ous document lying on the table--a lady's
note. "A mistake," thought I, approaching the unusual visitor. Not so;
it was addressed to me. I opened it, and read. It ran as follows:--

"Dear sir--Pardon my abruptness. As a friend of Mr Rupert Sinclair,
I entreat five minutes' conversation. I shall be at home to-morrow
at noon. Pray, come. His happiness depends upon your punctuality.
Keep this communication secret.--Yours, &c.,

"CHARLOTTE TWISLETON."

The plot was thickening with a vengeance. What could this mean? And what
was I to do? Clearly to wait upon the lady, as directed, to postpone my
departure, to forfeit my fare, and to mix myself deeper than ever in a
mystery, which, trusting to appearances, was likely to end in the ruin
of Mr Rupert Sinclair, and his more luckless tutor. Taking care to avoid
Sinclair in the morning, I directed his servant to acquaint him with my
change of views; and quitted the hotel some hour or two before the time
fixed for the anxious interview. Punctually at noon, I presented myself
at Mrs Twisleton's door. My alarm was intense when I reached that lady's
apartment. She had evidently been waiting my arrival with extreme
impatience. Before I could speak or bow, she rushed towards me, and
exclaimed--

"Is it over, sir? Is he gone?"

"What over, madam?" I answered. "Who gone?"

"Mr Sinclair. Is he married?"

"Married?"

"Yes. Married. They are to be, if they are not already. Take him to
town, sir. Drag him away. We shall be ruined."

I had thought so for the last four-and-twenty hours; but I had certainly
not included Mrs Twisleton in the calculation.

"Mr Thompson," continued the lady, forgetting my name in her anxiety,
"Lord Railton will go raving mad if this should come about. We shall all
be punished. I know him well. You, for having brought Mr Sinclair here;
I, for having introduced him to the impostors; and himself for having
been caught in their snares. And he is a powerful man, and has the means
to punish us."

He had certainly the means of punishing Mrs Twisleton; for her son, at
college, had been already promised the next presentation to a valuable
living in Yorkshire. Her fears on my account were hardly so well
founded.

"Look here, Mr Wilson," said Mrs Twisleton, hurrying to her
writing-desk, and taking from it a letter, which she placed in my hands.
"Read that."

I ran my eye over the document. It was from a female correspondent in
London