oe."

"Alas!" said Harley, "as yet all researches have been in vain; and
I know not what other steps to take, without arousing Peschiera's
vigilance, and setting his crafty brains at work to counteract us. My
poor friend, then, must rest contented with exile. To give Violante to
the count were dishonour. But I shall soon be married; soon have a home,
not quite unworthy of their due rank, to offer both to father and to
child."

"Would the future Lady L'Estrange feel no jealousy of a guest so fair
as you tell me this young signorina is? And would you be in no danger
yourself, my poor friend?"

"Pooh!" said Harley, colouring. "My fair guest would have two fathers;
that is all. Pray do not jest on a thing so grave as honour."

Again the door opened, and Leonard appeared.

"Welcome," cried Harley, pleased to be no longer alone under the
prince's penetrating eye,--"welcome. This is the noble friend who shares
our interest for Riccabocca, and who could serve him so well, if we
could but discover the document of which I have spoken to you."

"It is here," said Leonard, simply; "may it be all that you require!"

Harley eagerly grasped at the packet, which had been sent from Italy to
the supposed Mrs. Bertram, and, leaning his face on his hand, rapidly
hurried through the contents.

"Hurrah!" he cried at last, with his face lighted up, and a boyish toss
of his right hand. "Look, look, Prince, here are Peschiera's own letters
to his kinsman's wife; his avowal of what he calls his 'patriotic
designs;' his entreaties to her to induce her husband to share them.
Look, look, how he wields his influence over the woman he had once
wooed; look how artfully he combats her objections; see how reluctant
our friend was to stir, till wife and kinsman both united to urge him!"

"It is enough,-quite enough," exclaimed the prince, looking at the
passages in Peschiera's letters which Harley pointed out to him.

"No, it is not enough," shouted Harley, as he continued to read the
letters with his rapid sparkling eyes. "More still! O villain, doubly
damned! Here, after our friend's flight, here is Peschiera's avowal
of guilty passion; here, he swears that he had intrigued to ruin his
benefactor, in order to pollute the home that had sheltered him. Ah, see
how she answers! thank Heaven her own eyes were opened at last, and she
scorned him before she died! She was innocent! I said so. Violante's
mother was pure. Poor lady, this moves me! Has