e just time to write by this evening's post.
Our excellent courier has satisfied himself that the danger of discovery
has passed away. The wretches have been so completely deceived that
they are already on their way back to England, to lie in wait for us
at Folkestone and Dover. To-morrow morning we leave this charming
place--oh, how unwillingly!--for Bremen, to catch the steamer to Hull.
You shall hear from me again on our arrival. Gratefully yours,

"CATHERINE LINLEY."

Mr. Sarrazin put this letter into a private drawer and smiled as he
turned the key. "Has she made up her mind at last?" he asked himself.
"But for the courier, I shouldn't feel sure of her even now."

The second letter agreeably surprised him. It was announced that the
writer had just returned from the United States; it invited him
to dinner that evening; and it was signed "Randal Linley." In Mr.
Sarrazin's estimation, Randal had always occupied a higher place than
his brother. The lawyer had known Mrs. Linley before her marriage, and
had been inclined to think that she would have done wisely if she
had given her hand to the younger brother instead of the elder. His
acquaintance with Randal ripened rapidly into friendship. But his
relations with Herbert made no advance toward intimacy: there was a
gentlemanlike cordiality between them, and nothing more.

At seven o'clock the two friends sat at a snug little table, in the
private room of a hotel, with an infinite number of questions to ask
of each other, and with nothing to interrupt them but a dinner of such
extraordinary merit that it insisted on being noticed, from the first
course to the last.

Randal began. "Before we talk of anything else," he said, "tell me about
Catherine and the child. Where are they?"

"On their way to England, after a residence in Germany."

"And the old lady?"

"Mrs. Presty has been staying with friends in London."

"What! have they parted company? Has there been a quarrel?"

"Nothing of the sort; a friendly separation, in the strictest sense of
the word. Oh, Randal, what are you about? Don't put pepper into this
perfect soup. It's as good as the _gras double_ at the Cafe Anglais in
Paris."

"So it is; I wasn't paying proper attention to it. But I am anxious
about Catherine. Why did she go abroad?"

"Haven't you heard from her?"

"Not for six months or more. I innocently vexed her by writing a
little too hopefully about Herbert. Mrs. Presty answered my lett