e was
_en route_ for the city, to procure the services of detectives, in
the hope of recovering the Wardour diamonds; both his sons were
absent from home as well. Mr. Lamotte has not yet returned, and is
still ignorant of his daughter's flight.

Thus abruptly and reluctantly ends the second _Argus_ bombshell, and
this same last bombshell had been a very different thing to handle. It
might have been made far more sensational, and the editor had sighed as
he penned the cautiously worded lines: "It was a monstrous
_mesalliance_, and a great deal could be said in disparagement of Mr.
John Burrill;" but Mr. Lamotte was absent; the brothers Lamotte were
absent; and until he was certain what steps they would take in this
matter, it were wise to err on the safe side. Sybil was an only
daughter. Parents are sometimes prone to forgive much; it might be best
to "let Mr. Burrill off easy."

Thus to himself reasoned the editor, and, having bridled his pen, much
against his will, he set free his tongue, and in the bosom of his family
discoursed very freely of Mr. John Burrill.

"My dear, it's unendurable," he announced to the little woman opposite,
with the nod of a Solomon. "It's perfectly _incomprehensible_, how such
a girl could do it. Why, he's a braggart and a bully. He drinks in our
public saloons, and handles a woman's name as he does his beer glass.
The factory men say that he has boasted openly that he meant to marry
Miss Lamotte, _or_ Miss Wardour, he couldn't decide which. By the by,
it's rather odd that those two young ladies should meet with such
dissimilar misfortunes on the same day."

Mrs. Editor, a small woman, who, from constantly hearing and absorbing
into the vacuum of her own mind, the words of wisdom falling from the
mouth of her husband, had acquired an expression of being always ready
and willing to be convinced, looked up from her teapot and propounded
the following:

"W-what do you s'pose she eloped with him for?"

"Maria, I believe I have told you frequently that there is no such word
as 's'pose.' I don't _suppose_ anything about it. It's enough to make
one believe in witchcraft. Miss Sybil Lamotte held her head above _us_;
above plenty more, who were the peers of Mr. John Burrill. Last year, as
everybody knows, she refused Robert Crofton, who is handsome, rich, and
upright in character. This Spring, they say, she jilted Raymond Vandyck,
and people who ought to know, say that they