diately
on discovery--and I very soon discovered that it could not have been
destined for my perusal--I refolded the epistle and hastened to deliver
it to your own hands."

"More discreet and more fortunate than I," said she, with a very
peculiar smile, "since this letter which I hold here, and which bore
my address, I now perceive was for you, and this I have not read merely
once or twice, but fully a dozen times; in truth, I believe I could
repeat it, word for word, if the task were required of me."

What has become of Mr. Hankes's soft and gentle manner? Where are his
bland looks, his air of courtesy and kindness, his voice so full of
sweetness and deference? Why, the man seems transfixed, his eyeballs are
staring wildly, and he actually clutches, not takes, the letter from her
hands.

"Why, the first words might have undeceived you," cried he, rudely.
"Your name is not Simpson Hankes."

"No, sir; but it is Sybella, and the writer begins 'Dear S.,'--a
liberty, I own, I felt it, but one which I fancied my position was
supposed to permit. Pray read on, sir, and you will see that there was
matter enough to puzzle finer faculties than mine."

Perhaps the tone in which she spoke these words was intentionally
triumphant; perhaps Mr. Hankes attributed this significance to them
causelessly; at all events, he started and stared at her for above a
minute steadfastly, he then addressed himself suddenly to the letter.

"Gracious heavens! what a terrible blunder!" exclaimed he, when he had
finished the reading.

"A great mistake, certainly, sir," said she, calmly.

"But still one of which you are incapable to take advantage, Miss
Kellett," said he, with eagerness.

"Is it to the girl who is to be got rid of, sir, you address this
speech? Is it to her whose trustfulness has been made the instrument
to deceive others and lure them to their ruin? Nay, Mr. Hankes, your
estimate of my forbearance is, indeed, too high."

"But what would you do, young lady?"

"Do, sir! I scarcely know what I would not do," burst she in,
passionately. "This letter was addressed to _me_. I know nothing of the
mistake of its direction; here is the envelope with my name upon it. It
is, consequently, mine,--mine, therefore, to publish, to declare to the
world, through its words, that the whole of this grand enterprise is
a cheat; that its great designer is a man of nothing, living the
precarious life of a gambling speculator, trading on the ric