and Mr. White at once sought him at his lodgings, of which Mademoiselle de Tourville furnished the address.  He had left the house suddenly with all his luggage early in the morning, and our efforts to trace him proved fruitless.  In the meantime the post-mortem examination of the body had taken place, and a verdict of willful murder against Eugenie de Tourville been unhesitatingly returned.  She was soon afterwards committed to Newgate for trial.

The Old Bailey session was close at hand, and Arthur Rushton, though immediate danger was over, was still in too delicate and precarious a state to be informed of the true position of affairs when the final day of trial arrived.  The case had excited little public attention.  It was not the fashion in those days to exaggerate the details of crime, and, especially before trial, give the wings of the morning to every fact or fiction that rumor with her busy tongue obscurely whispered.  Twenty lines of the “Times” would contain the published record of the commitment of Eugenie de Tourville for poisoning her mistress, Caroline Rushton; and, alas! spite of the crippled but earnest efforts of the eminent counsel we had retained, and the eloquent innocence of her appearance and demeanor, her conviction and condemnation to death without hope of mercy!  My brain swam as the measured tones of the recorder, commanding the almost immediate and violent destruction of that beauteous masterpiece of God, fell upon my ear; and had not Mr. White, who saw how greatly I was affected, fairly dragged me out of court into the open air, I should have fainted.  I scarcely remember how I got home—­in a coach, I believe; but face Rushton after that dreadful scene with a kindly-meant deception—­lie—­in my mouth, I could not, had a king’s crown been the reward.  I retired to my chamber, and on the plea of indisposition directed that I should on no account be disturbed.  Night had fallen, and it was growing somewhat late, when I was startled out of the painful reverie in which I was still absorbed by the sudden pulling up of a furiously-driven coach, followed by a thundering summons at the door, similar to that which aroused me on the evening of Mrs. Rushton’s death.  I seized my hat, rushed down stairs, and opened the door.  It was Mr. White!

“Well!—­well!” I ejaculated.

“Quick—­quick!” he exclaimed in reply.  “La Houssaye—­he is found—­has sent for us—­quick! for life—­life is on our speed!”

I was in the vehicle in an instant.  In less than ten minutes we had reached our destination—­a house in Duke Street, Manchester Square.