she had made a point of being down to breakfast before
him, so that he could never see what letters she received. That was
damning evidence against her--damnable evidence, in fact, for it argued
a degree both of intelligence and energy for which he had not given her
credit. Like his father before him, he was discovering that there was
more up this sparkling lady's sleeve than met the eye.

A few mornings after the disappearance he thought he had caught her.
When he entered the room she was reading a letter. He snapped up the
chance instantly.

"Is that my father's writing?" he inquired, dissimulating his acuteness
under an easy conversational air.

"It's a little like it," she replied, with an amiable smile, slipping
the letter into its envelop and turning that face downwards on the
table.

The W.S. began to respect as much as he detested her. All through
breakfast she rippled with the happiest smiles and the gayest
conversation. At the end, his detestation had again got its head in
front of his respect.

But the following morning he himself received a letter which threw the
widow and her smiles so completely into the background that for the next
forty-eight hours he was scarcely aware of her existence. It ran thus:

250 BURY STREET,
ST. JAMES', S.W.

"MY DEAR ANDREW,--It is with the greatest concern and regret that I
feel myself compelled to write to you on the subject of my old
friend, your poor father. No doubt you will be able to judge better
than myself how far he is responsible for his conduct, and whether
or not there is any serious need for anxiety; but I consider I
should be doing less than my duty if I failed to inform you of the
risks to his health and his reputation which he is running at
present. I spent last night with him; in fact, it was only in the
small hours of this morning that I left him still dancing at the
Covent Garden Fancy Ball. I assure you I am at a loss how to
express my consternation and alarm at his peculiar behavior. Are
you aware that he has taken to dyeing his hair and doctoring his
face, so that at first sight one might almost mistake him for a
much younger man than we know him to be? The extravagance of his
language and restlessness of his movements lends color to the
suspicion that he is a little wrong in his head. I do not wish