old.

In ten minutes Mrs. Crane knew all that she cared to know, possessed
herself of Losely's letters, and, leaving Poole less light-headed
and more light-hearted, she hastened to Uncle Sam at the Gloucester
Coffee-house. "Take your nephew, out of town this evening, and do not
let him from your sight for the next six months. Hark you, he will
never be a good man; but you may save him from the hulks. Do so. Take my
advice." She was gone before Uncle Sam could answer. She next proceeded
to the private house of the detective with whom she had before
conferred; this time less to give than to receive information. Not half
an hour after her interview with him, Arabella Crane stood in the street
wherein was placed the showy house of Madame Caumartin. The lamps in
the street were now lighted; the street, even at day a quiet one, was
comparatively deserted. All the windows in the Frenchwoman's house were
closed with shutters and curtains, except on the drawing-room floor.
From those the lights within streamed over a balcony filled with gay
plants; one of the casements was partially open. And now and then, where
the watcher stood, she could just catch the glimpse of a passing form
behind the muslin draperies, or hear the sound of some louder laugh.
In her dark-gray dress and still darker mantle, Arabella Crane stood
motionless, her eyes fixed on those windows. The rare foot-passenger who
brushed by her turned involuntarily to glance at the countenance of one
so still, and then as involuntarily to survey the house to which that
countenance was lifted. No such observer so incurious as not to hazard
conjecture what evil to that house was boded by the dark lurid eyes that
watched it with so fixed a menace. Thus she remained, sometimes, indeed,
moving from her post, as a sentry moves from his, slowly pacing a few
steps to and fro, returning to the same place, and again motionless;
thus she remained for hours. Evening deepened into night; night grew
near to dawn: she was still there in that street, and still her eyes
were on that house. At length the door opened noiselessly; a tall man
tripped forth with a gay light step, and humming the tune of a gay
French chanson. As he came straight towards the spot where Arabella
Crane was at watch, from her dark mantle stretched forth her long arm
and lean hand and seized him. He started and recognized her.

"You here!" he exclaimed, "you!--at such an hour,--you!"

"Ay, Jasper Losely, here to