likely that a search in the catalogues of the British Museum
might discover it. He had only met with it himself in the National
Library at Paris.

This information led Romayne to London again, immediately. For the first
time he called at Father Benwell's lodgings. The priest was at home,
expecting the visit. His welcome was the perfection of unassuming
politeness. He asked for the last news of "poor Mrs. Eyrecourt's
health," with the sympathy of a true friend.

"I had the honor of drinking tea with Mrs. Eyrecourt, some little time
since," he said. "Her flow of conversation was never more delightful--it
seemed impossible to associate the idea of illness with so bright
a creature. And how well she kept the secret of your contemplated
marriage! May I offer my humble congratulations and good wishes?"

Romayne thought it needless to say that Mrs. Eyrecourt had not been
trusted with the secret until the wedding day was close at hand. "My
wife and I agreed in wishing to be married as quietly as possible," he
answered, after making the customary acknowledgments.

"And Mrs. Romayne?" pursued Father Benwell. "This is a sad trial for
her. She is in attendance on her mother, I suppose?"

"In constant attendance; I am quite alone now. To change the subject,
may I ask you to look at the reply which I have received from Penrose?
It is my excuse for troubling you with this visit."

Father Benwell read the letter with the closest attention. In spite of
his habitual self-control, his vigilant eyes brightened as he handed it
back.

Thus far, the priest's well-planned scheme, (like Mr. Bitrake's clever
inquiries) had failed. He had not even entrapped Mrs. Eyrecourt into
revealing the marriage engagement. Her unconquerable small-talk had
foiled him at every point. Even when he had deliberately kept his seat
after the other guests at the tea-table had taken their departure,
she rose with the most imperturbable coolness, and left him. "I have a
dinner and two parties to-night, and this is just the time when I take
my little restorative nap. Forgive me--and do come again!" When he sent
the fatal announcement of the marriage to Rome, he had been obliged to
confess that he was indebted for the discovery to the newspaper. He had
accepted the humiliation; he had accepted the defeat--but he was not
beaten yet. "I counted on Romayne's weakness; and Miss Eyrecourt counted
on Romayne's weakness; and Miss Eyrecourt has won. So let it be. My tur