“He cannot be very ill,” remarked Mr. Carlyle; “he passed through West Lynne, in his open carriage, a week ago.”

“He ought to help me,” grumbled Captain Levison.  “I am his heir, so long as Lady Levison does not give him one.  I do not hear that she has expectations.”

“You should contrive to see him.”

“I know I should; but it is not possible under present circumstances.  With these thunder-clouds hanging over me, I dare not set foot in England, and run the risk to be dropped upon.  I can stand a few things, but I shudder at the bare idea of a prison.  Something peculiar in my idiosyncrasy, I take it, for those who have tried it, say that it’s nothing when you’re used to it.”

“Some one might see him for you.”

“Some one—­who?  I have quarreled with my lawyers, Sharp & Steel, of Lincoln’s Inn.”

“Keen practitioners,” put in Mr. Carlyle.

“Too keen for me.  I’d send them over the herring-pond if I could.  They have used me shamefully since my uncle’s marriage.  If ever I do come into the Levison estates they’ll be ready to eat their ears off; they would like a finger in a pie with such property as that.”

“Shall I see Sir Peter Levison for you?”

“Will you?” returned Captain Levison, his dark eyes lighting up.

“If you like as your friend, you understand; not as your solicitor; that I decline.  I have a slight knowledge of Sir Peter; my father was well acquainted with him; and if I can render you any little service, I shall be happy, in return for your kind attention to my wife.  I cannot promise to see him for those two or three weeks, though,” resumed Mr. Carlyle, “for we are terribly busy.  I never was so driven; but for being so I should stay here with my wife.”

Francis Levison expressed his gratitude, and the prospect, however remote, of being enabled to return to England increased his spirits to exultation.  Whilst they continued to converse, Lady Isabel sat at the window in the adjoining room, listlessly looking out on the crowds of French who were crowding to and from the port in their Sunday holiday attire.  Looking at them with her eyes, not with her senses—­her senses were holding commune with herself, and it was not altogether satisfactory—­she was aware that a sensation all too warm, a feeling of attraction toward Francis Levison, was working within her.  Not a voluntary one; she could no more repress it than she could repress her own sense of being; and, mixed with it, was the stern voice of conscience, overwhelming her with the most lively terror.  She would have given all she possessed to be able to overcome it.  She would have given half the years of her future life to separate herself at once and forever from the man.