idea that he was watched, and took no
pains to conceal any of his motions. Indeed, to a mind like his, the
idea of keeping any thing secret, or of going out of his way to avoid
notice, never suggested itself. He was perfectly open and free from
disguise. He stopped at the Hastings House, an elegant and quiet
hotel, avoided the clubs, and devoted himself altogether to business.
At this house Gualtier stopped also, but could find out nothing about
Lord Chetwynde's business. He could only learn this much, that Lord
Chetwynde went every day, at eleven o'clock, to the office of his
solicitors, Messrs. Pendergrast Brothers, with whom he was closeted
for an hour or more. Evidently there was some very important business
between them; but what that business was, or to whom it might have
reference, was a perfect mystery to Gualtier. This was about the sum
and substance of the information which his letters conveyed to the
anxious Hilda.

For her part, every thing which Gualtier mentioned about Lord
Chetwynde was read by her with eager curiosity. She found herself
admiring the grand calm of this man whom she loved, this splendid
carelessness, this frank and open demeanor. That she herself was
cunning and wily, formed no obstacle to her appreciation of frankness
in others; perhaps, indeed, the absence of those qualities in herself
made her admire them in others, since they were qualities which she
could never hope to gain. Whatever his motive or purpose might be, he
was now seeking to carry it out in the most open manner, never
thinking of concealment. She was working in the dark; he was acting
in the broad light of day. Her path, as she looked back upon it,
wound on tortuously amidst basenesses and treacheries and crimes; his
was straight and clear, like the path of the just man's--not dark,
but rather a shining light, where all was open to the gaze of the
world. And what communion could there be between one like him and one
like her? Could any cunning on her part impose upon him? Could she
ever conceal from him her wily and tortuous nature? Could he not
easily discover it? Would not his clear, open, honest eyes see
through and through the mask of deceit with which she concealed her
true nature? There was something in his gaze which she never could
face--something which had a fearful significance to her--something
which told her that she was known to him, and that all her character
lay open before him, with all its cunning, its cr