as at once invited to her little office
where they could talk undisturbed.

"Sit down, Mr. Goodchild, I want to give you a lecture. What have you
been doing to my darling May? you who used to be so fond of her, that
she has to run away to me; and she comes here so altered. All her
light-heartedness is gone; she never goes out; receives no friends; and
does nothing but mope inside the house. The only time she brightens up
is when she asks for letters or telegrams. In fact she is breaking her
heart, and you, though you won't own it, are doing the same."

"You are altogether mistaken, it is not--"

"No, of course it is not your fault; how could it be? No, sir, you need
not try to throw dust in my eyes. I have known both of you for so many
years, and I think too much of you both to see this going on without
attempting to put matters straight."

"It's not I she's breaking her heart over. It's Wyckliffe: he's the man
who has come between us, and who alone has done all this mischief. You
had a gentleman here last night. I don't know what he told you."

"He did not say much. He referred me to you. But what became of him?
Like most young fellows, I suppose he went out exploring the city by
night, and lost his way."

"No, there you wrong him, madam, for as soon as he heard Wyckliffe was
at Port Arthur he came back to me, and then hired a steamer to take him
and his friend down there. I saw them off last night, and, see, here is
a wire I got this morning. It reads:

'Mr. Goodchild, Hobart.

He has left here. Destination unknown. Suspicions well
grounded.--Winter.'"

"I shall feel obliged if you can give me a little explanation, for Mr.
Wyckliffe was staying here for several days, and I took a great fancy to
him. You connect your daughter's ill-health with him; and finally you
produce a telegram saying 'suspicions well-grounded.' I must say I
cannot understand it. Help me to do so," said the lady, shifting about
in her chair, in the fidgetty, uncomfortable way women have when they
are puzzled.

"Well, the fact of the matter is that this fellow Wyckliffe is an
English adventurer, and a scoundrel of the blackest dye. He passes as a
gentleman, and his intentions from what I can learn are never of a very
honourable description. Mr. Winter and his friend Morris are on his
tracks for an affair something similar, but as they will both be here
to-night, I would rather leave them to explain. I wish now to see my