the poor fellow to his fate without at least the assurance of a home
somewhere, and so I accompanied him to Ireland, and left him in
that strange old ruin where we once sojourned together. His mind
had gradually calmed down, but a deep melancholy had gained entire
possession of him, and he passed whole days without a word. I saw that
he often labored to recall some of the events of the interview with
the King; but his memory had not retained them, and he seemed like one
eternally engaged in some problem which his faculties could not solve.

"When I left him and arrived in town, I found the clubs full of the
incident, but evidently without any real knowledge of what had occurred;
since the version was that Glencore had asked an audience of the King,
and gone down to the Pavilion to read to his Majesty a most
atrocious narrative of the Queen's life in Italy, offering to
substantiate--through his Italian connection--every allegation it
contained,--a proposal that, of course, was only received by the King in
the light of an insult; and that this reception, so different from all
his expectations, had turned his head and driven him completely insane!

"I believe now I have told you everything as I heard it; indeed, I have
given you Glencore's own words, since, without them, I could not convey
to you what he intended to say. The whole affair is a puzzle to me, for
I am unable to tell when the poor fellow's brain was wandering, and when
he spoke under the guidance of right reason. You, of course, have the
clew to it all."

"I! How so?" cried Upton.

"You have seen the letter which caused all the trouble; you know its
contents, and what it treats of."

"Very true; I must have read it; but I have not the slightest
recollection of what it was about. There was something, I know, about
Glencore's boy,--he was called Greppi, though, and might not have been
recognized; and there was some gossip about the Princess of Wales--the
Queen, as they call her now--and her ladies; but I must frankly confess
it did not interest me, and I have forgotten it all."

"Is the writer of the letter to be come at?"

"Nothing easier. I'll take you over to breakfast with her to-morrow
morning; you shall catechise her yourself."

"Oh! she is then--"

"She is the Princess Sabloukoff, my dear George, and a very charming
person, as you will be the first to acknowledge. But as to this
interview at Brighton, I fancy--even from the disjointed narrative