“From Clara Talboys,” he murmured slowly,
as he looked critically at the clearly-shaped letters
of his name and address. “Yes, from Clara
Talboys, most decidedly; I recognized a feminine resemblance
to poor George’s hand; neater than his, and
more decided than his, but very like, very like.”
He turned the letter over and examined the seal, which
bore his friend’s familiar crest.
“I wonder what she says to me?” he thought.
“It’s a long letter, I dare say; she’s
the kind of woman who would write a long letter—a
letter that will urge me on, drive me forward, wrench
me out of myself, I’ve no doubt. But that
can’t be helped—so here goes!”
He tore open the envelope with a sigh of resignation.
It contained nothing but George’s two letters,
and a few words written on the flap: “I
send the letters; please preserve and return them—C.T.”
The letter, written from Liverpool, told nothing of
the writer’s life except his sudden determination
of starting for a new world, to redeem the fortunes
that had been ruined in the old. The letter written
almost immediately after George’s marriage,
contained a full description of his wife—such
a description as a man could only write within three
weeks of a love match—a description in
which every feature was minutely catalogued, every
grace of form or beauty of expression fondly dwelt
upon, every charm of manner lovingly depicted.
Robert Audley read the letter three times before he
laid it down.
“If George could have known for what a purpose
this description would serve when he wrote it,”
thought the young barrister, “surely his hand
would have fallen paralyzed by horror, and powerless
to shape one syllable of these tender words.”
RETROGRADE INVESTIGATION.
The dreary London January dragged its dull length
slowly out. The last slender records of Christmas
time were swept away, and Robert Audley still lingered
in town—still spent his lonely evenings
in his quiet sitting-room in Figtree Court—still
wandered listlessly in the Temple Gardens on sunny
mornings, absently listening to the children’s
babble, idly watching their play. He had many
friends among the inhabitants of the quaint old buildings
round him; he had other friends far away in pleasant
country places, whose spare bedrooms were always at
Bob’s service, whose cheerful firesides had
snugly luxurious chairs specially allotted to him.
But he seemed to have lost all taste for companionship,
all sympathy with the pleasures and occupations of
his class, since the disappearance of George Talboys.
Elderly benchers indulged in facetious observations
upon the young man’s pale face and moody manner.
They suggested the probability of some unhappy attachment,
some feminine ill-usage as the secret cause of the
change. They told him to be of good cheer, and
invited him to supper-parties, at which “lovely
