So it proved.  Lord Essendine, after a short interval, wrote himself to Mrs. Wilders a civil, courtly letter, in which he promised her a handsome allowance, with a substantial sum in cash down to furnish a house and make herself a home.

Although still bitterly dissatisfied with her lot, she was now not only fortified against indigence, but could count on a life of comfort and ease.  She established herself in a snug villa down Brompton way—­a small house with a pretty garden, of the kind now fast disappearing from what was then a near suburb of the town.  It was well mounted; she kept several servants, a neat brougham, and an excellent cook.

There she prepared to wait events, trusting that Russian bullet or Benito’s Spanish knife might yet rid her of the one obstacle that still stood between her son and the inheritance of great wealth.

It was with a distinct annoyance, then, while leading this tranquil but luxurious life, that her man-servant brought in a card one afternoon, bearing the name of Hobson, and said, “The gentleman hopes you will be able to see him at once.”

“How did you find me out?” she asked, angrily, when her visitor—­the same Mr. Hobson we saw at Constantinople—­was introduced.

“Ah!  How do I find everything and everybody out?  That’s my affair—­my business, I may say.”

“And what do you want?” went on Mrs. Wilders, in the same key.

“First of all, to condole with you on the loss of so many near relatives.  I missed you at Constantinople after Lord Lydstone’s sad and dreadful death.”

Mrs. Wilders shuddered in spite of herself.

“You suffer remorse?” he said, mockingly.

She made a gesture of protest.

“Sorrow, I should say.  Yet you benefited greatly.”

“On the contrary, not at all.  Another life still intervenes.”

“Another! and you knew nothing of it!  Impossible!”

“It is too true.  I am as far as ever from the accomplishment of my hopes.”

“Who is this unknown interloper?”

“An English officer, at present serving in the Crimea.  His name is McKay:  Stanislas McKay.”

“The name is familiar; the Christian name is suggestive.  Do you know whether he is of Polish origin?”

“Yes, I have heard so.  His father was once in the Russian army.”

“It is the same, then.  There can be no doubt of it.  And you would like to see him out of the way?  I might help you, perhaps.”

“How?  I have my own agents at work.”

“He is in the Crimea, you say?”

“Yes, or will be within a few weeks.”

“If we could inveigle him into the Russian lines he would be shot or hanged as a traitor.  He is a Russian subject in arms against his Czar.”

“It would be difficult, I fear, to get him into Russian hands.”

“Some stratagem might accomplish it.  You have agents at work, you say, in the Crimea?”