“By what name does he go?”

“By the name of Ambrose Gray, sir; but I cannot tell you why my sister gave him such a name, nor where she got it.  She was at the time very unsettled.  Of late her reason has returned to her very much, thank God, although she has still touches of her unfortunate complaint; but they are slight, and are getting more so every time they come.  I trust she will soon be quite well.”

The baronet fixed his eye upon the speaker with peculiar steadiness.

“Corbet,” said he, “you know you have lost a great deal of my confidence of late.  The knowledge of certain transactions which reached that strange fellow who stopped in the Mitre, you were never able to account for.”

“And never will, sir, I fear; I can make nothing of that.”

“It must be between you and your father, then; and if I thought so—­”

He paused, however, but feared to proceed with anything in the shape of a threat, feeling that, so far as the fate of poor Fenton was concerned, he still lay at their mercy.

“It may have been my father, Sir Thomas, and I am inclined to think it must, too, as there was no one else could.  Our best plan, however, is to keep quiet and not provoke him.  A very short time will put us out of his power.  Fenton’s account with this world is nearly settled.”

“I wish, with all my heart, it was closed,” observed the other; “it’s a dreadful thing to feel that you are liable to every accident, and never beyond the reach of exposure.  To me such a thing would be death.”

“You need entertain no apprehension, Sir Thomas.  The young man is safe, at last; he will never come to light, you may rest assured.  But about your son—­will you not see him?”

“Certainly; order the carriage, and fetch; him—­quietly and as secretly as you can, observe—­his sister must see him, too; and in order to prepare her, I must first see her.  Go now, and lose no time about it.”

“There is no necessity for a carriage, Sir Thomas; I can have him here in a quarter of an hour.”

Sir Thomas went to the drawing-room with the expectation of finding Lucy there—­a proof that the discovery of his son affected him very much, and deeply; for, in general his habit when he wanted to speak with her was to have her brought to the library, which was his favorite apartment.  She was not there, however, and without ringing, or making any further inquiries, he proceeded to an elegant little boudoir, formerly occupied by her mother and herself, before this insane persecution had rendered her life so wretched.  The chief desire of her heart now was to look at and examine and contemplate every object that belonged to that mother, or in which she ever took an interest.  On this account, she had of late selected this boudoir as her favorite apartment; and here, lying asleep upon a sofa, her cheek resting upon one arm, the baronet found her.  He approached calmly, and with a more extraordinary combination of feelings than perhaps he had ever experienced in his life, looked upon her; and whether it was the unprotected helplessness of sleep, or the mournful impress of suffering and sorrow, that gave such a touching charm to her beauty, or whether it was the united influence of both, it is difficult to say; but the fact was, that for an instant he felt one touch of pity at his heart.