tion of the whole matter till he and everybody
else would be naturally in London,--till November that might be, or,
perhaps, even till after Christmas. But his mind was ill at ease; and
he knew that so much might be done with the diamonds in four months!
They might even now be in the hands of some Benjamin or of some
Harter, and it might soon be beyond the power either of lawyers
or of policemen to trace them. He therefore went up from Dawlish
and persuaded John Eustace to come from Yorkshire. It was a great
nuisance, and Eustace freely anathematised the necklace. "If only
some one would steal it, so that we might hear no more of the thing!"
he said. But, as Mr. Camperdown had frequently remarked, the value
was too great for trifling, and Eustace went up to London. Mr.
Camperdown put into his hands the Turtle Dove's opinion, explaining
that it was by no means expedient that it should be shown to the
other party. Eustace thought that the opinion should be common to
them all. "We pay for it," said Mr. Camperdown, "and they can get
their opinion from any other barrister if they please." But what was
to be done? Eustace declared that as to the present whereabouts of
the necklace, he did not in the least doubt that he could get the
truth from Frank Greystock. He therefore wrote to Greystock, and with
that letter in his pocket, Frank rode over to the castle for the last
time.

He, too, was heartily sick of the necklace;--but unfortunately he was
not equally sick of her who held it in possession. And he was, too,
better alive to the importance of the value of the trinket than John
Eustace, though not so keenly as was Mr. Camperdown. Lady Eustace was
out somewhere among the cliffs, the servant said. He regretted this
as he followed her, but he was obliged to follow her. Half way down
to the sea-shore, much below the knob on which she had attempted to
sit with her Shelley, but yet not below the need of assistance, he
found her seated in a little ravine. "I knew you would come," she
said. Of course she had known that he would come. She did not rise,
or even give him her hand, but there was a spot close beside her on
which it was to be presumed that he would seat himself. She had a
volume of Byron in her hand,--the Corsair, Lara, and the Giaour,--a
kind of poetry which was in truth more intelligible to her than Queen
Mab. "You go to-morrow?"

"Yes;--I go to-morrow."

"And Lubin has gone?" Arthur Herriot was Lubin.

"Lubin ha