He remained perfectly still for some moments, and then glancing round
the dim and spacious room, his eyes took in all the evidences of luxury
and wealth which it betrayed. Above the huge sideboard, that on festive
days groaned beneath the hoarded weight of the silver heirlooms of the
Beauforts, hung, in its gilded frame, a large picture of the family
seat, with the stately porticoes--the noble park--the groups of
deer; and around the wall, interspersed here and there with ancestral
portraits of knight and dame, long since gathered to their rest, were
placed masterpieces of the Italian and Flemish art, which generation
after generation had slowly accumulated, till the Beaufort Collection
had become the theme of connoisseurs and the study of young genius.

The still room, the dumb pictures--even the heavy sideboard seemed to
gain voice, and speak to him audibly. He thrust his hand into the folds
of his waistcoat, and griped his own flesh convulsively; then, striding
to and fro the apartment, he endeavoured to re-collect his thoughts.

"I dare not consult Mrs. Beaufort," he muttered; "no--no,--she is a
fool! Besides, she's not in the way. No time to lose--I will go to
Lilburne."

Scarce had that thought crossed him than he hastened to put it into
execution. He rang for his hat and gloves and sallied out on foot
to Lord Lilburne's house in Park Lane,--the distance was short, and
impatience has long strides.

He knew Lord Lilburne was in town, for that personage loved London for
its own sake; and even in September he would have said with the old Duke
of Queensberry, when some one observed that London was very empty--"Yes;
but it is fuller than the country."

Mr. Beaufort found Lord Lilburne reclined on a sofa, by the open
window of his drawing-room, beyond which the early stars shone upon the
glimmering trees and silver turf of the deserted park. Unlike the simple
dessert of his respectable brother-in-law, the costliest fruits, the
richest wines of France, graced the small table placed beside his sofa;
and as the starch man of forms and method entered the room at one door,
a rustling silk, that vanished through the aperture of another, seemed
to betray tokens of a tete-a-tete, probably more agreeable to Lilburne
than the one with which only our narrative is concerned.

It would have been a curious study for such men as love to gaze upon the
dark and wily features of human character, to have watched the
contrast betwee