the shop, they found--no
Mrs. Woffington. They returned to the principal street. Vane began to
hope there was no positive evidence. Suddenly three stories up a fiddle
was heard. Pomander took no notice, but Vane turned red; this put Sir
Charles upon the scent.

"Stay!" said he. "Is not that an Irish tune?"

Vane groaned. He covered his face with his hands, and hissed out:

"It is her favorite tune."

"Aha!" said Pomander. "Follow me!"

They crept up the stairs, Pomander in advance; they heard the signs of
an Irish orgie--a rattling jig played and danced with the inspiriting
interjections of that frolicsome nation. These sounds ceased after a
while, and Pomander laid his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I prepare you," said he, "for what you are sure to see. This woman
was an Irish bricklayer's daughter, and 'what is bred in the bone never
comes out of the flesh;' you will find her sitting on some Irishman's
knee, whose limbs are ever so much stouter than yours. You are the man
of her head, and this is the man of her heart. These things would be
monstrous, if they were not common; incredible, if we did not see them
every day. But this poor fellow, whom probably she deceives as well as
you, is not to be sacrificed like a dog to your unjust wrath; he is as
superior to her as you are to him."

"I will commit no violence," said Vane. "I still hope she is innocent."

Pomander smiled, and said he hoped so too.

"And if she is what you think, I will but show her she is known, and,
blaming myself as much as her--oh yes! more than her!--I will go down
this night to Shropshire, and never speak word to her again in this
world or the next."

"Good," said Sir Charles.

"'Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est pour le sot,
L'honndete homine trompe s'eloigne et ne dit mot.'

Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Then follow me."

Turning the handle gently, he opened the door like lightning, and was in
the room. Vane's head peered over his shoulder. She was actually there!

For once in her life, the cautious, artful woman was taken by surprise.
She gave a little scream, and turned as red as fire. But Sir Charles
surprised somebody else even more than he did poor Mrs. Woffington.

It would be impertinent to tantalize my reader, but I flatter myself
this history is not written with power enough to do that, and I may
venture to leave him to guess whom Sir Charles Pomander surprised more
than he did the actress, while