h, were naught
against him. His passion for her had brought her thousands upon
thousands of dollars--would bring her, she hoped, as much more. Here was
Bristol. He was not handsome, he was not a Canadian Adonis, he
incessantly smoked a very ugly pipe fully as old as himself. But he had
some way got the reputation of being "a retired Canadian banker" among
these people, and Mrs. Winslow's heart warmed towards him the way it had
towards a hundred others when she had wanted them to walk into her
parlor as the ancient spider had desired of the fly.

So she had begun weaving a shining web of loving looks, of tender
glances, of dreamy sighs, and of graceful manoeuvres of a general
character about the unsuspecting Bristol, that resulted in pecuniary
profit to the old maids, who, nevertheless, with the quick instinct of
three jealous women of economical build and mature years, had already
begun to hate her as a rival, and pour into Bristol's alert ears sad
tales about the splendid charmer, all of which were properly reported to
me by the "retired Montreal banker," who had suddenly found himself a
prize worthy to be sought for, and fought for, if necessary, by four
determined women, one of whom hungered for his supposed wealth, and
three of whom possessed the more desperate, life-long hunger whose
appeasing is worth a severe struggle.

After her breakfast, which, unfortunately, had not given her an
opportunity for bestowing a graceful nod or a winning smile upon
Bristol, whom the old maids had furnished a superb breakfast in his own
apartment, Mrs. Winslow returned to her rooms and seated herself at her
windows, where she read the morning paper for a little time. She then
disappeared from Fox's sight for a half-hour or so, when, just as he was
about leaving his watch at his window he noticed her descend the stairs,
and, after looking cautiously about for a moment, deposit a card behind
her own sign, which was attached to the frame of the outer doorway
leading to her rooms. As soon as she had retired, and before she could
have returned to her windows, Fox slipped down and out across the
street, and removing the card from its novel depository, saw written
upon it:

"Le Compte:--Will be at the Garden with carriage at ten,
prompt.

"MRS. W."

Fox had no more than time to return the card to its place when he saw
the person to whom it was addressed turn into St. Paul street from