vial manner.

Stocmar walked the deck in deep thought. The terrible tale he had just
heard, though not new in all its details, had impressed him fearfully,
while at the same time he could not conceive how a man so burdened with
a horrible past could continue either to enjoy the present or speculate
on the future.

At last he said, "And have you no dread of recognition, Ludlow? Is
the danger of being known and addressed by your real name not always
uppermost with you?"

"No, not now. When I first returned to England, after leaving the
Austrian service, I always went about with an uneasy impression upon
me,--a sort of feeling that when men looked at me they were trying to
remember where and when and how they had seen that face before; but up
to this none have ever discovered me, except Dell the detective officer,
whom I met one night at Cremorne, and who whispered me softly, 'Happy to
see you, Mr. Hunt. Have you been long in England?' I affected at first
not to understand him, and, touching his hat politely, he said: 'Well,
sir,--Jos. Dell. If you remember, I was _there_ at the inquest.' I
invited him to share a bottle of wine with me at once, and we
parted like old friends. By the way," added he, "there was that old
pyrotechnist of yours,--that drunken rascal,--_he_ knew me too."

"Well, you 're not likely to be troubled with another recognition from
him, Ludlow."

"How so? Is the fellow dead?"

"No; but I 've shipped him to New York by the 'Persia.' Truby, of the
Bowery Theatre, has taken a three years' lease of him, and of course
cocktails and juleps will shorten even that."

"_That_ is a relief, by Jove!" cried Paten. "I own to you, Stocmar, the
thought of being known by that man lay like a stone on my heart. Had you
any trouble in inducing him to go?"

"Trouble? No. He went on board drunk; he 'll be drunk all the voyage,
and he 'll land in America in the same happy state."

Paten smiled pleasantly at this picture of beatitude, and smoked on.
"There's no doubt about it, Stocmar," said he, sententiously, "we all
of us do make cowards of ourselves quite needlessly, imagining that
the world is full of us, canvassing our characters and scrutinizing our
actions, when the same good world is only thinking of itself and its own
affairs."

"That is true in part, Ludlow. But let us make ourselves foreground
figures, and, take my word for it, we 'll not have to complain of want
of notice."

Paten made a movement o