Popham, had come
out, some months before, to look after the affairs of the house, which,
for some unexplained reason, had gone less smoothly than usual of late.
Unfortunately he was not the right person to conduct such an inquiry,
for he was young, rash, and easily duped. Our agent at Ragusa, one
Orlando Jones, an artful, worthless person, half English, half Greek,
insinuated himself into his good graces, and managed to hoodwink him
completely. Now, you must know that Mr Englefield had long watched
Jones with suspicion, and in this last visit to Ragusa had obtained such
proofs of his dishonesty as appeared to him quite convincing. These he
thought it his duty to lay before Mr Popham. Unfortunately that young
gentleman took up the information hotly and unwisely, blurting out the
whole matter to Jones, instead of watching his conduct narrowly and then
judging for himself. Jones affected the most virtuous indignation when
charged with fraud by Mr Popham. He accused your dear uncle of base
jealousy, spoke movingly of his own services, and, in short, talked Mr
Popham so completely round that he turned the cold shoulder on his
faithful and tried servant. So your uncle returned to Cattaro deeply
hurt, and more anxious than ever about the safety of the house.

I heard not a word of all this at the time, for Mr Englefield was
secret as the grave as to the affairs of his employers. To soothe and
amuse him was my province; so I pulled out a budget of cheerful home
letters, and read them aloud, with comments, while he partook of
breakfast under the shade of our carob tree. His brow relaxed by
degrees, and after breakfast he proposed we should take a stroll
together; and we set out, following the bend of the sea-shore, and
returning by the eastern gate of the town. I am afraid this was a
little stroke of crooked policy on my part; for at this gate is held,
every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, a market, to which the
hill-people flock, and I knew it would be in full activity at that
moment, and my dear Montenegrins would be there in their trimmest
apparel. How I wish you could have beheld the scene: there were the
citizens of Cattaro in their sober garb--black cloth or velvet jackets
with silver basket buttons, small black caps, wide trousers also black,
black stockings, and a dull red sash--the only relief of this heavy
costume. In strong contrast to it were the bright dresses of the
mountaineers, numbers of whom were