this night
bound towards Marylebone Fields, as he was the night before for the
Strand and Westminster; and, although the night was very stormy and
rainy, as the previous evening had been fine, old Wood good-naturedly
resolved upon accompanying him; and forth they sallied together.

Mrs. Catherine, too, had HER business, as we have seen; but this was of
a very delicate nature. At nine o'clock, she had an appointment with
the Count; and faithfully, by that hour, had found her way to Saint
Margaret's churchyard, near Westminster Abbey, where she awaited
Monsieur de Galgenstein.

The spot was convenient, being very lonely, and at the same time close
to the Count's lodgings at Whitehall. His Excellency came, but somewhat
after the hour; for, to say the truth, being a freethinker, he had
the most firm belief in ghosts and demons, and did not care to pace
a churchyard alone. He was comforted, therefore, when he saw a woman
muffled in a cloak, who held out her hand to him at the gate, and said,
"Is that you?" He took her hand,--it was very clammy and cold; and at
her desire he bade his confidential footman, who had attended him with a
torch, to retire, and leave him to himself.

The torch-bearer retired, and left them quite in darkness; and the pair
entered the little cemetery, cautiously threading their way among the
tombs. They sat down on one, underneath a tree it seemed to be; the wind
was very cold, and its piteous howling was the only noise that broke
the silence of the place. Catherine's teeth were chattering, for all her
wraps; and when Max drew her close to him, and encircled her waist with
one arm, and pressed her hand, she did not repulse him, but rather
came close to him, and with her own damp fingers feebly returned his
pressure.

The poor thing was very wretched and weeping. She confided to Max the
cause of her grief. She was alone in the world,--alone and penniless.
Her husband had left her; she had that very day received a letter from
him which confirmed all that she had suspected so long. He had left her,
carried away all his property, and would not return!

If we say that a selfish joy filled the breast of Monsieur de
Galgenstein, the reader will not be astonished. A heartless libertine,
he felt glad at the prospect of Catherine's ruin; for he hoped that
necessity would make her his own. He clasped the poor thing to his
heart, and vowed that he would replace the husband she had lost, and
that his fortune