you. But still I
know nothing further; and if there is nothing more to know, I hope we
may meet as good friends. If there should be anything further, kindly
let me have a few lines.

"There, now! you see how the matter lies; let us now understand each
other plainly, and I beg that you will be honourable and straightforward
towards me. On one thing you can count for a certainty, which is, that I
am, in any case,
Your very sincere friend,
RACHEL GARMAN."

When Jacob Worse had read this letter, he sprang up, seized his hat and
umbrella, and went into the clerk's office.

"Has the Hamburg steamer started?"

"No, sir, but the first bell has just rung," was the answer.

"Have you any gold?"

"Yes; that is to say, not very much," answered the cashier.

"Let me have what you have got, and send Thomas over to the bank for
some more. A couple of thousand kroner or so will do."

The boy ran off with a bundle of notes and a little canvas bag.

"I am going abroad, Svendsen, for a fortnight or so--I cannot say for
certain. Look, here is my address. And with that he snatched the pen
from behind Svendsen's ear and wrote across a large sheet of paper, on
which the unfortunate man had just begun a magnificent letter:

"_Pavilion Rohan_,
"_Paris_.

The second bell was now heard on board the steamer.

"All right, Svendsen. Now you must manage as well as you can; telegraph
if you want anything--my keys are in my desk." When he reached the door
he turned round and cried, "Yes, I forgot, Svendsen; run over to my
mother and tell her--yes, just tell her that it's all 'come right;'" and
with that away he ran.

Old Svendsen stood perfectly speechless, staring through the open door,
as he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, which was a habit of his
when anything unusually perplexing occurred. Every door was open, a
chair upset in the inner office, and Mr. Worse on the road to Paris with
a hat and umbrella, Thomas after him in full career with the canvas bag.
The cashier was sitting with the coin and notes scattered on the table
in front of him, looking as if he had been robbed; and as old Svendsen's
eye rested on the ruined letter, he discovered that he had a smudge of
ink on one of his fingers. Now, it was thirty years since old Svendsen
had had any ink on his fingers. Mr. Worse must have made a splutter with
his pen when he snatched