ovidence despises to
employ no instrument, however humble; and it is now plain to the dullest
that both Mr. Wickham and the Wallachian Hospodar were liquid lead and
wedges in the hand of Destiny.

Smitten with the desire to shine in Michael's eyes and show himself a
person of original humour and resources, the young gentleman (who was a
magistrate, more by token, in his native county) was no sooner alone in
the van than he fell upon the labels with all the zeal of a reformer;
and, when he rejoined the lawyer at Bishopstoke, his face was flushed
with his exertions, and his cigar, which he had suffered to go out was
almost bitten in two.

"By George, but this has been a lark!" he cried. "I've sent the wrong
thing to everybody in England. These cousins of yours have a
packing-case as big as a house. I've muddled the whole business up to
that extent, Finsbury, that if it were to get out it's my belief we
should get lynched."

It was useless to be serious with Mr. Wickham. "Take care," said
Michael. "I am getting tired of your perpetual scrapes; my reputation is
beginning to suffer."

"Your reputation will be all gone before you finish with me," replied
his companion with a grin. "Clap it in the bill, my boy. 'For total loss
of reputation, six and eightpence.' But," continued Mr. Wickham with
more seriousness, "could I be bowled out of the Commission for this
little jest? I know it's small, but I like to be a J.P. Speaking as a
professional man, do you think there's any risk?"

"What does it matter?" responded Michael, "they'll chuck you out sooner
or later. Somehow you don't give the effect of being a good magistrate."

"I only wish I was a solicitor," retorted his companion, "instead of a
poor devil of a country gentleman. Suppose we start one of those tontine
affairs ourselves; I to pay five hundred a year, and you to guarantee me
against every misfortune except illness or marriage."

"It strikes me," remarked the lawyer with a meditative laugh, as he
lighted a cigar, "it strikes me that you must be a cursed nuisance in
this world of ours."

"Do you really think so, Finsbury?" responded the magistrate, leaning
back in his cushions, delighted with the compliment. "Yes, I suppose I
am a nuisance. But, mind you, I have a stake in the country: don't
forget that, dear boy."

CHAPTER V

MR. GIDEON FORSYTH AND THE GIGANTIC BOX

It has been mentioned that at Bournemouth Julia sometimes made
acquaintances; i