o his club, and drop in at the Horse
Guards, and learn as much as he could of the passing events of the
day,--meaning, thereby, the details of whatever regarded the army-list,
and those who walk in scarlet attire.

It was about five o'clock of a dreary November afternoon that a
hackney-coach drew op at Harcourt's lodgings in Dover Street, and a tall
and very sickly looking man, carrying his carpet-bag in one hand and a
dressing-case in the other, descended and entered the house.

"Mr. Massy, sir?" said the Colonel's servant, as he ushered him in;
for such was the name Glencore desired to be known by. And the stranger
nodded, and throwing himself wearily down on a sofa, seemed overcome
with fatigue.

"Is your master out?" asked he, at length.

"Yes, sir; but I expect him immediately. Dinner was ordered for six, and
he 'll be back to dress half an hour before that time."

"Dinner for two?" half impatiently asked the other.

"Yes, sir, for two."

"And all visitors in the evening denied admittance? Did your master say
so?"

"Yes, sir; out for every one."

Glencore now covered his face with his hands, and relapsed into silence.
At length he lifted his eyes till they fell upon a colored drawing over
the chimney. It was an officer in hussar uniform, mounted on a splendid
charger, and seated with all the graceful ease of a consummate horseman.
This much alone he could perceive from where he lay, and indolently
raising himself on one arm, he asked if it were "a portrait of his
master"?

"No, sir; of my master's colonel, Lord Glencore, when he commanded the
Eighth, and was said to be the handsomest man in the service."

"Show it to me!" cried he, eagerly, and almost snatched the drawing from
the other's hands. He gazed at it intently and fixedly, and his sallow
cheek once reddened slightly as he continued to look.

"That never was a likeness!" said he, bitterly.

"My master thinks it a wonderful resemblance, sir,--not of what he is
now, of course; but that was taken fifteen years ago or more."

"And is he so changed since that?" asked the sick man, plaintively.

"So I hear, sir. He had a stroke of some kind, or fit of one sort or
another, brought on by fretting. They took away his title, I'm told.
They made out that he had no right to it, that he wasn't the real lord.
But here's the Colonel, sir;" and almost as he spoke, Harcourt's step
was on the stair. The next moment his hand was cordially clasped in that
of