ere certainly
had been a Mr Hurtle, and that to the best of their belief he still
existed. The fact, however, best known of her was that she had shot a
man through the head somewhere in Oregon. She had not been tried for
it, as the world of Oregon had considered that the circumstances
justified the deed. Everybody knew that she was very clever and very
beautiful,--but everybody also thought that she was very dangerous. 'She
always had money when she was here,' Hamilton Fisker said, 'but no one
knew where it came from.' Then he wanted to know why Paul inquired. 'I
don't think, you know, that I should like to go in for a life
partnership, if you mean that,' said Hamilton K. Fisker.

Montague had seen her in New York as he passed through on his second
journey to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spite
of his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what he
could make of his broken fortunes,--for at this time, as the reader will
remember, there was no great railway in existence,--and she had promised
to follow him. Since that, they had never met till this day. She had
not made the promised journey to San Francisco, at any rate before he
had left it. Letters from her had reached him in England, and these he
had answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring to explain, that
their engagement must be at an end. And now she had followed him to
London! 'Tell me everything,' she said, leaning upon him and looking
up into his face.

'But you,--when did you arrive here?'

'Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last. On Tuesday I
reached Liverpool. There I found that you were probably in London, and
so I came on. I have come only to see you. I can understand that you
should have been estranged from me. That journey home is now so long
ago! Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I would not
tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment I was
penniless. I have got my own now out from the very teeth of robbers.'
As she said this, she looked as though she could be very persistent in
claiming her own,--or what she might think to be her own. 'I could not
get across to San Francisco as I said I would, and when I was there
you had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. And now I am here. I
at any rate have been faithful.' As she said this his arm was again
thrown over her, so as to press her head to his knee. 'And now,' she
said, 'tell me about yourself?'

His p