As Parravicin drew near this table, a slip of paper, on which a few lines were traced, attracted his attention, and taking it up, he read as follows: 

“It is now midnight, and you promised to return early.  I have felt your absence severely, and have been suffering from a violent headache, which has almost distracted me.  I have also been troubled with strange and unaccountable misgivings respecting you.  I am a little easier now, but still far from well, and about to retire to rest.  At what hour will this meet your eye?”

“MARGARET.”

“Charming creature!” exclaimed Parravicin, as the paper dropped from his hand; “she little dreamed, when she wrote it, who would read her billet.  Disbrowe does not deserve such a treasure.  I am sorry she is unwell.  I hope she has not taken the plague.  Pshaw, what could put such an idea into my head?  Lydyard’s warning, I suppose.  That fellow, who is the veriest rake among us, is always preaching.  Confound him!  I wish he had not mentioned it.  A glass of wine may exhilarate me.”  And pouring out a bumper, he swallowed it at a draught.  “And so the fond fool is pining for her husband, and has some misgivings about him.  Egad! it is well for her she does not know what has really taken place.  She’ll learn that soon enough.  What’s this?” he added, glancing at a picture on the wall.  “Her miniature!  It must be; for it answers exactly to Pillichody’s description.  A sparkling brunette, with raven hair, and eyes of night.  I am on fire to behold her:  but I must proceed with prudence, or I may ruin all.  Is there nothing of Disbrowe’s that I could put on for the nonce?  ’Fore Heaven! the very thing I want!”

The exclamation was occasioned by his observing a loose silken robe lying across a chair.  Wrapping it round him, and throwing down his hat, he took the lamp and went up stairs.

Daring as he was, Parravicin felt his courage desert him, as having found the door of Mrs. Disbrowe’s chamber, he cautiously opened it.  A single glance showed him that the room was more exquisitely, more luxuriously furnished than that he had just quitted.  Articles of feminine attire, of the richest kind, were hung against the walls, or disposed on the chairs.  On one side stood the toilette-table, with its small mirror then in vogue, and all its equipage of silver flasks, filligree cassets, japan patch-boxes, scent-bottles, and pomatum-pots.

As he entered the room, a faint voice issuing from behind the rich damask curtains of the bed, demanded, “Is it you, Disbrowe?”

“It is, Margaret,” replied Parravicin, setting down the lamp, and speaking with a handkerchief at his mouth, to disguise his voice and conceal his features.

“You are late—­very late,” she rejoined, “and I have been ill.  I fancied myself dying.”

“What has been the matter with you sweet, Meg?” asked Parravicin, approaching the bed, and seating himself behind the curtains.