Dunscomb did not like the expression of face that accompanied this speech. It might be too much to say it was absolutely cunning; but there was so much of the manœuvring of one accustomed to manage in it, that it awakened the unpleasant distrust that existed in the earlier days of his intercourse with this singular young woman, and which had now been dormant for several weeks. There was, however, so much of the cold polish of the upper classes in his client’s manner, that the offending expression was thrown off from the surface of her looks, as light is reflected from the ground and silvered mirror. At the very instant which succeeded this seeming gleam of cunning, all was calm, quiet, refined, gentle, and without apparent emotion in the countenance of the accused. “Timms!” repeated Dunscomb, slowly. “So _he_ has known of this, and I dare say has had an agency in bringing it about?” “As you say it is felony to aid a prisoner to escape, I can say neither yes nor no to this, Mr. Dunscomb, lest I betray an accomplice. I should rather think, however, that Mr. Timms is not a person to be easily caught in the meshes of the law.” Again the counsellor disliked the expression; though Mary Monson looked unusually pretty at that particular moment. He did not pause to analyze his feelings, notwithstanding, but rather sought to relieve his own curiosity, which had been a good deal aroused by the information just received. “As you have not hesitated to tell me of what you call your ‘excursions,’ Miss Monson,” he continued, “perhaps you will so far extend your confidence as to let me know where you go?” “I can have no objection to that. Mr. Timms tells me the law cannot compel a counsel to betray his client’s secrets; and of course I am safe with you. Stop—I have a duty to perform that has been too long delayed. Gentlemen of your profession are entitled to their fees; and, as yet, I have been very remiss in this respect. Will you do me the favour, Mr. Dunscomb, to accept that, which you will see has been some time in readiness to be offered.” Dunscomb was too much of a professional man to feel any embarrassment at this act of justice; but he took the letter, broke the seal, even before his client’s eyes, and held up for examination a note for a thousand dollars. Prepared as he was by Timms’s account for a liberal reward, this large sum took him a good deal by surprise. “This is an unusual fee, Miss Monson!” he exclaimed; “one much more considerable than I should expect from you, were I working for remuneration, as in your case I certainly am not.” “Gentlemen of the law look for their reward, I believe, as much as others. We do not live in the times of chivalry, when gallant men assisted distressed damsels as a matter of honour; but in what has well been termed a ‘bank-note world.’”