man willingly recognized.

"We have had a very disagreeable matter to deal with," he said; "and my
mother has not recovered the painful impression left on her mind. Many
years since, when my sisters were children, we had an English governess in
the house. She left us, as we then understood, to be married. We heard no
more of her until a week or ten days since, when my mother received a
letter, in which our ex-governess described herself as being in a
condition of great poverty and distress. After much hesitation she had
ventured--at the suggestion of a lady who had been kind to her--to write
to her former employers, and to appeal to their remembrance of old times.
You know my mother: she is not only the most kind-hearted, but the most
innocent of women--it is impossible to persuade her of the wickedness that
there is in the world. She replied by return of post, inviting the
governess to come here and see her, and inclosing the money for her
traveling expenses. When my father came home, and heard what had been
done, he wrote at once to his agent in London to make inquiries, inclosing
the address on the governess' letter. Before he could receive the agent's
reply the governess, arrived. She produced the worst possible impression
on his mind. The agent's letter, arriving a few days later, confirmed his
suspicions. Since we had lost sight of her, the woman had led a most
disreputable life. My father spoke to her privately: he offered--on
condition of her leaving the house--a sum of money to take her back to
England. If she refused, the alternative would be an appeal to the
authorities and a public scandal. She accepted the money, and left the
house. On her way back to England she appears to have stopped at Metz. You
will understand what sort of woman she is when I tell you that she was
seen the other day in a tavern, with your handsome groom, Joseph
Rigobert."

While my informant was relating these circumstances, my memory was at
work. I recalled what Francis Raven had vaguely told us of his wife's
experience in former days as governess in a German family. A suspicion of
the truth suddenly flashed across my mind. "What was the woman's name?" I
asked.

Mr. Beldheimer's son answered: "Alicia Warlock."

I had but one idea when I heard that reply--to get back to my house
without a moment's needless delay. It was then ten o'clock at night--the
last train to Metz had left long since. I arranged with my young
friend--after dul