The Earl’s half-brother mentioned the number of the dwelling to which he had traced his son on the preceding evening;--adding, “The name of the ladies is Fitzhardinge--and I heard that the daughter bears the singular denomination of _Perdita_.” “Perdita!” cried Villiers, starting violently. “Oh! if this be the case----unhappy, lost Charles Hatfield!” “Good heavens! what mean you?” demanded the wretched father, rendered terribly anxious by those ominous words that fell on his ears like a death-knell. “Two ladies--mother and daughter--dwelling together--and the girl named _Perdita_,” mused Clarence Villiers, not immediately heeding the earnest appeal of Mr. Hatfield: “yes--yes--it must be they!--my aunt--my wretched, wretched aunt who has returned from transportation--and her profligate but beauteous daughter!” “Do you mean that Mrs. Slingsby who--years ago--you know to what I allude?” asked Mr. Hatfield, in a hurried tone, as he grasped Clarence violently by the wrist. “Yes--I _do_ mean that bad woman!” exclaimed Villiers, who had now become painfully excited in his turn: “and I regret--Oh! I regret to say that she has brought over to England her daughter, whom report mentions as an angel of beauty and a demon in profligacy----” “My God! Mr. Villiers--save Charles--save my Charles from these incarnate fiends!” cried Mr. Hatfield. “Or I myself----” And he was rushing to the door of the library, when the Earl held him back, saying, “No, Thomas--you must not go in this excited state: let Villiers take the affair in hand.” Mr. Hatfield fell back into a seat, a prey to the most painful--the most agonising emotions; while Clarence hurriedly departed to execute the commission entrusted to him. The Earl now addressed himself to the task of consoling his unfortunate brother-in-law;--and he had just succeeded in inducing Mr. Hatfield to assume as composed a demeanour as possible, preparatory to their joint appearance at the breakfast-table, when Clarence Villiers rushed into the room. Not a quarter of an hour had elapsed since his departure;--and this speedy return, together with his agitated manner, raised new alarms in the breasts of the Earl and Mr. Hatfield. “They are gone--fled--all three together!” cried Villiers, throwing himself exhausted on an ottoman, and panting for breath. “Gone!” repeated the miserable father, surveying Clarence with eyes that stared wildly and unnaturally. “Yes--gone!” said Villiers. “Ten minutes before I reached Suffolk Street, my aunt, her daughter, and Mr. Charles departed in a post-chaise, which had been sent for apparently in consequence of some sudden plan: for the people of the house were previously unacquainted with the intention of their lodgers thus to leave so abruptly.” “But where was the chaise hired? and which road has it taken?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, now manifesting an energy and determination that proved his readiness to meet the emergency and adopt measures to pursue the fugitives.