“Oh, Norah, Norah!” she said to herself, sorrowfully.  “After the letter I wrote you—­after the hard struggle I had to go away!  Oh, Norah, Norah!”

“How is Norah?” inquired the captain, with the utmost politeness.

She turned upon him with an angry brightness in her large gray eyes.  “Is this thing shown publicly?” she asked, stamping her foot on it.  “Is the mark on my neck described all over York?”

“Pray compose yourself,” pleaded the persuasive Wragge.  “At present I have every reason to believe that you have just perused the only copy in circulation.  Allow me to pick it up.”

Before he could touch the bill she snatched it from the pavement, tore it into fragments, and threw them over the wall.

“Bravo!” cried the captain.  “You remind me of your poor dear mother.  The family spirit, Miss Vanstone.  We all inherit our hot blood from my maternal grandfather.”

“How did you come by it?” she asked, suddenly.

“My dear creature, I have just told you,” remonstrated the captain.  “We all come by it from my maternal grandfather.”

“How did you come by that handbill?” she repeated, passionately.

“I beg ten thousand pardons!  My head was running on the family spirit.—­How did I come by it?  Briefly thus.”  Here Captain Wragge entered on his personal statement; taking his customary vocal exercise through the longest words of the English language, with the highest elocutionary relish.  Having, on this rare occasion, nothing to gain by concealment, he departed from his ordinary habits, and, with the utmost amazement at the novelty of his own situation, permitted himself to tell the unmitigated truth.

The effect of the narrative on Magdalen by no means fulfilled Captain Wragge’s anticipations in relating it.  She was not startled; she was not irritated; she showed no disposition to cast herself on his mercy, and to seek his advice.  She looked him steadily in the face; and all she said, when he had neatly rounded his last sentence, was—­“Go on.”

“Go on?” repeated the captain.  “Shocked to disappoint you, I am sure; but the fact is, I have done.”

“No, you have not,” she rejoined; “you have left out the end of your story.  The end of it is, you came here to look for me; and you mean to earn the fifty pounds reward.”

Those plain words so completely staggered Captain Wragge that for the moment he stood speechless.  But he had faced awkward truths of all sorts far too often to be permanently disconcerted by them.  Before Magdalen could pursue her advantage, the vagabond had recovered his balance:  Wragge was himself again.

“Smart,” said the captain, laughing indulgently, and drumming with his umbrella on the pavement.  “Some men might take it seriously.  I’m not easily offended.  Try again.”

Magdalen looked at him through the gathering darkness in mute perplexity.  All her little experience of society had been experience among people who possessed a common sense of honor, and a common responsibility of social position.  She had hitherto seen nothing but the successful human product from the great manufactory of Civilization.  Here was one of the failures, and, with all her quickness, she was puzzled how to deal with it.