right. Another thing-I strongly advise you, M. Balmaine, to keep this matter as quiet as you can. It will get out quickly enough, and when it does, this young lady-if she really be as you say, and I am disposed to think, Leonino's daughter-will be pestered to death with beggars and suitors, some of them dangerous, like this M. Corfe. I need not say anything to you, Martino. As an old conspirator you know the value of a silent tongue. "You speak of Corfe as if you knew something about him, Colonel," said Balmaine eagerly; "do you?" "I know something about a good many people, M. Balmaine," answered the old soldier mysteriously, "and I can put two and two together; but it is not always wise to say everything you know and think." This closed the conversation, and Balmaine returned to the office to finish his leader, read his proofs, and think over a little diffi culty in which he found himself. He would have to pay both Martino's expenses and his own, and his pocket was almost as empty as the big safe. For railway fares-it would be quicker to go by rail, and he was burning with impatience to see Senarclens and Vera and circumvent Corfe-and other expenses he might require a couple of hundred francs. "Is the balance at the Banque Populaire quite exhausted?" he asked Milnthorpe, just as they were about to separate for the night. "Practically it is, I am sorry to say," answered the sub-editor with a sigh, "all but about twenty francs which I have left in, just to keep the account open, you know. Why, are you in need?” "Which I am," said Alfred, and then he told his colleagues of the proposed journey to Territet on business, of which he was not at liberty just then to disclose the particulars. But he promised them that they should know all about it later on. "That sounds mysterious," observed Milnthorpe, "and is just the sort of thing to pique one's curiosity; but we must try to possess our souls in patience until you come back. The main point now, as it generally is, is money. No use applying to Mayo I am afraid. Well, we must fly a kite, that's he will advance money on a piece of stamped paper, bearing our joint signatures." "I don't much like that, though, Milnthorpe. Wouldn't it be an accommodation bill?" "Of course it would, and why not? Don't you know that the raison d'être of the Banque Populaire is the discounting of accommodation bills, billets de complaisance they call 'em? If the signatures are satisfactory, that's all they care about. If they consider two not strong enough for the amount required they ask for a third, sometimes a fourth and a fifth. The Banque Populaire, let me tell you, is a very valuable institution; it gives small people who cannot go to the big banks, and who would otherwise have to go to the Jews-eventually to the dogs-facilities for obtaining temporary loans on personal security and reasonable terms." "A valuable institution, indeed," laughed Delane, "by all means let us turn it to account. I should rather like to be mixed up in a bill transaction. It will be a new sensation. I had no idea there was such an admirable system of raising the wind in Geneva, or I should have been tempted to try it before." "I know of but one objection to the system, Delane," said Milnthorpe gravely. "What is that, old man ?" "These bills become due. If you want to know how fast time can fly put your name to an acceptance. A reason for not doing so now, you may say. But needs must, you know, when a certain person drives; and this journey of Balmaine's seems important." CHAPTER XLIII.-M. SENARCLENS IS SURPRISED. THE bill was drawn, signed, and handed to Milnthorpe, who declared it to be in perfect order, and promised to be at the office early next morning with the proceeds. All the same, Balmaine had his doubts as to the success of the expedient, and when ten o'clock came and the sub-editor did not show up, he began to feel very uneasy. To be unable to go to Territet for lack of funds and have to make some lame excuse to Martino, would be both a disappointment and a humiliation. Rather than that, he would take his watch-the sole memento of his father "Raise money on a bill, you mean?" which he possessed-to the Mont de Pieté. "The accuracy with which you have Time pressed, Milnthorpe did not come, and guessed my meaning does credit to your in- at 10.15 he set off on his unpleasant errand telligence, Balmaine. I know the manager-so unpleasant, that if he had been on his of the Banque Populaire pretty well; he is a way to penal servitude he could not have very good fellow, and I have little doubt that felt much worse. all." "There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous," he soliloquised. "Here am I, forced to pawn my watch in order that I may inform a charming girl that she is the greatest heiress in Europe! But at the last moment he was spared the painful necessity. As he crossed the Island Bridge he met Milnthorpe. "Well?" he said anxiously. "I have succeeded-in a measure," returned the other. "How, in a measure?" "We made the bill for five hundred, you know. The Banque Populaire goes as low as forty francs; but it looks more respectable to borrow twenty pounds than five or ten, and it is better to have too much than too little. But the manager looks upon five hundred as a large transaction-too large to be completed without the sanction of the Conseil d'Administration-and he would not do more than advance two hundred and fifty, pending their next meeting." "That will do," said Alfred, with a sigh of relief; "less will do. Thank you very much." "I am glad to hear you say so, for I could do with a trifle myself, and I am sure Delane could. We are both à sec, as the folks here say." I "All right. Keep a hundred francs. daresay I can make shift with one-fifty. I don't think the Rousseau will charge me unreasonably." "They won't charge you anything if you speak a word to the manager, and tell him you are the rédacteur-en-chef of the Helvetic News." "I don't think I shall do that, Milnthorpe. I am not going on the business of the paper, and I am not one of your cadging journalists." "Cadging, do you call it? You are too proud, Balmaine. It does not pay." "I do not think it is pride, Milnthorpe. But be that as it may, I would rather be poor and proud than rich and a lickspittle. I did not feel comfortable not to pay when I was at the Rousseau with Corfe, though I did go by the manager's express invitation. To ask for free quarters merely because I ar am a journalist would be a piece of shameless impudence as much so as if I were to demand a suit of clothes from a tailor for the same reason." "You might give it another name-blackmailing. Mayo breakfasts two or three times a week at the Croix in a style that would cost anybody else ten francs a time, yet never thinks of paying a centime. But here we are at our office. You had better get your bag and hurry up, or you will be too late for the train. Delane and I will keep things straight until you get back." Balmaine did not miss the train, though he had to run for it, and four hours later he and Martino were knocking at M. Senarclens's door. They found the historian in his study, a large and lofty room lined with bookcases and maps. Two French windows looked into a garden rich with rare shrubs and choice flowers, and commanding a glorious view of lake, mountain, and forest. In the middle of the room stood a big square table, littered with books, manuscripts, and proofs. At a smaller table sat the historian's private secretary. "I am afraid we are hindering work," observed Alfred, after introducing Martino, "but the business on which I come admits of no delay. It concerns Mademoiselle Leonino." He thought it best to plunge in medias res. "Mademoiselle Leonino!" exclaimed M. Senarclens, looking all the surprise he felt. "What about her? nothing unpleasant, I hope? Poor Vera!" "She is called Vera, then," said Alfred, with a significant glance at Martino, who had · been very doubtful as to the issue of their journey. "Certainly she is called Vera," returned. M. Senarclens, looking more surprised than ever. "And do you know if her father was English?" "I believe her father was your compatriot; but she was born in Italy, and her mother was also of that country.' "I told you so," exclaimed Balmaine, turning to Martino in great exultation. "I told you so. Mademoiselle Leonino is the longlost daughter of Philip Hardy. Hurrah! "It must be so. It must," shouted Martino, who seemed even more excited than Alfred. "You are right, M. Balmaine. I doubt no longer. Where is the little Vera ? She will remember me; I am sure she will. Many a time have I danced round my corridor at Locarno, with the child on my back singing." And suiting the action to the word, Martino pranced round the big table, singing an Italian rhyme : "Bimbo non piangere ; Nascesti trito Morir vestito." The historian stared at his visitors with a look of such utter bewilderment and comic surprise that Balmaine could hardly keep from laughing outright. M. Senarclens evidently thought and no wonder that his visitors had gone mad. "It is time we explained, I think," said Alfred. "If you will stop your singing and sit down, M. Martino, I will tell M. Senarclens our errand." Martino took the hint and a chair, whereupon Alfred, while omitting irrelevant and non-essential details, told Vera's story from beginning to end. But he made no imputation against Gabrielle, deeming it better to let M. Senarclens draw his own inferences from Martino's statement. The historian listened with the deepest attention, asking an occasional question. His countenance expressed at first surprise, then concern, and at last something like dismay. "But you surely don't mean," he said, after a pause which seemed to be spent in painful thought, "you surely don't mean that Vera is sole heiress to this immense fortune-two millions sterling? Why that is fifty million francs!" "I think there can be no doubt of it, M. Senarclens. "Poor child, what a calamity!" "A calamity?" "Yes, 'tis a calamity, M. Balmainenothing less. What can be more unfortunate than for any young girl, but, above all, for a young girl without father or mother, or other natural protectors, to become possessed of wealth that might well dazzle the strongest mind, corrupt the purest nature? Surely you have noticed that the rich are always the most selfish, the most egotistic, and the most self-indulgent of mankind. This is a truth that has been recognised for ages, and nowhere more emphatically than in the sacred books of Christians in which many of the bourgeoisie still profess to believe. I would ten thousand times rather have heard that Vera was reduced to poverty, and had no other resource than that genius for art with which nature has so richly gifted her." Alfred was startled. This was a view of the matter which had not occurred to himhe had thought he was doing Vera a great service. Yet he could not help admitting that there might be some truth in what the historian said. But even though it were altogether true his duty was clear, he must carry out his mission and inform Vera of all that had come to pass. "I hope," he said, "that Miss Hardy will make a good use of her fortune, and that it will not prove the calamity you fear." "I do not share your confidence," returned M. Senarclens gloomily, "unless she disembarrass herself of the burden quicklyand that will be difficult-without doing more harm than good. I cannot conceive anybody possessing so many millions without being the worse for them. The right of bequest is one of those rights to do wrong which ought to be abolished; it is bad for all that there should be whole classes who neither toil nor spin and who live on the labour of others. All accumulations should go to the community, and the community in its turn should undertake the upbringing of orphans and the support of the aged and the helpless. As for Vera, it is some slight satisfaction to know that she is as well prepared to withstand the corrupting influence of wealth as any young girl could be. She is of a noble, unselfish nature; she has not been kept under a glass case, like the jeunes filles of the bourgeoisie; she has had the same liberty as my own daughters, and has studied with them many of the best books in my library. She loves literature and art for their own sake. You will find her well instructed, M. Balmaine, and she has much sympathy with the poor." "Is she likely to become Madame Corfe?" asked Alfred, to whom this question seemed far more important than the character of Vera's recent reading. "No, and she has suffered much in consequence, poor girl." "How?" "Well, after what I heard from you 1 could not advise her to marry this M. Corfe, the more especially as when I came to question her closely, I found that she has neither a vocation for marriage nor a liking for this gentleman, and I would not for the world constrain a girl's choice. We are all for liberty here, M. Balmaine. But Madame Gabrielle and her father are very wishful she should marry him. The one has entreated, the other has threatened her, and when he likes, M. Courbet can be very brutal. She was here in great distress yesterday, and I pressed her to come and stay with us until the storm had blown over. It is one advantage of your revelation, M. Balmaine, that Vera becomes her own mistress. The Courbets have no legal authority over her, and she is no way dependent on they cannot be long. Hark! don't you hear them.' " "Not at all." "I understand now why Gabrielle brought her here instead of taking the child to her grandfather. Another instance of the demoralising influence of money. I am sorry for Gabrielle, it will be a terrible blow to her, this discovery of her dishonesty. Yet she is not a bad woman, and I am sure it is better for Vera-physically as well as morally to have been brought up in this mountain land as a child of the people, than in the corrupt atmosphere of London as the heiress of millions. But (smiling) this is not business. I suppose you would like to see her?" the sound of bells and ring of hoofs on the hard road? It must be they. I will run and see. I will bring Vera in and then you can tell this strange story yourself, M. Balmaine. I am anxious- The girl is very dear to me and this is a supreme crisis in her life. Did I not say so? The carriage stops at the door. I will go-pray excuse me." "He seems nervous," observed Martino. "As much as we are," answered Alfred, who was himself so nervous that he could hardly speak. For the second time in his life he was going to see this girl whom he had sought so long, and of whom he had thought so much. What would be the issue? He had a foreboding that the meet Both Alfred and Martino said they shoulding and its consequences would influence his like to see her very much. destiny-that a crisis in his life was also approaching. "I thought so. Well, Madame Senarclens and my daughter Georgette shall fetch Vera. They shall take a carriage. The journey to La Boissière occupies two hours, but one can descend the mountain in one hour.. So we may expect them here about eight o'clock, and on the way my wife can break the news to Vera. She will be very much overcome, poor child. Will you then do me the favour, Messieurs, to make me another visit in three or four hours. If it were not that I must absolutely despatch these proofs (glancing at the table) to Paris by the next mail, I would ask you to dine with me. But we will have tea à l'Anglaise instead, let us say at eight o'clock. Will you join us?" To this proposal Balmaine and Martino gladly assented, and at the request of the latter (who was wishful to know whether Vera would recognise him) it was agreed that she should not be informed of his arrival. CHAPTER XLIV.-A RECOGNITION. PUNCTUALLY at eight o'clock the two men were again at the villa. Madame Senarclens had not returned, and they were shown into the salon. Though dignified with that name the room was simply furnished and evidently used more for work than show. Books were lying about. There was an easel with a half-finished sketch; an open piano stood in one corner, a harp in another; on the walls hung paintings of Alpine landscapes; on the mantelpiece were two or three exquisite statuettes; in the window recesses vases filled with flowers. In a few minutes they were joined by M. Senarclens. "They are not come yet," he said, “but XXVIII-40 The next moment the door opened and M. Senarclens entered the saloon leading Miss Hardy by the hand. "This is the gentleman, Vera, who has brought the news-M. Balmaine.” Alfred bowed and devoured the girl with his eyes. It was a sweet face, as sweet as he had thought it at the fête, and, strange to say, it seemed to him that it bore a certain resemblance to that of M. Senarclens-not in contour or complexion, but in those subtler and less definable features which denote character and help to spiritualise expression. There were the same dreaminess in the eyes, the same loftiness, yet benevolence of look, even the same fashion of slightly throwing back the head when speaking. But just then she was pale and agitated and her lips trembled with emotion. "I have had the pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle before," said Alfred, as quietly as he could; "perhaps she has forgotten me." "Oh, no, I have not, I remember you quite well," she answered hurriedly. "But do tell me is this true-this that you have been telling my dear friends? You are not deceiving us, M. Balmaine?" "Why should I deceive you, Mademoiselle ? If you are Philip Hardy's daughter you are the heiress to an immense fortune-one of the finest in Europe." "It seems impossible. I must have timeI cannot What shall I do, M. Senarclens? I have heard you say often how evil a thing is wealth. I feel already what a terrible responsibility the care of this fortune will bring on me. Shall I renounce it? If you bid me I will. "I am afraid that is too great a responsi bility for me to take, ma chère. You must "Tant mieux, I am grateful for the respite. It will give me time to think, to get accustomed to the idea of my inheritance, and decide how I shall dispose of it. But I do not understand how all this has come about so suddenly, and why I was not told sooner. Is my grandfather only just dead?" "M. Balmaine will tell us all about it while we are at tea. Let us go into the salle à manger. But you do not observe that another gentleman is present. Have you met him also before, do you think?" "I do not think so.' And Vera looked earnestly at Martino, but no look of recognition came into her eyes. 'Don't you know me, Vera?" said the Italian. "Don't you remember the time when I rode you on my back: "You took much trouble about me, M. Balmaine," she said, when he had finished, "and I shall never forget your kindness. But there is one thing I do not understandwhy Martino did not know where I was. Did not Gabrielle tell you where we were going, dear friend?" "She said you were going to London, according to your father's instructions." "Why did we not go then?" "That you had better ask Gabrielle herself," said M. Senarclens; "she will be here to-morrow. I have asked her to come. I think it is desirable for her to give an explanation in the presence of these gentlemen." "It is very strange! Gabrielle has been very good; she has been like a mother to me; and until the last year or two I was very happy at La Boissière; but if my father told her to take me to London she ought to have taken me, ought she not ?" "There can be no question of that. But let us hear what Gabrielle says before we draw any conclusions. Yet in any case, even if she may not have acted altogether as she ought to have done, you will deal gently with her." "How could I do otherwise? Gabrielle will always be very dear to me, M. Senarclens." The person in question was meanwhile having a very bad time of it. Worried on the one side by her father, who insisted that she should make Vera marry Corfe, and by fear of Corfe on the other, tortured by prick "Martino! Martino!" cried the girl, running to him and kissing him on both cheeks. "I do remember, oh! so well. And how my father laughed when you danced round the table! It is like old times to see you, CARO AMICO. And how have you been; and why did you not write to us?" "For a very good reason; I did not knowings of conscience and dread of discovery, your address, but I know you... I know you, and how well you look" (she was quite flushed now), "and how handsome you have grown! I shall never be able to thank M. Balmaine enough for discovering you. But we must go into the salle à manger; they are all waiting for us." Vera put her hand into that of the old innkeeper, and they went in together and sat side by side, Balmaine being their vis-à-vis. The " tea à l'Anglaise" was tea and little else, and poor at that, as an American would have said, which was so far fortunate that eating did not much interfere with the retelling of the story. Though Alfred hesitated a little at first-French not being quite as familiar to him as his mother-tongue-he told his tale very well, when he warmed to his work, and at greater length than the first time-perhaps because he had in Vera an eager and charming listener. She never once took her eyes off him, and hung on his words as if he were a very Othello. she was about as unhappy as well could be. Corfe had been at La Boissière a few days before, and albeit Vera's refusal put him in a rage, he would not take it as final, attributing it altogether to the shock produced by her being told of Esther's death. "She will get over that in a little while," he thought, "and though it is a great bore and awfully inconvenient, I must just wait; and if it comes to a push I have got a pull over her she little suspects. Without me she can never get her fortune-unless I am very much mistaken." He asked Gabrielle how Vera had come to know of Madame Corfe's death. "I think M. Senarclens heard of it at the bureau of the Helvetic News," said the bonne. "Oh, then it's Balmaine! I thought as much!" exclaimed Corfe, in English. "Who can tell what he said about me? Confound the fellow ! I'll stop him spoiling my copy and telling lies about me to my friends! Dites donc, Madame Gabrielle! I shall not be here again for a month or so; but you will let |