iston, is Richard Gilbert in
town?"

"He is in town. He has been to see your uncle. He has been speaking of
this girl. My word Mr. Laurence, you'll have to do some hard swearing to
prove an _alibi_ this time."

"Curse the luck! Tell me what Darcy said to you Liston, word for word."

"Mr. Darcy, said this: 'Liston, go and find young Thorndyke (he never
calls you young Thorndyke except when he's very far gone in anger,
indeed), and fetch him to me. And hark'ee, fellow! no lying from you or
him. If what I hear of him be true, I'll never look upon his false,
cowardly face again, living or dead.' He was in one of his white rages,
when the less said the better. That was a week ago, I had known all
about you for two weeks before. I bowed, kept my own counsel, and--here
I am."

"You're a trump, Liston! And he gave you this letter?"

"He gave me that letter. You'll find it considerably shorter than sweet.
The other came from Miss Holmes, a few days ago--he sent that too."

"She doesn't know--"

"Not likely. She will though, if the old man finds out, and then you're
cake's dough with a vengeance. How do you suppose the little one (she's
very pretty, Mr. Laurence--you always had good taste), how do you
suppose she will take it?"

Mr. Thorndyke's reply was a groan.

"For Heaven's sake don't ask me, Liston! It's a horrible business. I
must have been mad."

"Of course--madly in love."

"Nothing of the sort--not in love at all. It was pure spite--I give you
my word--not a spark of real love in the matter, except what was on her
side. Gilbert was going to marry her, you know."

"I know."

"And I hate him as I hate the----"

"Prince of evil! I know _that_, too."

"You know everything that's my opinion. What a detective was lost in
you, old boy. Perhaps you know why I hate him?"

"He has blocked one or two little games of yours. And he 'peached' in
that affair of Lucy West."

"Liston! what an infernal scoundrel you must think me! When you recall
Lucy West, I wonder you don't hate me tenfold more than I hate Gilbert."

"I do think you an infernal scoundrel," replies Mr. Liston, coolly. "As
for hating--well I'm one of the forgiving sort, you know. Besides,
there's nothing made by turning informer, and there is something to be
made, you say, by keeping mum. Now suppose you go back to the house, and
her, she's pining for you, no doubt, and tell her you're off to-morrow.
I'll call for you with a light wagon about noon.