The above conversation between Miss Cory and her niece will serve to show that poor Harley Riddell, while possessing friends who were as firmly convinced of his innocence as ever, was in danger of having his prospects jeopardised by the paralysing influence of baffled efforts. Annie was the only one whom disappointment did not seem to daunt, and, with her, failure was but a stimulus to renewed effort. The long-drawn-out agony of her lover’s unjustified incarceration was ever before her eyes, and she would have deemed herself guilty of a crime had she resigned herself to the passive inactivity which to others seemed the only course left her. “Are you going out this morning?” questioned Miss Margaret, as she carefully examined a hole in the damask tablecloth she was about to darn. “Yes. I have a little business to transact. Tell father I won’t be long, for, if I am, I shall have been unexpectedly detained.” Presently our heroine, who to the ordinary passer-by looked a rather handsome young fellow, with short, dark hair, bright dark blue eyes, and a dark moustache, of a shape which suited his light form and clearly-cut features to perfection, was walking down the street in a westerly direction at a rapid pace. Half an hour later this same young gentleman was to be seen talking to an elderly postman, in a neighbourhood which, for the sake of the aforementioned postman I had better not indicate too closely. Suffice it to say that his round embraced the residence of Mr. David Stavanger, who, with his family, was now back in London. “Have you anything yet for me?” was the first inquiry addressed to the postman, an inquiry, moreover, which pointed to a little previous collusion between the two innocent-looking individuals. “I believe I have, at last, sir,” was the answer, “I had an extra lot of letters this morning, and very near forgot all about you. In fact, I was just putting three letters in the letter-box of Number Thirty-nine when I caught sight of a foreign stamp, and stuck to the letter it was on, just in time. Is this anything in your line, sir?” Saying this, the postman handed a letter to “Mr. Bootle,” which the latter seized with avidity, and examined eagerly. The scrutiny appeared to more than satisfy him. He was positively jubilant, for the missive bore a Spanish postmark, and was in the handwriting which had become quite familiar to the pseudo governess of Fanny Stavanger.