A policeman, who had charge of the station house during the absence of his superior officer, here informed Marcus that an old lady and a young one, an old gen’leman and a lad, had called.  The old gen’leman and the lad would drop round again during the evening.  The old lady and the young one were waiting for him in the captain’s room.

He entered the captain’s room—­his companions staying outside—­and saw, as he expected, his half-sister Philomela, and a young woman dressed in the height of cheap fashion, who was no other than Mash, the cook.

His sister rose, and extended her hand to him severely, and said, with a solemn voice: 

“Brother Marcus, I am sorry to see you here.  I hope you are not guilty of this crime?”

“Hope?” said Marcus, stung to the quick.  “Why not say at once that I am guilty?  It is strange that the only relative I have on earth should be the first to doubt my innocence.”

“Oh, no, Marcus!  You do me injustice there.  I do not for a moment doubt your innocence.  But you know I always advised you to give up your moping habits at home, and go into active business, like other men of your age.  If you had been in business now, you wouldn’t have had time to get mixed up in the affairs of this old man Minford and his daughter, and would have escaped this disgrace.  I trust, Marcus,” she added, emphatically, “I trust this will be a lesson to you.”

Poor Mash, the cook, had been playing with her bonnet strings, and trying to check her tears.  But the unnatural effort was too much for her, and she burst out crying.

“Oh, Mr. Wilkeson!” she said, between her sobs, “I—­I’m so sorry to see you here; b-but I—­I know yer innocent.  Boo-boo-hoo!”

“Thank you, Mash,” replied Marcus, quite affected at this sudden outbreak of sympathy. “You speak like a true woman.  But don’t cry any more, my good girl.  I shall be released to-morrow.”  Marcus said this confidently—­though he had not the least idea how his acquittal was to be obtained.

“Oh!  I hope so—­I—­hope so, Mr. Wilkeson.  Boo-boo-hoo—­I—­I wish I could g-go to prison in your place.  Boo-boo-hoo!”

Mash had derived this preposterous idea of vicarious imprisonment from the story of “The Buttery and the Boudoir,” which was now drawing near its conclusion, and gradually killing, or marrying off, its heroes and heroines.

Marcus could not help smiling at the romantic notion.  Miss Philomela laughed sarcastically, and exclaimed: 

“You must take pattern from me, girl, and control your feelings.  My brother doesn’t want crying women about him at this time.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, sister.  Tears come naturally from a woman.  They are her best evidence of sympathy, and therefore precious to one who needs it.”

Mash, the cook, gave vent to a fresh shower of tears at this encouraging remark, and made Miss Philomela shrug her shoulders in disgust.