unboyne's motives, and merely
informing him that the child was already provided for.

After that, I heard no more of the Irish gentleman.

It is perhaps hardly necessary to add that I kept the Minister in
ignorance of my correspondence with Mr. Dunboyne. I was too well
acquainted with my friend's sensitive and self-tormenting nature to let
him know that a relative of the murderess was living, and was aware that
she had left a child.

A last event remains to be related, before I close these pages.

During the year of which I am now writing, our Chaplain added one more
to the many examples that I have seen of his generous readiness to serve
his friends. He had arranged to devote his annual leave of absence to a
tour among the English Lakes, when he received a letter from a clergyman
resident in London, whom he had known from the time when they had
been school-fellows. This old friend wrote under circumstances of the
severest domestic distress, which made it absolutely necessary that he
should leave London for a while. Having failed to find a representative
who could relieve him of his clerical duties, he applied to the Chaplain
to recommend a clergyman who might be in a position to help him. My
excellent colleague gave up his holiday-plans without hesitation, and
went to London himself.

On his return, I asked if he had seen anything of some acquaintances
of his and of mine, who were then visitors to the metropolis. He smiled
significantly when he answered me.

"I have a card to deliver from an acquaintance whom you have not
mentioned," he said; "and I rather think it will astonish you."

It simply puzzled me. When he gave me the card, this is what I found
printed on it:

"MRS. TENBRUGGEN (OF SOUTH BEVELAND)."

"Well?" said the Chaplain.

"Well," I answered; "I never even heard of Mrs. Tenbruggen, of South
Beveland. Who is she?"

"I married the lady to a foreign gentleman, only last week, at my
friend's church," the Chaplain replied. "Perhaps you may remember her
maiden name?"

He mentioned the name of the dangerous creature who had first presented
herself to me, in charge of the Prisoner's child--otherwise Miss
Elizabeth Chance. The reappearance of this woman on the scene--although
she was only represented by her card--caused me a feeling of vague
uneasiness, so contemptibly superstitious in its nature that I now
remember it with shame. I asked a stupid question:

"How did it happen?"

"In the ordinary