nt me an armful of newspapers,
dating from a month back to the day before. With these I sought the
tavern, and, ordering some breakfast, sat down to study the "Huddlestone
Failure."

It had been, it appeared, a very flagrant case. Thousands of persons
were reduced to poverty; and one in particular had blown out his brains
as soon as payment was suspended. It was strange to myself that, while I
read these details, I continued rather to sympathise with Mr.
Huddlestone than with his victims; so complete already was the empire of
my love for my wife. A price was naturally set upon the banker's head;
and, as the case was inexcusable and the public indignation thoroughly
aroused, the unusual figure of L750 was offered for his capture. He was
reported to have large sums of money in his possession. One day he had
been heard of in Spain; the next, there was sure intelligence that he
was still lurking between Manchester and Liverpool, or along the border
of Wales; and the day after, a telegram would announce his arrival in
Cuba or Yucatan. But in all this there was no word of an Italian, nor
any sign of mystery.

In the very last paper, however, there was one item not so clear. The
accountants who were charged to verify the failure had, it seemed, come
upon the traces of a very large number of thousands, which figured for
some time in the transactions of the house of Huddlestone; but which
came from nowhere, and disappeared in the same mysterious fashion. It
was only once referred to by name, and then under the initials "X.X.";
but it had plainly been floated for the first time into the business at
a period of great depression some six years ago. The name of a
distinguished Royal personage had been mentioned by rumour in connection
with this sum. "The cowardly desperado"--such, I remember, was the
editorial expression--was supposed to have escaped with a large part of
this mysterious fund still in his possession.

I was still brooding over the fact, and trying to torture it into some
connection with Mr. Huddlestone's danger, when a man entered the tavern
and asked for some bread and cheese with a decided foreign accent.

"_Siete Italiano?_" said I.

"_Si, signor_," was his reply.

I said it was unusually far north to find one of his compatriots; at
which he shrugged his shoulders, and replied that a man would go
anywhere to find work. What work he could hope to find at Graden-Wester,
I was totally unable to conceive; and t