had happened.

"You know what I mean--about, about Miss--about Fanny Bolton--the poor
dear little girl," Arthur broke out. "When she was in my room? Was she
there when I was delirious--I fancied she was--was she? Who sent her out
of my chambers? who intercepted her letters to me? Who dared to do it?
Did you do it, uncle?"

"It's not my practice to tamper with gentlemen's letters, or to answer
damned impertinent questions," Major Pendennis cried out, in a great
tremor of emotion and indignation. "There was a girl in your rooms when
I came up at great personal inconvenience, daymy--and to meet with a
return of this kind for my affection to you, is not pleasant, by Gad,
sir--not at all pleasant."

"That's not the question, sir," Arthur said hotly--"and I beg your
pardon, uncle. You were, you always have been, most kind to me: but I
say again, did you say anything harsh to this poor girl? Did you send
her away from me?"

"I never spoke a word to the girl," the uncle said, "and I never sent
her away from you, and know no more about her, and wish to know no more
about her, than about the man in the moon."

"Then it's my mother that did it," Arthur broke out. "Did my mother send
that poor child away?"

"I repeat I know nothing about it, sir," the elder said testily. "Let's
change the subject, if you please."

"I'll never forgive the person who did it," said Arthur, bouncing up and
seizing his hat.

The Major cried out, "Stop, Arthur, for God's sake, stop;" but before he
had uttered his sentence Arthur had rushed out of the room, and at the
next minute the Major saw him striding rapidly down the street that led
towards his home.

"Get breakfast!" said the old fellow to Morgan, and he wagged his head
and sighed as he looked out of the window. "Poor Helen--poor soul!
There'll be a row. I knew there would: and begad all the fat's in the
fire."

When Pen reached home he only found Warrington in the ladies'
drawing-room, waiting their arrival in order to conduct them to the room
where the little English colony at Rosenbad held their Sunday church.
Helen and Laura had not appeared as yet; the former was ailing, and her
daughter was with her. Pen's wrath was so great that he could not defer
expressing it. He flung Fanny's letter across the table to his friend.
"Look there, Warrington," he said; "she tended me in my illness, she
rescued me out of the jaws of death, and this is the way they have
treated the dear little cr