The boy had risen while he spoke, and he stood erect beside the recumbent Kenelm, his lips quivering, his eyes suffused with suppressed tears, but his whole aspect resolute and determined. Evidently, if he did not get his own way in this world, it would not

be for want of will.

"I will take your note," said Kenelm. "There it is; give it into the hands of the person it is addressed to-Mr Herbert Compton."

CHAPTER IV.

KENELM took his way to the theatre, and inquired of the doorkeeper for Mr Herbert Compton. That functionary replied, "Mr Compton does not act to-night, and is not in the house."

"Where does he lodge?"

The doorkeeper pointed to a grocer's shop on the other side of the way, and said, tersely, "There, private door-knock and ring."

Kenelm did as he was directed. A slatternly maid-servant opened the door, and, in answer to his interrogatory, said that Mr Compton was at home, but at supper.

"I am sorry to disturb him," said Kenelm, raising his voice, for he heard a clatter of knives and plates within a room hard by at

his left, "but my business requires to see him forthwith;" and pushing the maid aside, he entered at once the adjoining banquethall.

Before a savoury stew smelling strongly of onions sate a man very much at his ease, without coat or neckcloth, a decidedly handsome man-his hair cut short and his face closely shaven, as befits an actor who has wigs and beards of all hues and forms at his command. The man was not alone; opposite to him sate a lady, who might be a few years younger, of a somewhat faded complexion, but still pretty, with good stage features and a profusion of blond ringlets.

"Mr Compton, I presume," said Kenelm, with a solemn bow.

"My name is Compton: any message from the theatre ? or what do you want with me?"

"I?-nothing!" replied Kenelm; and then deepening his naturally mournful voice into tones ominous and tragic, continued -"By whom you are wanted let this ex

plain;" therewith he placed in Mr Compton's hand the letter with which he was charged, and stretching his arms and interlacing his fingers in the pose of Talma as Julius Cæsar, added, "Qu'en dis tu, Brute?"" Whether it was from the sombre aspect and awe-inspiring delivery, or vπóкρiσis, of the messenger, or the sight of the handwriting on the address of the missive, Mr Compton's countenance suddenly fell, and his hand rested irresolute, as if not daring the letter.

to open

"Never mind me, dear," said the lady with blond ringlets, in a tone of stinging affability; "read your billet-doux; don't keep the young man waiting, love!"

"Nonsense, Matilda, nonsense! billetdoux indeed! more likely a bill from Duke the tailor. Excuse me for a moment, my dear. Follow me, sir," and rising, still with shirt-sleeves uncovered, he quitted the room, closing the door after him, motioned Kenelm into a small parlour on the opposite side of the passage, and by the light of a

suspended gas-lamp ran his eye hastily over the letter, which, though it seemed very short, drew from him sundry exclamations. "Good heavens! how very absurd! what's to be done?" Then, thrusting the letter into his trousers - pocket, he fixed upon Kenelm a very brilliant pair of dark eyes, which soon dropped before the steadfast look of that saturnine adventurer.

"Are

you

in the confidence of the writer of this letter?" asked Mr Compton, rather confusedly.

"I am not the confidant of the writer," answered Kenelm, "but for the time being I am the protector!"

"Protector?"

"Protector."

Mr Compton again eyed the messenger, and this time fully realising the gladiatorial development of that dark stranger's physical form, he grew many shades paler, and involuntarily retreated towards the bell-pull. After a short pause, he said, "I am requested to call on the writer.

If I do so,