, in the teeth of the easterly gale, Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield
and Miss Julia Hazeltine had started forth on their untimely voyage.
Gideon pled in vain to be allowed to join the party. "No, Gid," said his
uncle. "You will be watched; you must keep away from us." Nor had the
barrister ventured to contest this strange illusion; for he feared if he
rubbed off any of the romance, that Mr. Bloomfield might weary of the
whole affair. And his discretion was rewarded; for the Squirradical,
laying a heavy hand upon his nephew's shoulder, had added these notable
expressions: "I see what you are after, Gid. But if you're going to get
the girl, you have to work, sir."

These pleasing sounds had cheered the barrister all day, as he sat
reading in chambers; they continued to form the ground-base of his manly
musings as he was whirled to Hampton Court; even when he landed at the
station, and began to pull himself together for his delicate interview,
the voice of Uncle Ned and the eyes of Julia were not forgotten.

But now it began to rain surprises: in all Hampton Court there was no
Kurnaul Villa, no Count Tarnow, and no count. This was strange; but,
viewed in the light of the incoherency of his instructions, not perhaps
inexplicable; Mr. Dickson had been lunching, and he might have made some
fatal oversight in the address. What was the thoroughly prompt, manly,
and business-like step? thought Gideon; and he answered himself at once:
"A telegram, very laconic." Speedily the wires were flashing the
following very important missive: "Dickson, Langham Hotel. Villa and
persons both unknown here, suppose erroneous address; follow self next
train.--Forsyth." And at the Langham Hotel, sure enough, with a brow
expressive of despatch and intellectual effort, Gideon descended not
long after from a smoking hansom.

I do not suppose that Gideon will ever forget the Langham Hotel. No
Count Tarnow was one thing; no John Dickson and no Ezra Thomas, quite
another. How, why, and what next, danced in his bewildered brain; from
every centre of what we playfully call the human intellect incongruous
messages were telegraphed; and before the hubbub of dismay had quite
subsided, the barrister found himself driving furiously for his
chambers. There was at least a cave of refuge; it was at least a place
to think in; and he climbed the stair, put his key in the lock and
opened the door, with some approach to hope.

It was all dark within, for the night had so