,” replied Percival hastily: for he saw by the old woman’s manner that she would not thank him were he to inform her that he had made her husband acquainted with so many particulars concerning her. “You are sure--you are certain?” demanded she, breathing somewhat more freely. “Since Mr. Percival has already answered you satisfactorily, mother, wherefore require additional assurances?” said Perdita, who was in haste to depart--for it was now waxing very late. “Because I would sooner meet one of those hideous snakes that I have seen in Australia, than encounter that man!” responded the old woman. “I know not why,--but I hate him--I loathe and abhor him----” “Come along, mother,” interrupted Perdita, impatiently: “Mr. Percival cares nothing about all this.” “True! but one word more,” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Tell me, sir--is that man--_my husband_,”--and the words appeared almost to choke her,--“is he well off--or poor and wretched?” “He seemed to be very miserable,” answered the miser;--“so miserable that he wished to obtain assistance from me! But I--I never give,” he added, after a moment’s hesitation. “I believe you, sir,” remarked Perdita, a faint smile of contempt curling her haughty but beauteous lip. “Now, mother, at last you are ready, I presume?” “Allow me to light you to the door,” said Percival; and, with a bow, he preceded the two females into the passage.