She had-obtained not only an introduction to Wesley Tiffles, but a pair of scissors which must be returned to him, and were therefore a bond of friendship.  But Miss Wilkeson forgot the fatality which the proverb attaches to gifts or loans of that particular article of cutlery.

BOOK FIFTH.

MANOEUVRES.

CHAPTER I.

STOLEN—­MOKE THAN A PURSE.

One morning, as Marcus Wilkeson was idly turning the pages of a blue-and-gold favorite, the doorbell rang.  In accordance with some mysterious law of acoustics, the sound was full three minutes descending the kitchen staircase, entering the keyhole of the kitchen door, and striking on the tympanum of Mash, the cook, who was sitting by the fire, reading the twenty-fifth chapter of “The Buttery and the Boudoir:  A Tale of Real Life.”  When Mash became fully conscious (which was not till the end of the chapter) that the bell had rung, she expelled a sigh from her fat chest, and wiped the tears from her eyes with the end of her clean apron, and then went to the door with a noble resignation to her lot.  There she found a stout elderly woman, bearing a note for “Marcus Wilkeson, Esq.”

“Lor’! how slow you are!” said the stout woman, handing the letter to her.

Mash, who had read, in the twenty-third chapter, of the overwhelming way in which the heroine cook had answered an insult by dignified silence, said not a word in reply, but took the note, and slammed the door in the stout woman’s face.

The exclamation “Bah!” and certain indistinct mutterings which were audible through the panels, convinced Mash that, by her self-denial, she had won a moral victory.  It was with a feeling of excusable pride that she walked into the back parlor, and delivered the note to Marcus Wilkeson.

“Thank you, Mash,” said he.  It was a singular illustration of his excessive politeness, that he was no less grateful for paid services than for free.

Mash retired, thinking to herself that, if Mr. Wilkeson were only a pirate, a smuggler, a guerilla chieftain, or a dashing fellow in some unlawful, dangerous business, a few years younger, he would be a perfect hero.

Marcus did not recognize the handwriting of the address.  Tearing open the envelope, he read the following lines, hastily scrawled on a bit of blue paper: 

     Wednesday, A.M.

     MARCUS WILKESON, ESQ.: 

     SIR:  Please come over and see me immediately.  I have
     something important to communicate.

     Your obedient servant,

     ELIPHALET MINFORD.”

“Something must be wrong,” said Marcus; and startling thoughts then occurred to him.  “Has her hard studying brought on illness?  It can’t be.  She was well enough last evening.  What can be the matter?”

Marcus Wilkeson’s temperament was of that unfortunate nervous sort which is thrown off its balance by the slightest shock.  His frame trembled as he put on his overcoat and hat; and, when he looked in the mirror, he noticed that his face was paler than usual, and his eyes were glassy.  “Pooh! what a sensitive fool I am!” said he.