The night which followed was sleepless to Mrs. Liddell.  How could she close her eyes when so much depended on the visit she hoped to receive to-morrow?  If this agent of John Liddell’s was propitious, she might get breathing-time and be able to wait till her manuscript brought forth some fruit; if not—­well she dared not think of the reverse.  She listened to the soft, regular breathing of her daughter, who was wrapped in refreshing slumber, and thanked God for the quick forgetfulness of youth.  It was like a fresh draught of life and hope to think of her courage and perseverance in finding out and affronting her miserly uncle.  Good must come of it.

Day dawned bright and clear, and the little party met as usual at breakfast.  Neither mother nor daughter had breathed a word of their hopes or fears to the pretty widow.  Breakfast over, they all dispersed to their usual avocations.  Katherine, downstairs, was consulting cook, and Mrs. Liddell was wearily sorting and tearing up papers, when the servant came into the study and said, “Please, ’m, there’s a gentleman wanting you.’

“Where have you put him?” asked Mrs. Liddell, glancing at the card presented to her, on which was printed, “Mr. C. B. Newton, 26 Manchester Buildings.”

“He is by the door, ’m.”

“Oh, show him into the dining-room.  Where is Mrs. Frederic?”

“Gone out, ’m.”

“I will come directly,” and Mrs. Liddell hastily locked a drawer and put a weight on her papers; “Tell Miss Liddell to come to me,” she said as she passed.

A short, thick-set man of more than middle age, slightly bald, with an upturned nose, quiet, watchful eyes of no particular color, and small sandy mutton-chop whiskers, was standing near the window when she entered.  He made a quick bow, and stepped nearer “Mrs. Liddell?” he asked.

“Yes, I am Mrs. Liddell.”

“I have called on the part of my client, Mr. John Liddell, of Legrave Crescent, to make certain inquiries.  This note, which I received from him yesterday afternoon, will explain the object of my visit.”

“Pray sit down, Mr. Newton”—­taking a chair as she spoke, while she read the small, crabbed, tremulous characters written on the page presented to her.  The note contained directions to call on Mrs. Liddell and ascertain if she really was the widow of his late brother; also what security she could offer for a small loan.

Her color rose faintly as she read.

“You must not regard the plainness of business phraseology,” said the visitor, in dry, precise tones.  “My client means no offence.”

“Nor do I mean to take any,” she replied, handing him back the note.  “Pray how am I to prove my own identity?”

“It would not, I suppose, be very difficult; but, as it happens, I can be your witness.  I quite well remember seeing you with Mr. Liddell, your late husband, some sixteen or seventeen years ago.”