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lence of aspect; and the eyes were kindly, so that young children and old ladies were encouraged to ask him the way.

Alderney was a philanthropist whom fortune had made an enemy of mankind; he perpetually schemed and planned methods by which his fellow creatures were to be ruined, being himself the readiest dupe, the most willing victim in the world. Men may despise dupes, but they like the ready believer. It is delightful to find even among hawks the simplicity of the pigeon. The quack doctor buys a plenary indulgence of Tetzel, while he, in his turn, purchases a pill of the quack. The vender of beef fat for butter gets her fortune told by the gypsy; the gypsy buys the beef fat on the word of the immoral young person who sells it for butter.

About the beginning of every quarter, Alderney Codd would be absent from his regular haunts; the circle at the Birch-Tree would miss him; it might be rumored that he had gone down to Cambridge, where these honest speculators supposed that his society was still greatly in request, by reason of his being so massive a scholar. The real reason of his absence was, that he drew his hundred a year quarterly, and lay in bed half the day for two or three weeks after it. That was Alderney's idea of enjoying life if you were rich-to lie in bed. While in the first flush and pride of that five-and-twenty pounds, Alderney got up about one o'clock every day. Naturally, therefore, he dined late. During this period he ceased to devise schemes; his imagination rested; his busy brain had time to turn to practical things, and such renovation in his apparel as the money ran to was accomplished during this period. When it was over, he would cheerfully return to the stand-up dinner, the half-pint of beer, and the Scotch whisky with pipes and conversation among his fellows.

Every one of the circle had a history. To be sure that is sadly true of all mankind. I mean that these men were all out of the ordinary grooves of life. They were adventurers. Formerly they would have joined a band of free lances, to fight and plunder under the flag of a gallant knight of broken fortunes; or they would have gone a-buccaneering, and marooned many a tall ship, without caring much whether she carried Spanish colors or no. Or they might have gone skulking among the woods and shady places of England, where Savernake, Sherwood, or the New Forest gives on to the high-road, lying in wait for unarmed travelers, in guise, as the famous dashing highwayman. Nowadays, for men of some education, no money, and small principle, there are few careers more attractive, though few less generally known, than that of small finance.

There were nine or ten of them at the tavern one afternoon in March; they had the room entirely to themselves, because it was Saturday, and the general public had gone away for their half-holiday. There was, therefore, a sense of freedom and enlargement: they need not whisper.

They sat round the largest table, that under the middle window. Outside it was a charming and delicious day in very early spring, a day when the first promise comes of better times, when the air is soft and fragrant, and one reckons, like the one confiding swallow, that the winter is gone.

In this tavern the atmosphere was always the same: no fragrance of spring ever got there, no sunshine could reach the room; if the windows were ever opened, they would let in nothing but a heavy wave of air equally laden with the fumes of tobacco, spirits, and roasted meats. The men at the table, however, cared little for the breath of meadows; they loved the city air, which always seems charged with the perfumes of silver ingots and golden bars.

Among them this afternoon was one whom all regarded with a feeling which had something of awe in it; more of awe than of envy; because he was one who had succeeded. He was still a comparatively young man, rather a handsome man of two or three and thirty, with strong features, which were rather too coarse, a crop of curly, brown hair, a clear complexion, and bright eyes. He was dressed with more display than quiet men generally like, but his rings and chains seemed to suit his confident, braggart air. He spoke loudly, asserted himself, and in all companies pushed himself at once to the front. He was that phoenix among City men, the man who has made everything out of nothing, the successful man. He has a little to do with this story, and we will presently tell how he rose to greatness. His friends addressed him familiarly as Jack; everybody spoke of him behind his back as Jack Baker; on his cards was the name Mr. J. Bunter Baker. "Not plain Baker," he would say; are of the Bunter Bakers, formerly of Shropshire. The arms of the two families are, however, different."

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The other men were sitting over whisky-andwater, with pipes. Jack Baker, half sitting, half leaning on the top rail of the back of his chair, was smoking a cigar, and had called for a pint of champagne. It was rumored among his admirers that he drank no other wine except champagne.

Alderney Codd, who was still attired in the magnificent fur-lined coat, was laying down the law.

"Capitalists tell me," he was saying, as if he

was on intimate terms with a great many capitalists, "that if you have got a good thing-you will bear me out, Jack-you can't do better than bring it out. Nonsense about general depression; there is plenty of money in the world that longs to change hands."

"Quite right," said Mr. Bunter Baker. "Flenty of money."

"And plenty of confidence," said Alderney. "Now I've got in my pocket-here-at this actual table-a thing good enough to make the fortune of a dozen companies."

Every project advanced at that table possessed the merit of a great and certain successon paper.

He produced a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. All bent their heads eagerly while he toyed with the string, willing to prolong the suspense.

There is a certain public-house in Drury Lane where you will find, on any Sunday evening that you like, an assemblage of professional conjurers. They go there chiefly to try new tricks on each other, and they judge from the first exhibition before their skilled brethren of the effect which they will produce on an uncritical public. So with Alderney. He was about to propound a new scheme to a critical circle, and he naturally hesitated. Then he turned to Mr. Bunter Baker before opening the parcel.

"I ask you, Jack, what is the first rule for him who wants to make money? Nobody ought to know better than yourself-come."

"Find out where to make it," said Jack.

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'No, not at all; make it by means of the millions. Go to the millions. Never mind the upper ten thousand. Satisfy the wants of the millions. One of those wants, one of the commonest, is appealed to by the contents of this parcel. We seek to catch the mutabilis aura, the changeable breath of popular favor. The invention which I hold in my hand is so simple that the patent can not be infringed-flecti, non frangi; it will be as eagerly adopted by those who drink tea, the boon of those who, as Horace says, love the Persicos apparatus, or Chinese tea-tray, as by those who drink toddy; it will be used as freely at the bar-I do not here allude to the Inns of Court-as at the family breakfasttable."

"You need not quote your own prospectus," said Mr. Baker. Get to the point, man. Let us into your secret."

No one was really in a hurry to learn it, for, like true artists, they were criticising the manner of putting the case.

"There's nothing like a good prospectus," said a keen and hungry-eyed man, who was listening attentively.

"And a well-placed advertisement in the 'Times,"" observed a little man, whose only known belief was in the form of such an advertisement. When he had one, of his own composition, it was a red-letter day; when he had a long one, it seemed like a fortune made: once he was so happy as to make the acquaintance of a man who reported for the Times." He lent that man money in perfect confidence; and, though his advances were never repaid, his admiration for the paper remained unbounded.

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"Cheap things for the people," said another, with a sigh. "See what a run my sixpenny printing-press had, though I was dished out of the profits."

A curious point about these men was, that they were always dished out of the profits whenever anything came off.

“But what is it?" asked another, taking out a note-book.

He was, among other things, connected with a certain "practical" weekly, and was supposed to give “publicity" to the schemes whenever he was allowed. I fear the circulation of the paper was greatly exaggerated with the view of catching advertisers.

"It is," said Alderney, untying the parcel, nothing less than the substitution of glass for silver spoons. Honest glass! not pretended silver, not worthless plate. You drop one, it breaks; very good. A penny buys another."

All eyes turned on Mr. Baker. He took one of the glass spoons; he dropped it; it was broken.

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"Very true indeed," he said. 'It is broken." "There are," Alderney continued, “seven million households in England; each household will require an average of fifty-five spoons: three hundred and eighty-five million spoons; original demand, three hundred and eighty-five million pence, a million and a half sterling. Not bad that, I think, for a company newly starting. Nobody can reckon the breakages-we may estimate them roughly at twelve million a year. Think how maids bang spoons about!"

The newspaper correspondent made further notes in his pocket-book. A great hush of envy fell upon the audience. One of them seemed in for a good thing. Their eyes turned to Mr. Baker. He too was making a note.

"I have in my pocket," said another, a man with a face so hard and practical-looking that one wondered how he had failed in making an immense fortune-"I have in my pocket a little scheme which seems to promise well."

Everybody listened. Mr. Baker looked up from his note-book with curiosity. This emboldened the speaker.

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You all know," he said, that the highways

of England are studded with iron pumps, set up by beneficent governments to provide for wagonand cart-horses in the old days. I have made a calculation that there are about a hundred thousand of them; they pump no water, and they are no longer wanted. I propose to buy up these pumps-they can be had for a mere song-and sell them for scrap-iron, eh? There is money in that, I think."

Nobody replied. Mr. Baker, to whom all eyes turned, finished his champagne and went away, with a nod to Alderney.

"I must say," said one of them angrily, "that when we do get a capitalist here it is a pity to drive him away with a cock-and-a-bull scheme for rooting up old pumps."

"None of the dignity of legitimate financing about it," said Alderney grandly; "we do not meet here to discuss trade; we do not stoop to traffic in scrap-iron."

Then they all proceeded to sit upon the unfortunate practical man who had driven away the capitalist.

CHAPTER XII.

He noticed, as they walked side by side in the direction of Great St. Simon Apostle, that Stephen's face looked thoughtful, and his eyes rested on the ground. In fact, he was mentally revolving how to state the case most effectively. At present he only intended to follow up the slight uneasiness produced by Alderney's artless prattle.

"I have been intending to consult you for some time," he began, when they were in the office, "but things prevented."

"Yes; pray sit down; what is it? Alison continues quite well, I hope ?"

"Quite well, poor girl, thank you. I wanted to confer with you on the subject of my brother's marriage."

Stephen looked straight in his cousin's facea disconcerting thing to do if your friend wishes to dissemble his thoughts. Augustus changed color. Alderney therefore had, as he expected, aroused a feeling of uneasiness.

"My brother's marriage," he repeated. “Can you tell me when and where it took place?" "I know nothing about it," said Augustus; no more than you know yourself. We none of us know anything about it."

"Do you," continued Stephen solemnly, as if

HOW STEPHEN DECLARED HIS INTENTIONS. this was a very great point, "do you remember

AFTER Sowing the seeds of suspicion in the mind of the private town-crier, Alderney Codd, Stephen remained quiet for a time. Alderney the talker would unconsciously help him. This, indeed, happened; in less than a fortnight the Hamblin enemies were, with one accord, whispering to each other that no one knew where and when Anthony had been married, or, as the elder ladies added significantly, if at all. But for the moment none of these whispers reached the ears of Alison.

Meantime, Stephen was busy all day among the diaries and letters. He read and re-read; he examined them all, not once or twice, but ten times over, in constant fear of lighting on some clew which might lead to the reversal of his own opinion. But he found nothing.

One day, in the middle of March, about a fortnight after his dinner with Alderney Codd, he met his cousin, Augustus Hamblin, in the City. Since the appointment of Stephen as guardian it had been tacitly understood that there was to be a show of friendliness on both sides. The past was to be forgotten.

"I am glad to meet you," said Stephen, shaking hands with a show of great respect for the senior partner of the house. "Are you so busy that you can not give me a few minutes ?"

"Surely," replied Augustus, "I can give you as many as you please."

any time, from twenty to five-and-twenty years ago, when Anthony went away, say on a suspicious holiday, or behaved like a man with a secret, or departed in any way from his usual open way of life?”

"N-no; I can not say that I do. He had a holiday every year in the summer or autumn. Sometimes he went away in the spring. Of course, he must have managed his marriage in one of those excursions."

"Yes; that is not what I mean. I know the history of all those holidays. I want to find a time, if possible, when no one knew where he went. It must have been out of the usual holiday-time."

"I remember no such time," said Augustus. "But, of course, one did not watch over Anthony's movements. He might have been married as often as Bluebeard without our suspecting a word of it."

"No," said Stephen, shaking his head. All this time he was observing the greatest solemnity. "I should have suspected it. You forget the intimacy between us. Anthony had no secrets from me, poor fellow ! nor I any from Anthony." (This was a sentimental invention which pleased Stephen and did not impose upon Augustus, who knew that Stephen's life had many secrets.) "Had Anthony hidden anything from me, his manner would have led to my suspecting. Again, I have read through his private journal,

and there is nothing, not one word, about any marriage-no hint about any love-affair at all; nothing is altered or erased; he tells his own life hour by hour. This is very mysterious."

"Better let the mystery sleep," said Augustus quietly. "No one will disturb it if you do not." "What!" said Stephen, with a show of virtuous indignation, "when the legitimacy of Alison is at stake? Do you not perceive how extremely awkward it would be if the judge, when we come to ask for letters of administration, were to ask a few simple questions?"

"The judge is not likely to ask anything of the kind," said Augustus.

"But he might," Stephen persisted. "He might say that although the deceased brought up this young lady as his daughter-a relation ship proved besides by her great resemblance to him and other branches of the family-he left nothing behind him to prove that she is, in the eyes of the law, his daughter. What should we say then?"

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In Alison's own interests. That was the way to look at this question. Stephen felt that he had now completely cleared the ground for action. Everybody was awakened to the fact that Anthony's marriage was still an unsolved mystery. Everybody would very shortly learn that Stephen the benevolent, in his ward's interest, "I think we can afford to wait till the diffi- was at work upon the problem. No one but the culty arrives," replied Augustus quietly. partners and the family lawyer would be likely to guess what issues might spring of these researches.

"Nay, there I differ from you. It is not often, Cousin Augustus, that a man like myself can venture to differ from one of your business experience and clear common sense; but in this case I do differ. None of us question Alison's legitimacy, but we would like to see it established. Let me, for Alison's own sake, clear this mystery. Besides," he smiled winningly, "I own that I am anxious to know something about this wife of Anthony's, kept so cunningly in the background."

"For Alison's sake," Augustus continued, "I think you had better let it alone. You do not know what manner of unpleasantness you may rake up."

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'Why," replied Stephen quickly, “you would not surely insinuate that Alison-"

"I insinuate nothing. All I say is that Anthony had probably very good reasons of his own for saying nothing of his marriage. He probably married beneath him; he may have wished to keep his daughter from her mother's relations; the marriage may have been unhappy; the memory of his wife's death may have weighed upon him. There are many possible reasons. Let us respect your brother's memory by inquiring no further into them."

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He began by questioning Mrs. Cridland. He invited her into the study one morning, placed her in a chair, frightened her by saying that he had some questions of the greatest importance to ask her, and then, standing over her, pocketbook in hand, with knitted brows and judicial forefinger, he began his queries.

Mrs. Cridland knew nothing. Anthony, when he brought Alison home, wanted a lady to take charge of her. Mrs. Duncombe, he explained, her previous guardian, was trustworthy, and thoughtful as regards the little girl's material welfare, but she lacked refinement. What was very well for a child of three or four, would no longer be sufficient for a great schoolgirl. So Anthony looked round, and chose-a cousin. Mrs. Cridland was a Hamblin by birth; her husband was dead; she had no money, and was at the moment actually living on an allowance made her by the most generous of cousins. She was delighted to accept the post of governess, duenna, and companion to this girl, with a home for herself and her white-haired boy, and a reasonable salary.

"Ah!" said Stephen at this point. “Yes, a reasonable salary. What, may I ask, Flora, did my brother consider reasonable? He was not always himself a reasonable lender."

This was unkind of Stephen.

"We agreed," replied Mrs. Cridland, with a little flutter of anxiety, "that the honorarium should be fixed at three hundred pounds a year.” Three hundred a year!" Stephen lifted his

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eyes, and whistled. "And board and lodging, of course. My poor brother was very, very easily cajoled. Even washing too, I dare say." "If you mean that I cajoled him," cried the lady, in great wrath, "you are quite wrong! It was he who offered the sum. Cajoled, indeed!" "Three hundred a year for ten years means, I should say, three thousand put by. You must have made a nice little pile by now, Flora. However to return. Then Anthony told you nothing about the girl's mother?”

"Yes; he told me that she was long dead, and that he wished no questions to be asked at all."

“And did you allude then, or at any other time, to the surprise felt by all his friends at such a discovery?"

"Of course at the time I told him how amazed we were to learn that he whom we regarded as a confirmed bachelor should actually turn out to be a widower. He said, with a laugh, that people very often were mistaken, and that now, at any rate, they would understand why he had not married."

"He used those words? He said, 'People will understand now why I have not married'? Take care, Flora; your words may be very important."

"Good gracious, Stephen, don't frighten me! Of course he used those words. I remember them perfectly, though it is ten years ago."

dislike was roused. She stared at him in horror and astonishment. "You? Then God help us all!"

"Thank you, Flora," he returned coldly, playing with a paper-knife; "that was kindly and thoughtfully said. I shall remember that."

"Remember it on my account as much as you please, only do not visit my words on that poor child."

"I do not intend to do so. Had it not been for the resolute way in which all my cousins have continued to misunderstand me, I might have expected some small credit for the pains I have taken for these months in clearing up this mystery."

"Oh!" she cried, firing up, like the honest little woman that she was, "I understand it all now-why you came here, why you tried to coax and flatter the poor girl, why you sat all day searching in papers-you wanted to test your own abominable suspicions-you wanted to persuade yourself that there are no proofs of Anthony's marriage-you wanted to rob your niece and get your brother's fortune into your own hands. And again I say, God help us all! But there are your cousins, and there is Mr. Billiter, to stand by her."

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Stephen made a careful note of the words, Here a sudden difficulty occurred. His acrepeating under his breath, "why he had not count at the bank was reduced to a few shillings married." Then he looked as if he were grap--how was he to pay this salary? pling with a great problem.

"Thank you, Flora," he said at length, coldly. "I believe you have done your best to confess the whole truth in this extremely difficult matter."

"I refuse to accept this notice. I will not go unless I am told to go by Mr. Billiter or by Mr. Augustus Hamblin. You are a bad and a dangerous man, Stephen Hamblin. We have done right to suspect you. O my poor Ali

"What difficult matter? and what do you son!" mean by 'confessing'?"

"Is it possible, Flora, for a sensible woman like yourself to be blind to the probability that Anthony was never married at all?"

"Stephen," she cried in sudden indignation, "it is impossible!"

"It is difficult, Flora, not impossible; I am endeavoring to prove that Anthony was married. But as yet I have failed. When did he marry? Where did he marry? Whom did he marry? Find out that if you can, Flora."

"Very well, madam-very well, indeed. We shall see. Now go away, and tell Alison I want to say a few words to her."

He looked blacker and more dangerous than she had ever seen him, and he held the paperknife as if it had been a dagger.

"Stephen, you are not going to tell Alison what you suspect? You are not going to be so cruel as that?"

"I have a good mind to tell her, if it were only to punish you for your confounded impu

"But then-there is no will either-and Ali- dence. But you always were a chattering magson would not be the heiress even."

"Not of a single penny."

"And who would have all this money?" "I myself, Flora; now you see why I am trying to prove the marriage. It is in Alison's interests, not my own, that I take all this trouble."

"You, Stephen, you?" All her instinctive

pie. Anthony was quite right when he used to say that for downright idiotic gabble Flora Cridland's conversation was the best specimen he knew. Go, and send Alison to me."

Anthony had never said anything of the sort. But it was the way of this genial and warmhearted person to set people against each other

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