parkling than
the champagne, and made even Maitland laugh. He recounted little
philanthropic misadventures of his own--cases in which he had been
humorously misled by the _Captain Wraggs_ of this world, or beguiled by
the authors of that polite correspondence--begging letters.

When luncheon was over, and when Maitland was obliged, reluctantly, to
go (for he liked Mrs. St. John Deloraine's company very much), Cranley,
who had determined to see him out, shook hands in a very cordial way
with the Fellow of St. Gatien's.

"And when are we likely to meet again?" he asked.

"I really don't know," said Maitland. "I have business in Paris, and I
cannot say how long I may be detained on the Continent."

"No more can I," said Mr. Cranley to himself; "but I hope you won't
return in time to bother me with your blundering inquiries, if ever you
have the luck to return at all."

But while he said this to himself, to Maitland he only wished a
good voyage, and particularly recommended to him a comedy (and a
_comedienne_) at the Palais Royal.

CHAPTER X.--Traps.

The day before the encounter with Mr. Cranley at the house of the
lady of _The Bunhouse_, Barton, when he came home from a round of
professional visits, had found Maitland waiting in his chill, unlighted
lodgings. Of late, Maitland had got into the habit of loitering there,
discussing and discussing all the mysteries which made him feel that
he was indeed "moving about in worlds not realized." Keen as was the
interest which Barton took in the labyrinth of his friend's affairs,
he now and again wearied of Maitland, and of a conversation that ever
revolved round the same fixed but otherwise uncertain points.

"Hullo, Maitland; glad to see you," he observed, with some shade of
hypocrisy. "Anything new to-day?"

"Yes," said Maitland; "I really do think I have a clew at last."

"Well, wait a bit till they bring the candles," said Barton, groaning
as the bell-rope came away in his hands. "Bring lights, please, and
tea, and stir up the fire, Jemima, my friend," he remarked, when the
blackened but alert face of the little slavey appeared at the door.

"Yes, Dr. Barton, in a minute, sir," answered Jemima, who greatly
admired the Doctor, and in ten minutes the dismal lodgings looked almost
comfortable.

"Now for your clew, old man," exclaimed Barton, as he handed Maitland
a cup of his peculiar mixture, very weak, with plenty of milk and no
sugar. "Oh, Ariadne, what