Frank.  “We are all right, now, I think, Miss Lucy,—­and they are waiting for us in the parlor, you know.”

Lucy.  “That paper must not be signed, Sir.  If Miss Millicent knew what I do about that man, he would be the last man in the world she would think of for a husband.”

Frank.  “But he is one of the merchant princes,—­respectable, of course.  What harm can you know of him?”

Lucy.  “If he is not so great a villain as he might be, let him thank my escape from Mrs. Farmthroy’s the night I came here.  If he is to be at home here, I shall not be; but before I leave, I wish to restore him what belongs to him.  Excuse me a moment, Sir, and I will fetch it.”

“A regular previous love-affair,” thought Frank, and expected her to return, bringing a small lot of erotic jewelry to be returned to Chipworth, as the false-hearted donor thereof.  Great was his surprise, when, instead of that, she brought a small parcel or wad of yellowish paper, variegated with certain scrawls of rapid writing, of the manifold sort.

“Why, that,” said Frank, after unfolding the half-dozen sheets, all of the same tenor, “is a set of news-dispatches, and of a pretty ancient date, too.”

Lucy.  “But it is his property, Sir; and though worthless itself, being worth as much as he is, it may be valuable to him.”

Frank.  “Yes, yes.  I begin to see.  Cotton-Market.  This reminds me of the case of our client Grant.  Why, pray, how did you come by these?”

Lucy.  “Perhaps I ought not to tell you all.  But if I may rely on your honor as a gentleman, I will.”

Frank.  “As a gentleman, a man, and a lawyer, you may trust me that every word shall be sacredly confidential.”

Lucy.  “Well, Sir, my name is not Lucy Green, but Laura Birch.  My mother keeps the Birch House in Waltham; and this man, whom you call a merchant prince, came to my mother’s the very day after the date on them papers, and hired my brother to carry him to Captain Grant’s.  When he took out his pocketbook to pay, which he did like a prince, perhaps, he probably let these papers fall.  At any rate, no one else could have dropped them; and I saved them, thinking to give them to him when he should call again.  I have seen him but once since, at a place where, through his interest, I supposed I had obtained a situation to learn the milliner’s trade.  I needn’t say why I did not return his property then.  If, now, I had in my possession even an old shoestring that had ever been his, I would beg you to return it to him, and find out for me where I can go never to see him.”

Frank.  “But I shall take care of these dispatches.  There’s a story about these papers, I see.  Here’s a ray of daylight penetrating a dark spot.  Two links in the chain of circumstances, to say the least.  Captain Grant’s unfortunate sale of cotton to Dartmouth just before the rise, and the famous lost dispatch found on Dartmouth’s track to Grant.  Did you see him have these papers, Miss Lucy—­I beg your pardon—­Miss Laura?”