“Can you describe the young lady?” I inquired.

“Well, no.  We have such hosts of young ladies here.  But she was pretty, decidedly pretty; she made that impression upon me, at least.  We are too busy to take particular notice; but I should know her again if she came in.  I think she would have been here again, before this, if she had not got that engagement.”

“Do you know where the school is?” I asked.

“No.  Mrs. Wilkinson was the party,” he said.  “We had nothing to do with it, except send any ladies to her who thought it worth their while.  That was all.”

As we could obtain no further information, we went away, and paced up and down the tolerably quiet street, deep in consultation.  That we should have need for great caution, and as much craftiness as we both possessed, in pursuing our inquiries at No. 19 Bellringer Street, was quite evident.  Who could be this unknown Mrs. Wilkinson?  Was it possible that she might prove to be Mrs. Foster herself?  At any rate, it would not do for either of us to present ourselves there in quest of Miss Ellen Martineau.  It was finally settled between us that Johanna should be intrusted with the diplomatic enterprise.  There was not much chance that Mrs. Foster would know her by sight, though she had been in Guernsey; and it would excite less notice for a lady to be inquiring after Olivia.  We immediately turned our steps toward Hanover Street, where we found her and Julia seated at some fancy-work in their sombre drawing-room.

Julia received me with a little embarrassment, but conquered it sufficiently to give me a warm pressure of the hand, and to whisper in my ear that Johanna had told her every thing.  Unluckily, Johanna herself knew nothing of our discovery the night before.  I kept Julia’s hand in mine, and looked steadily into her eyes.

“My dear Julia,” I said, “we bring strange news.  We have reason to believe that Olivia is not dead, but that something underhand is going on, which we cannot yet make out.”

Julia’s face grew crimson, but I would not let her draw her hand away from my clasp.  I held it the more firmly; and, as Jack was busy talking to Johanna, I continued speaking to her in a lowered tone.

“My dear,” I said, “you have been as true, and faithful, and generous a friend as any man ever had.  But this must not go on, for your own sake.  You fancied you loved me, because every one about us wished it to be so; but I cannot let you waste your life on me.  Speak to me exactly as your brother.  Do you believe you could be really happy with Captain Carey?”

“Arthur is so good,” she murmured, “and he is so fond of me.”

I had never heard her call him Arthur before.  The elder members of our Guernsey circle called him by his Christian name, but to us younger ones he had always been Captain Carey.  Julia’s use of it was more eloquent than many phrases.  She had grown into the habit of calling him familiarly by it.