ering the lost inheritance, at any risk, from the man
who had beggared and insulted his brother's children. And that man was
still a shadow to her! So little did she know of him that she was even
ignorant at that moment of his place of abode.

She rose and paced the room with the noiseless, negligent grace of a
wild creature of the forest in its cage. "How can I reach him in
the dark?" she said to herself. "How can I find out--?" She stopped
suddenly. Before the question had shaped itself to an end in her
thoughts, Captain Wragge was back in her mind again.

A man well used to working in the dark; a man with endless resources
of audacity and cunning; a man who would hesitate at no mean employment
that could be offered to him, if it was employment that filled his
pockets--was this the instrument for which, in its present need, her
hand was waiting? Two of the necessities to be met, before she could
take a single step in advance, were plainly present to her--the
necessity of knowing more of her father's brother than she knew now;
and the necessity of throwing him off his guard by concealing herself
personally during the process of inquiry. Resolutely self-dependent as
she was, the inevitable spy's work at the outset must be work delegated
to another. In her position, was there any ready human creature within
reach but the vagabond downstairs? Not one. She thought of it anxiously,
she thought of it long. Not one! There the choice was, steadily
confronting her: the choice of taking the Rogue, or of turning her back
on the Purpose.

She paused in the middle of the room. "What can he do at his worst?" she
said to herself. "Cheat me. Well! if my money governs him for me, what
then? Let him have my money!" She returned mechanically to her place by
the window. A moment more decided her. A moment more, and she took the
first fatal step downward-she determined to face the risk, and try
Captain Wragge.

At nine o'clock the landlady knocked at Magdalen's door, and informed
her (with the captain's kind compliments) that breakfast was ready.

She found Mrs. Wragge alone, attired in a voluminous brown holland
wrapper, with a limp cape and a trimming of dingy pink ribbon. The
ex-waitress at Darch's Dining-rooms was absorbed in the contemplation
of a large dish, containing a leathery-looking substance of a mottled
yellow color, profusely sprinkled with little black spots.

"There it is!" said Mrs. Wragge. "Omelette with herbs. The