pity for his crude imagination. But he took up the tale
with an effective dryness: "I found a year ago, in a box of very old
papers, a letter from the lady in question to a certain Cynthia Searle,
her elder sister. It was dated from Paris and dreadfully ill-spelled.
It contained a most passionate appeal for pecuniary assistance. She
had just had a baby, she was starving and dreadfully neglected by her
husband--she cursed the day she had left England. It was a most dismal
production. I never heard she found means to return."

"So much for marrying a Frenchman!" I said sententiously.

Our host had one of his waits. "This is the only lady of the family who
ever was taken in by an adventurer."

"Does Miss Searle know her history?" asked my friend with a stare at the
rounded whiteness of the heroine's cheek.

"Miss Searle knows nothing!" said our host with expression.

"She shall know at least the tale of Mrs. Margaret," their guest
returned; and he walked rapidly away in search of her.

Mr. Searle and I pursued our march through the lighted rooms. "You've
found a cousin with a vengeance," I doubtless awkwardly enough laughed.

"Ah a vengeance?" my entertainer stiffly repeated.

"I mean that he takes as keen an interest in your annals and possessions
as yourself."

"Oh exactly so! He tells me he's a bad invalid," he added in a moment.
"I should never have supposed it."

"Within the past few hours he's a changed man. Your beautiful house,
your extreme kindness, have refreshed him immensely." Mr. Searle uttered
the vague ejaculation with which self-conscious Britons so often betray
the concussion of any especial courtesy of speech. But he followed this
by a sudden odd glare and the sharp declaration: "I'm an honest man!" I
was quite prepared to assent; but he went on with a fury of frankness,
as if it were the first time in his life he had opened himself to any
one, as if the process were highly disagreeable and he were hurrying
through it as a task. "An honest man, mind you! I know nothing about Mr.
Clement Searle! I never expected to see him. He has been to me a--a--!"
And here he paused to select a word which should vividly enough express
what, for good or for ill, his kinsman represented. "He has been to me
an Amazement! I've no doubt he's a most amiable man. You'll not deny,
however, that he's a very extraordinary sort of person. I'm sorry he's
ill. I'm sorry he's poor. He's my fiftieth cousin. Well and good. I'