"He will return to-morrow at ten o'clock!" she cried, and burst into a fit of laughter, which shook her voluminous bust,--"there's two ways of tellin' that story, my duck." (The Madam, as in all her vivacious moments, grew metaphorical.) "Catch a weasel asleep! Fool who with your tin 'fip!' I guess I haven't been about in the world all this while, to be out-generaled by a snip of a boy like that!" Louder laughed the Madam, until her bust shook again--and in the midst of her calm enjoyment she saw--the desk and the broken lock. Her laughter stopped abruptly. She darted forward, like a tigress rushing on her prey. She seized the lamp and raised the lid, and saw the contents of the desk,--packages of letters, mysterious instruments and singular vials, all,--all,--save the red book. The Madam could not believe her eyes. Rapidly she searched the desk, displacing its contents and researching every nook and corner, but her efforts were fruitless. There were packages of letters, mysterious vials, and instruments as mysterious, but,--the red book was not there. For the first time in her life, the Madam experienced a sensation of fear,--unmingled fear,--and for the first time saw ruin open like a chasm at her very feet. She grew pale, sank helplessly in her arm-chair, and sat there like a statue,--rather like an image of imperfectly finished wax-work,--her visage blank as a sheet of paper. "Gone,--gone," the words escaped from her lips, "ruined, undone!" This state of "unmasterly inactivity" continued, however, but for a few moments. All at once she bounded from her chair, and a blasphemous oath escaped--more strictly speaking--shot from her lips. She crossed the floor, with a heavy stride, gave the bell-rope a violent pull, and then, hurrying to the door screamed "Corkins! Corkins!" with all her might. "Why don't they come! Fools, asses!" and again, she attacked the bell-rope, and again, hurried to the door,--"Corkins, Corkins, I say! Halloo!" In a few moments Corkins appeared, his spectacles awry and his right-hand laid affectionately upon his "goatee." "The matter?" "Don't stand there starin' at me like a stuck-pig!" was the elegant reply of the Madam,--"down into the cellar,--quick,--quick! Tell Slung to come here. Not a word. Go I say!" She pushed Corkins out of the room. Then pacing up and down the small apartment, she awaited his return with an anxiety and suspense, very much like madness, uttering blasphemous oaths at every step she took. Footsteps were heard, and at length, Corkins, dressed in sober black, appeared once more, leading Slung-Shot by the hand. The ruffian stumbled into the room, his brutal visage, low forehead, broken nose and elongated jaw, bearing traces of a recent debauch. Folding his brawny arms over his red flannel shirt, he gazed sleepily at the Madam, politely remarking at the same time-- "What de thunder's de muss,--s-a-y?" "Are you sober?" and the Madam gave Slung a violent shake; "are you awake?"