AFTER a night that was sleepless to at least three members of the family the morning of the day on which Mr. Markland was to start on his journey came.  Tearful eyes were around him.  Even to the last, Fanny begged him not to leave them, and almost clung to him at the moment of parting.  Finally, the separation was accomplished, and, shrinking back in the carriage that conveyed him to the city, Mr. Markland gave himself up to sad reveries.  As his thoughts reached forward to the point of his destination, and he tried to arrange in his mind all the information he had relating to the business in which he was now embarked, he saw more clearly than ever the feeble hold upon his fortune that remained to him.  Less confident, too, was he of the good result of his journey.  Now that he was fairly on the way, doubt began to enter his mind.

This was Mr. Markland’s state of feelings on reaching the city.  His first act was to drive to the post-office, to get any letters that might have arrived for him.  He received only one, and that was from New York.  The contents were of a startling character.  Mr. Fenwick wrote: 

“Come on immediately.  Your presence is desired by all the members of the Company here.  We have news of an unexpected and far from pleasant character.”

This was all; but it came with a painful shock upon the feelings of Mr. Markland.  Its very vagueness made it the more frightful to him; and his heart imagined the worst.

Without communicating with his family, who supposed him on his journey southward, Mr. Markland took the first train for New York, and in a few hours arrived in that city, and called at the office of Mr. Fenwick.  A single glance at the agent’s countenance told him that much was wrong.  A look of trouble shadowed it, and only a feeble smile parted his lips as he came forward to meet him.

“What news have you?” eagerly inquired Mr. Markland.

“Bad news, I am sorry to say,” was answered.

“What is its nature?” The face of Mr. Markland was of an ashen hue, and his lips quivered.

“I fear we have been mistaken in our man,” said Mr. Fenwick.

“In Lyon?”

“Yes.  His last letters are of a very unsatisfactory character, and little in agreement with previous communications.  We have, besides, direct information from a partly on the ground, that tends to confirm our worst fears.”

“Worst fears of what?” asked Markland, still strongly agitated.

“Unfair—­nay, treacherous—­dealing.”

“Treachery!”

“That word but feebly expresses all we apprehend.”

“It involves fearful meaning in the present case,” said Markland, in a hoarse voice.

“Fearful enough,” said Fenwick, gloomily.

“I was just on the eve of starting for the ground of the Company’s operations, when your letter reached me this morning.  An hour later, and I would have been on my journey southward,” said Mr. Markland.