, and take
care of your good looks--no woman can afford to dispense with these,
however gifted; and you will soon find yourself as free as that
'chartered libertine' the air, for which last two words I am afraid you
will be malicious enough to substitute the name you will not find
appended, of your true friend and guardian, B.B."

Had Wentworth spoken, then? Did he know of my immurement? Was it his
beloved presence, his dear hand, that were to be made the prize of my
silence and submission? Was the bitter pill of humiliation I was now
swallowing to be gilded thus? No, no--a thousand times, no! He was not
the man with whom to make such conditions--the man I loved--nay
worshiped almost. He was of the old heroic mould, that would have
preferred any certainty to suspense, and death itself to an instant's
degradation.

He deemed me dead, and the obstacle that had risen between us needed no
explanation now. The waves had swallowed all necessities like this. But,
had he known me the inmate of a mad-house, no bolts or bars would have
withheld him from my presence. His own eyes could alone have convinced
him of such ruin as was alleged against me by these friends.

From this survey of my utter helplessness I turned suddenly to confront
the deep, dark, salient eyes of the disciple of Hahnemann, real or
pretended, fixed upon me with a glance that even his blue spectacles
could not deprive of its subtle intensity.

Where had I seen before orbs of the same snake-like peculiarity of
expression, or caught the outline of the profile which suddenly riveted
my gaze as the light partially revealed it, then subsided into shadow
again? I pondered this question for a moment while Dr. Englehart,
silent, expectant perhaps, stood with his hand tightly grasping the back
of a chair, on the seat of which he reposed one knee, in a position such
as defiant school-boys often assume before a pedagogue.

As I have said, his head and body were again in shadow, as was, indeed,
most of the chamber, for the rays which struggled through the thick
ground glass of my astral lamp were as mild as moonbeams, and as
unsatisfactory. But the light fell strong and red beneath the shade, and
the full glare of the astral lamp seemed centred on that pudgy hand, in
its inevitable glove, that had fixed so firm a gripe on the back of the
mahogany chair as to strain open one of the fingers of the tight, tawny
kid-glove worn by Dr. Englehart. This had parted slightly j