and officers of the 7th Chevau-Légers, several of the principal merchants, finally the first society, always dined there."

Good society seemed to have no charms for Mr. Yates. He growled again.

"Well, as monsieur pleased, but he (the speaker) would permit himself to make the observation that private dinners were much the most expensive."

"No matter. They must send up a good one, and as soon as they could."

The host shrugged his shoulders. Fond as his class are of swelling the amount of their bills, a French landlord would rather forego that opportunity than not commend his table d'hôte: his amour propre is stronger even than his self-interest. However, when they do yield in this matter, they know how to indemnify themselves for their complaisance.

We will suppose that Mr. Yates has dined to his satisfaction, and is sitting with a bottle of Burgundy before him, filling full, drinking what he fills, and, under the inspiration of the wine, thinking profoundly. There comes a knock at the door. It is the commissionerDufourmantelle. He has brought monsieur's keys; nothing has been touched at the Douane, and monsieur's baggage is already in his bedroom. The commissioner desires to offer his services. It is a lovely evening-the environs of the town are beautiful-or, perhaps, monsieur would prefer the theatre: the actors are of the first force, it is the twenty-ninth representation of "Le Neveu du Diable," a charming piece, which has had the most extraordinary run at the Porte St. Martin, in Paris-all Rouen flock nightly to assist at it.

Neither of these propositions are agreeable to Mr. Yates, but he is not indifferent to the attractions of the city. He understands that the

Maison de Santé is on a very large scale. Could he see that?

Assuredly, is the commissioner's reply-but, unfortunately, not that evening; the hours for visiting that establishment are specified, and it can only be viewed with tickets. He shall have the honour of procuring one for monsieur the first thing in the morning. Was there no other amusement which monsieur would prefer for the moment?

Mr. Yates seems to reflect that is to say, he takes another full glass, which empties the bottle, and does not return an immediate reply, while Dufourmantelle stands in an attitude of obsequious attention. At last Mr. Yates speaks.

"You know the town, you say?"

"Every street, every house in it; almost every inhabitant."

"In that case," says Mr. Yates, slowly, "you probably are acquainted with a person of the name of Perrotin ?"

"I regret to say I have not the honour of a personal acquaintance; but I am so fortunate as to be known to his wife."

"That will do just as well. Whereabouts do they live?"

Dufourmantelle says that it is in the Chemin aux Bœufs, outside the Boulevards, between the Cimetière du Gatte and the Cimetière Monumental; not in the gayest part of the city.

This last observation does not affect Mr. Yates so unpleasantly as

might perhaps have been expected. He expresses a wish to see the locality, and the commissioner, only too happy to be employed, eagerly offers to be his guide. The offer is accepted, and Mr. Yates and his attendant leave the hotel together.

Whether the generous quality of the wine which he has drunk has rendered Mr. Yates more genial, or whether he is influenced by some secret motive, may be a doubtful question, but he is more disposed for conversation now than he seemed to be a few hours earlier. They pass in front of the cathedral, and, as a matter of course, his companion expatiates on its beauties. It is the hour of vespers. Would monsieur like to enter, just to hear the chanting of the evening hymn? No. Mr. Yates has no great fancy for sacred music, but asks if it is well executed; whereupon the commissioner waxes eloquent.

"It would be impossible, if France were traversed from east to west, from north to south, to hear anything half so magnificent as the service in Rouen Cathedral! To make it perfect, it wants only that which it possessed a week ago. But, alas! there has been a sad misfortune, a great blow has been given to the choir, it may even be called a public calamity: the finest voice in Europe has become extinct!"

Mr. Yates casts a quick glance on the speaker, and a hideous smile flickers over his scarred face.

"Is the singer dead ?" he asks, sharply.

"No, he lives and is quite well, but it comes to the same thing." Mr. Yates impatiently demands how that can be?

"Monsieur will understand that I am speaking of a boy, gifted with the most ravishing organ! At a certain age it sometimes arrives that the larynx refuses any longer to perform its vocal functions. This is what occurred only last Sunday. In the midst of high mass that boy's voice suddenly broke down! At one moment the congregation were listening to the melody of the celestial spheres, in the next they tried in vain to persuade themselves that their ears had deceived them: a hoarse croaking, as of frogs, was the only sound they heard: that also presently ceased, and all was silent; the mass was finished in haste, and then the cause of this interruption was ascertained. Was I not right, monsieur, in calling it a public calamity?"

"He broke no blood-vessel, then ?"

"Certainly not; but what was worse, his voice at that instant disappeared. For him to sing any longer has since been found impossible. What renders this circumstance of interest to you, monsieur, is, that the parents of the boy are those for whom you inquire."

"Indeed!"

Mr. Yates and the commissioner continued their walk, threading the narrow streets of Rouen till they came to the Chemin aux Boeufs, by which time it was getting dusk. Monsieur Dufourmantelle pointed out the house they were seeking, and asked if he should go first and announce

Mr. Yates.

"No," was the reply, "I can announce myself when the time comes. Remain here while I take a look at the place."

Monsieur Perrotin's dwelling was one of very modest pretensions. It stood with its high, pointed gable towards the road, a flight of three or

four steps led up to the door, and a broad window filled the rest of the lower floor, the ledge of which was raised about five feet from the ground, so that a man of ordinary height could just see into the room from the outside without obstructing the light. This facility for observation seemed to have struck Mr. Yates, who, instead of ascending the steps, drew close up to the window, took off his hat, and peeped over the ledge. A lamp was burning, which enabled him to observe the occupations of those within. At a table on which the lamp stood an elderly man was writing, whose salient features were seen in profile; near him, and directly opposite the window, sat a boy with a book in his hand; and moving about the room, a female figure occupied herself with some domestic arrangements. The man and the boy were strangers to Mr. Yates; he cast on each of them a searching look, nor withdrew it till he had fixed their countenances in his memory; he then turned his eyes on the woman, and, although fifteen years had gone by since last he saw her, recognised her at a glance, for Mr. Yates was one whose peculiar faculty -well exercised by his professional pursuits-consisted in never forgetting a person he once had met.

"My lady's information," he said to himself, "was right; but it's seldom she makes a mistake. I felt sure I was sent on no fool's errand. So, that's pretty Rachel Loring that was; pretty enough now, for that matter, but older! How afraid she used to be of my wife; and of me, too, whenever I came across her! I don't much wonder at it, for making things pleasant to people is not altogether in our line. The old chap is her husband, of course; and the boy-ay, you've no need to look up, young feller, I shall remember you as long as I live-you're the son of our patient; she that we had to watch so, for fear of her doing herself a mischief after you was took away, my lady's eldest daughter! Well— that'll do for the present. I've no call to stay here any longer."

Stealthily, then, Mr. Yates withdrew from the window, stepping backwards till he was at some distance from it; he then turned and rejoined the commissioner, who had been watching his movements with some curiosity.

"You told me," said Mr. Yates, "that the person who lived in that house was named Perrotin ?"

"Certainly, monsieur !" "Are you sure of it?" "Quite sure."

"Then I am mistaken. It is not the Perrotin I supposed it was. I never saw him before, so it was just as well I didn't go blundering in before I ascertained the fact. Now show me the way back to the hotel." Monsieur Dufourmantelle had studied the travelling community till he flattered himself he knew mankind, and was incapable of being deceived; but the easy assurance of Mr. Yates was too much for him; he believed what he said, and in this belief retired that night to rest.

CHAPTER XXIII.

A MESSAGE.

TWICE to have passed over the same ground, although by twilight only, was enough for Mr. Yates, whose memory was equally retentive of places as of persons. He had no difficulty, therefore, in finding his way alone, next morning, to the Chemin aux Boeufs; but, instead of proceeding direct to Monsieur Perrotin's house, he turned into the cemetery on the opposite side of the road. Mr. Yates did not, however, seek out this sacred spot to meditate among the tombs, to weep for the loss of friends, or to add fresh wreaths to the votive offerings that clustered above every monument, though there was a rare choice of immortelles at the cemetery gate. The performance of these pious duties he left to others, his object being business, which, seen from his point of view, had little in common with either piety or affection. It was, in fact, to keep a sharp look-out on the movements of Monsieur Perrotin's family that Mr. Yates established himself in the enclosure in such a position as completely to command the house he came to watch.

Bent over a sad funereal urn, with his eyes shaded by his hand, in an attitude of deep affliction, his keen glance never wandered from Monsieur Perrotin's door, and it was not long before some of the occupants were visible. The first who appeared was Walter, with his casquette on his head and a book in his hand, most likely the one which Mr. Yates had seen him studying. He was on his way to the Maîtrise, but before he took his final departure he went back into the house, and his merry laugh replied to something that was said to him by a female voice within. He presently came out again smiling, tossing in the air and catching a large, rosy-cheeked apple, which Rachel, no doubt, had given him to keep away the pangs of hunger between breakfast and early dinner. Mr. Yates heard his "Good-by," and then saw him jump down the steps and run along the road. After an interval of about a quarter of an hour, Monsieur Perrotin himself came to the door. He, too, was provided with a book, one of the necessities of his daily teaching, and also hastened towards the town. But Mr. Yates was not yet satisfied; he still kept watch, and at last his patience was rewarded by the appearance of a middle-aged woman in full Norman costume, having a large market-masket on her arm. This was the femme de ménage, and now

the coast was clear.

Decorously wiping his eyes, though he had no tears to dry, Mr. Yates repassed the cemetery gate and approached the dwelling of the Teacher of Languages. He knocked, and the door was opened by Rachel, who, seeing a stranger, asked him, in broken French, what he desired? To her surprise she was answered in her native language, the speaker inquiring if she were Madame Perrotin. Rachel replied in the affirmative, and Mr. Yates, observing that he had a message for her from England, at once walked in without waiting for an invitation, and entering the room which he had surveyed the night before, threw himself into a chair and leisurely looked about him.

Troubled by his manner even more than displeased by his rudeness, Rachel remained standing, waiting for him to speak again. He seemed in no hurry to do so, his attention being occupied by the various contents of the apartment of which apparently he was taking a mental inventory, and she was obliged to open the conversation.

"You have a message for me, sir," she said; "may I beg the favour of your name?"

"My name," he replied, bluntly, "is of no consequence to you. Is that the picter of your son as I see hanging over the fireplace yonder?" Rachel turned pale at the abrupt question. This man's evil countenance had possessed her with a sudden fear, but she tried to keep up her

courage.

"He may or may not be my son," she said; "that can be no business of yours. I wish to know who you are, and what you want with me." "You'll soon find out what I want," he returned. "As to my busi

ness, you can read writing, I suppose? Read that!"

He took out a letter as he spoke, and held it towards her. She received it with a trembling hand, glanced at the superscription, which bore her Christian name only, but did not venture to break the seal.

Mr. Yates noticed her embarrassment.

"I dare say," he said, "you can give a sort of a guess where that letter comes from. Now then, if you don't want me to tell you the contents, open it."

She did as he told her, and began to read.

If her cheek were pale beforehand, its paleness was rivalled now by the whiteness of her lips, from which all the colour fled the instant the first lines met her eye. And well it might, for, to her simple apprehension, the words written there were the most terrible that ever were penned. The letter ran thus:

you

"You have been guilty of FELONY. The laws which your wretched husband and yourself have broken can be enforced where you now are, and it only depends on me to have them put in execution. If would avoid the pain of exposure and the punishment due to your crime, throw yourselves at once on my mercy by delivering up the child whom you stole from Moorside to the bearer of this, who has authority from me to receive him.

"MARGARET SCROPE."

All Rachel's strength failed her; the paper dropped on the floor, and she sank upon her knees.

"Oh no, no!" she cried, "you will not take him away from me. You cannot be so cruel!"

Mr. Yates remained wholly unmoved. He lost a day when one went by without his witnessing human suffering.

"You know

my business now," he said.

do as my lady bids you."

"And if you're wise you'll

Rachel burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. Heedless of her grief, Mr. Yates continued:

"If you don't, you must take the consequences. The penalty for kid