len there was something hideous in the sound of her own name spoken by
those hateful lips; but he had a sovereign right so to address her, now
and for evermore. Was she not his goods, his chattels, bought with a
price, as much as a horse at a fair?

That nothing might be wanting to remind her of the sordid bargain, Mr.
Whitelaw drew a small canvas bag from his pocket presently--a bag which
gave forth that pleasant chinking sound that is sweet to the ears of so
many as the music of gold--and handed it across the hearth to William
Carley.

"I'm as good as my word, you see," he said with a complacent air of
patronage. "There's the favour you asked me for; I'll take your IOU for
it presently, if it's all the same to you--as a matter of form--and to be
given back to you upon my wedding-day."

The bailiff nodded assent, and dropped the bag into his pocket with a
sigh of relief. And then the two men went on smoking their pipes in the
usual stolid way, dropping out a few words now and then by way of social
converse; and there was nothing in Mr. Whitelaw's manner to remind Ellen
that she had bound herself to the awful apprenticeship of marriage
without love. But when he took his leave that night he approached her
with such an evident intention of kissing her as could not be mistaken by
the most inexperienced of maidens. Poor Ellen indulged in no girlish
resistance, no pretty little comedy of alarm and surprise, but
surrendered her pale lips to the hateful salute with the resignation of a
martyr. It was better that she should suffer this than that her father
should go to gaol. That thought was never absent from her mind. Nor was
this sacrifice to filial duty quite free from the leaven of selfishness.
For her own sake, as much as for her father's, Ellen Carley would have
submitted to any penalty rather than disgrace. To have him branded as a
thief must needs be worse suffering than any life-long penance she might
endure in matrimony. To lose Frank Randall's love was less than to let
him learn her father's guilt.

"The daughter of a thief!" she said to herself. "How he would despise
himself for having ever loved me, if he knew me to be that!"

CHAPTER XXXVI.

COMING ROUND.

Possessed with a thorough distrust of Mr. Medler and only half satisfied
as to the fact of Marian's safety, Gilbert Fenton lost no time in seeking
professional aid in the work of investigating this perplexing social
mystery. He went once more to