oment. Between this and the carriage in
which the four friends were seated, a clumsy furniture-wagon attempted
to pass at the moment when they stopped to show tickets, and in doing so
the driver locked his wheel with that of the close-carriage coming over.
The friends noticed that there were trunks on the rack of this carriage,
and that though the day was so hot and sultry, the windows were closed.
As the wheels locked, one of the windows was dashed down with some
petulance, and a head appeared through it, while a sharp, strong voice
cried:

"Why the d--l don't you drive on?"

Both Tom Leslie and Walter Harding recognized the face and voice of
Dexter Ralston. The latter, glancing at the figures in the landau,
observed Leslie, and made a sign of recognition. By this time the wheel
was cleared, Ralston again shut the window sharply, and the carriage
dashed away at full speed towards the custom-house on which "V.R." is
displayed for the benefit of those who never tread upon British soil to
see it more liberally distributed.

"There he is again!" said Leslie to Harding.

"And apparently going away, by the trunks on the rack," replied Harding.

"Who is it?" asked John Crawford.

"An odd character, about whom we will tell you by-and-bye," said Tom
Leslie. "He is a Southerner, but he must have been born in a _very_ hot
climate, to need the windows closed on such a day as this."

"And he must be in a hurry," said Harding, "by his impatience and the
speed at which the carriage drove away."

They drove slowly over the bridge and then hurried back towards the
Cataract. It was nearly two o'clock when they reached the house, and the
riders and strollers had come back from their various wanderings and
filled the halls and parlors, chatting, looking at the stereoscopic
views arranged for the destruction of eyes, and waiting for dinner. As
the four friends entered the hall after dismissing the carriage, they
were met by Bell Crawford, who seemed to have been looking out for them
from the head of the stairs--her face pale, her voice thick and
troubled, and her general appearance frightened and "flustered."

"What is the matter?" asked Richard Crawford, who had, even in that
short space of exposure to the outer air, so much improved that fatigue
rather made him fresher than otherwise, and who might even then have
been called "almost a well man."

"She is gone!" cried Bell, drawing John and Richard, and the others
insensibly f