myself in any way with what ought not to concern me.  But Arthur Carlton must not remain here.  He must be sent abroad, to America, India, anywhere, it matters not where, so that they be separated, and that ere long.”  These were the thoughts that chased each other through the active brain of Mrs. Fraudhurst, as she sat alone in the Library.  Half an hour had elapsed ere she had quite made up her mind as to what course she should pursue to avoid the impending evil.  Then, at length, seeming to grasp the difficulty, she took up her pen and wrote what she thought was likely to transpire at Vellenaux should there be no one sufficiently interested in the matter to prevent the estate (which had been in the Coleman family for several generations) from passing into other hands.  This she sent to one whom she had every reason to believe (for she had observed him well) would not scruple to use any means to gain possession of the broad lands of Vellenaux.  This letter the cautious widow posted with her own hands, to prevent the possibility of the address being noticed by either Sir Jasper or Edith.  The matter being thus satisfactorily arranged, she patiently awaited the developments of the first fruits of the plot against young Carlton.

CHAPTER II.

It may be remarked, and with a great deal of truth, that the chapters of a novel bear a certain resemblance to those pleasing illusions known as dissolving views, where one scene glides almost imperceptibly into another.  The reader has been gazing mentally on woods, landscapes and water in the South of England, when lo! in the twinkling of an eye, the busy haunts of men in the world’s great capitol, London, stands unveiled before him.  It must, however, be admitted that, so far as scenic effect is concerned, the change is at times less pleasing than the one just fading from view.  Yet if we wish to realize the plot of the story, the dark and uncertain shades of the picture should be looked on, from time to time, as they present themselves.

On a door, which stood partially open, in the last of a row of gloomy looking houses situated in one of those dark and narrow paved courts leading from Chancery Lane to Lincoln Inn Field’s, was painted in black letters on a white ground—­“Ralph Coleman, Attorney-at-Law.”

In the ill lit passage to the right was a door that opened into the front office, where, seated at an old-fashioned desk, was a youth, tall, thin and pale, busily engaged engrossing some legal documents.  A short, quick step was heard coming up the Court, the handle turned, the door opened, and a man about the middle height with a slight tendency to be corpulent, and about thirty-five years of age, entered.  “Are those papers ready,” enquired Mr. Coleman of the young clerk, who had ceased writing on the entrance of his employer.

“I am finishing the last one now,” was the ready reply.

“Good; and my letters?”