e approached by her
solicitor. She felt inclined to go away and cry; but this time she
remembered she was to be obstinate as a man and supple as a woman. She
wrote on a card: "I am not a client of Mr. Tollemache, but a lady deeply
interested in obtaining some information, which Mr. Tollemache can with
perfect propriety give me. I trust to his courtesy as a gentleman not to
refuse me a short interview."

"Admit the lady," said a sharp little voice.

She was ushered in, and found Mr. Tollemache standing before the fire.

"Now, madam, what can I do for you?"

"Some years ago you defended Mr. Robert Penfold; he was accused of
forgery."

"Oh, was he? I think I remember something about it. A banker's
clerk--wasn't he?"

"Oh, no, sir. A clergyman."

"A clergyman? I remember it perfectly. He was convicted."

"Do you think he was guilty, sir?"

"There was a strong case against him."

"I wish to sift that case."

"Indeed. And you want to go through the papers."

"What papers, sir?"

"The brief for the defense."

"Yes," said Helen, boldly, "would you trust me with that, sir? Oh, if you
knew how deeply I am interested!" The tears were in her lovely eyes.

"The brief has gone back to the solicitor, of course. I dare say he will
let you read it upon a proper representation."

"Thank you, sir. Will you tell me who is the solicitor, and where he
lives?"

"Oh, I can't remember who was the solicitor. That is the very first thing
you ought to have ascertained. It was no use coming to me."

"Forgive me for troubling you, sir," said Helen, with a deep sigh.

"Not at all, madam; I am only sorry I cannot be of more service. But do
let me advise you to employ your solicitor to make these preliminary
inquiries. Happy to consult with him, and re-open the matter should he
discover any fresh evidence." He bowed her out, and sat down to a brief
while she was yet in sight.

She turned away heart-sick. The advice she had received was good; but she
shrank from baring her heart to her father's solicitor.

She sat disconsolate awhile, then ordered another cab, and drove to
Wardlaw's office. It was late, and Arthur was gone home; so, indeed, was
everybody, except one young subordinate, who was putting up the shutters.
"Sir," said she, "can you tell me where old Mr. Penfold lives?"

"Somewhere in the subbubs, miss."

"Yes, sir; but where?"

"I think it is out Pimlico way."

"Could you not give me the street? I would beg yo