“Mr. Moseley!  Do I see aright?”

“Denbigh,” cried John, stretching out his hand to him, “was this kind—­was it like yourself—­to leave us so unexpectedly, and for so long a time, too, as your note mentioned?”

Denbigh waved his hand to the servant to retire, and handed a chair to his friend.

“Mr. Moseley,” said he, struggling with his feelings, “you appear ignorant of my proposals to your sister.”

“Perfectly,” answered the amazed John.

“And her rejection of them.”

“Is it possible!” cried the brother, pacing up and down the room.  “I acknowledge I did expect you to offer, but not to be refused.”

Denbigh placed in the other hand the letter of Emily, which, having read, John returned, with a sigh.  “This, then, is the reason you left us,” he continued.  “Emily is not capricious—­it cannot be a sudden pique—­she means as she says.”

“Yes, Mr. Moseley,” said Denbigh, mournfully; “your sister is faultless—­but I am not worthy of her—­my deception”—­here the door again opened to the admission of Peter Johnson.  Both the gentlemen rose at this sudden interruption, and the steward advancing to the table, once more produced the formidable pocket-book, the spectacles, and a letter.  He ran over its direction—­“For George Denbigh, Esquire, London, by the hands of Peter Johnson, with care and speed.”  After the observance of these preliminaries, he delivered the missive to its lawful owner, who opened it, and rapidly perused its contents.  Denbigh was much affected with whatever the latter might be, and kindly took the steward by the hand, as he thanked him for this renewed instance of the interest he took in him.  If he would tell him where a letter would find him in the morning, he would send a reply to the one he had received.  Peter gave his address, but appeared unwilling to go, until assured again and again that the answer would be infallibly sent.  Taking a small account-book out of his pocket, and referring to its contents, the steward said, “Master has with Coutts & Co.  L7,000; in the bank, L5,000.  It can be easily done, sir, and never felt by us.”  Denbigh smiled in reply, as he assured the steward he would take proper notice of his master’s offers in his own answer.  The door again opened, and the military stranger was admitted to their presence.  He bowed, appeared not a little surprised to find two of his mail-coach companions there, and handed Denbigh a letter, in quite as formal, although in a more silent manner than the steward.  The soldier was invited to be seated, and the letter was perused with an evident curiosity on the part of Denbigh.  As soon as the latter ended it, he addressed the stranger in a language which John rightly judged to be Spanish, and Peter took to be Greek.  For a few minutes the conversation was maintained between them with great earnestness, his fellow travellers marvelling much at the garrulity of the soldier however, the stranger soon rose to retire, when the door thrown open for the fourth time, and a voice cried out,