don't disturb Mr. Armadale!"
His watery eyes looked quite wild with nervous alarm as he turned round
for a moment in the light of the hall lamp to make that polite request.
If sending for Allan had been equivalent to unchaining a ferocious
watch-dog, Mr. Bashwood could hardly have been more anxious to stop the
proceeding. "I wish you kindly good-evening, sir," he went on, getting
out to the steps. "I'm much obliged to you. I will be scrupulously
punctual on Monday morning--I hope--I think--I'm sure you will soon
learn everything I can teach you. It's not difficult--oh dear, no--not
difficult at all! I wish you kindly good-evening, sir. A beautiful
night; yes, indeed, a beautiful night for a walk home."

With those words, all dropping out of his lips one on the top of the
other, and without noticing, in his agony of embarrassment at effecting
his departure, Midwinter's outstretched hand, he went noiselessly down
the steps, and was lost in the darkness of the night.

As Midwinter turned to re-enter the house, the dining-room door opened
and his friend met him in the hall.

"Has Mr. Bashwood gone?" asked Allan.

"He has gone," replied Midwinter, "after telling me a very sad story,
and leaving me a little ashamed of myself for having doubted him without
any just cause. I have arranged that he is to give me my first lesson in
the steward's office on Monday morning."

"All right," said Allan. "You needn't be afraid, old boy, of my
interrupting you over your studies. I dare say I'm wrong--but I don't
like Mr. Bashwood."

"I dare say _I'm_ wrong," retorted the other, a little petulantly. "I
do."

The Sunday morning found Midwinter in the park, waiting to intercept the
postman, on the chance of his bringing more news from Mr. Brock.

At the customary hour the man made his appearance, and placed the
expected letter in Midwinter's hands. He opened it, far away from all
fear of observation this time, and read these lines:

"MY DEAR MIDWINTER--I write more for the purpose of quieting your
anxiety than because I have anything definite to say. In my last hurried
letter I had no time to tell you that the elder of the two women whom
I met in the Gardens had followed me, and spoken to me in the street.
I believe I may characterize what she said (without doing her any
injustice) as a tissue of falsehoods from beginning to end. At any rate,
she confirmed me in the suspicion that some underhand proceeding is on
foot, of whic