sterious duel was
fought. If you are introduced to him he is sure to ask you whether you
know anything about it; but beware of following up the subject after you
have answered him, unless you want to make sure that he is out of his
senses. In that case, only talk of his uncle, and the result will rather
more than satisfy you."

A day or two after this conversation with my friend the _attache,_ I met
Monkton at an evening party.

The moment he heard my name mentioned, his face flushed up; he drew me
away into a corner, and referring to his cool reception of my advance
years ago toward making his acquaintance, asked my pardon for what he
termed his inexcusable ingratitude with an earnestness and an agitation
which utterly astonished me. His next proceeding was to question me, as
my friend had said he would, about the place of the mysterious duel.

An extraordinary change came over him while he interrogated me on this
point. Instead of looking into my face as they had looked hitherto, his
eyes wandered away, and fixed themselves intensely, almost fiercely,
either on the perfectly empty wall at our side, or on the vacant space
between the wall and ourselves, it was impossible to say which. I had
come to Naples from Spain by sea, and briefly told him so, as the best
way of satisfying him that I could not assist his inquiries. He pursued
them no further; and, mindful of my friend's warning, I took care to
lead the conversation to general topics. He looked back at me directly,
and, as long as we stood in our corner, his eyes never wandered away
again to the empty wall or the vacant space at our side.

Though more ready to listen than to speak, his conversation, when he did
talk, had no trace of anything the least like insanity about it. He had
evidently read, not generally only, but deeply as well, and could apply
his reading with singular felicity to the illustration of almost any
subject under discussion, neither obtruding his knowledge absurdly, nor
concealing it affectedly. His manner was in itself a standing protest
against such a nickname as "Mad Monkton." He was so shy, so quiet, so
composed and gentle in all his actions, that at times I should have been
almost inclined to call him effeminate. We had a long talk together on
the first evening of our meeting; we often saw each other afterward, and
never lost a single opportunity of bettering our acquaintance. I felt
that he had taken a liking to me, and, in spite of wh