question which had so excited his
curiosity. He had met the man in India many years before, had
received there from him most important kindnesses, and considered
him, from experience, of oracular wisdom. He seemed to have an
unlimited command of money, though most frugal in his private
habits; visited England for a short time every few years, and always
under a different appellation; but as for his real name, habitation,
or business, here or at home, the good banker knew nothing, except
that whenever questioned on them, he wandered off into Pantagruelist
jokes, and ended in Cloud-land. So that Lancelot was fain to give
up his questions and content himself with longing for the
reappearance of this inexplicable sage.

CHAPTER XVI: ONCE IN A WAY

A few mornings afterwards, Lancelot, as he glanced his eye over the
columns of The Times, stopped short at the beloved name of Whitford.
To his disgust and disappointment, it only occurred in one of those
miserable cases, now of weekly occurrence, of concealing the birth
of a child. He was turning from it, when he saw Bracebridge's name.
Another look sufficed to show him that he ought to go at once to the
colonel, who had returned the day before from Norway.

A few minutes brought him to his friend's lodging, but The Times had
arrived there before him. Bracebridge was sitting over his untasted
breakfast, his face buried in his hands.

'Do not speak to me,' he said, without looking up. 'It was right of
you to come--kind of you; but it is too late.'

He started, and looked wildly round him, as if listening for some
sound which he expected, and then laid his head down on the table.
Lancelot turned to go.

'No--do not leave me! Not alone, for God's sake, not alone!'

Lancelot sat down. There was a fearful alteration in Bracebridge.
His old keen self-confident look had vanished. He was haggard,
life-weary, shame-stricken, almost abject. His limbs looked quite
shrunk and powerless, as he rested his head on the table before him,
and murmured incoherently from time to time,--

'My own child! And I never shall have another! No second chance
for those who--Oh Mary! Mary! you might have waited--you might have
trusted me! And why should you?--ay, why, indeed? And such a
pretty baby, too!--just like his father!'

Lancelot laid his hand kindly on his shoulder.

'My dearest Bracebridge, the evidence proves that the child was bo