On the twelfth day I said:

"Bob, I think I shall run up to London."

"By all means," said Bob, cheerfully, a sign that my society was not indispensable to him, and that he was not wearying of his task. "Should anything occur I will telegraph to you. To which address, though?"

"Repeat your telegrams," I said, "to my chambers and my mother's house. I shall be back in two days, and if by that time things are still in the same position I think you should pay a visit to Sophy, and contrive somehow to speak to her. This inaction is intolerable."

"You have no patience," said Bob. "The train is laid. What more do you want?"

"Movement, Bob, movement." I looked at my watch. "Mustn't lose the train. I'm off."

And off I was, and in a few minutes whirling toward London. It was destined, however, that I should not reach there as early as I expected. We were midway when the train slackened, crawled along a few hundred yards, then came to a standstill.

"What's the matter?" I called to the guard, thrusting my head out of the window.

"Engine broke down, sir," was the answer. "Can't get on."

"Confound it!" I cried. "How long shall we have to wait?"

"There's no knowing, sir. Not till to-morrow morning, perhaps."

"But it is impossible for me to remain here all night."

"Very sorry, sir. It doesn't depend upon me. Accidents will happen."

Fretting and fuming would not mend matters, and I was compelled to submit. It turned out as the guard had indicated. Something else had occurred on the line which rendered it out of the question that another engine could be sent to our aid, and we did not arrive in London till the afternoon of the following day. I hastened at once to my chambers, then visited the office of the Evening Moon, and then proceeded to my mother's house, which I did not reach till six o'clock in the evening. The moment the street door was opened Emilia ran into the passage to greet me.

"You have seen him," she cried, "and he has explained all."

"Seen whom?" I asked, very much astonished, "and what is there to explain?"

"You have not met M. Bordier, then," she said, falling back.

"No," I replied. "I left the country suddenly yesterday, and an accident happened to the train. I was detained all night."

"I sent you a letter also," said Emilia, "it was posted yesterday morning."

"That accounts for my not receiving it. It must have arrived after my departure."

I saw that she was agitated, and I led her to the sitting-room, where, after exchanging a few words with my mother, we were left alone. Then I learnt what had taken place.

M. Bordier, it appears, had visited Emilia every day during my absence, and had observed in her signs of suppressed excitement which had caused him deep concern. At first he made no comment upon this change in her, but at length he questioned her, and, receiving no satisfaction, told her with delicate pointedness that he deemed it her duty to confide in him if she were in any trouble. Still she evaded his inquiries, and this with marks of such extreme distress that he became more pressing in his desire that she should be candid and straightforward with him. I will give what afterward transpired in Emilia's own words.

"He came the night before last," she said, "and asked to speak privately with me. I could not refuse him; it appeared to me as if my refusal to appease his natural curiosity had aroused suspicions which might be fatal to my daughter's happiness. He spoke very kindly, but very firmly. Considering the relations in which we stood to each other, he had come to a decision which it was right should be communicated to me. Before doing so he would ask me a question or two to which he expected frank answers. He asked me how long I had known your family. I replied, about two weeks. Had I any previous knowledge of them? I said no. Through whom had I become acquainted with them? I said, through you. He then asked who and what you were; I told him, trembling all the time, because his questions were leading straight to the secret I was hiding from him. Had I any previous knowledge of you, he asked; were you related to me in any way? I answered that you were not related to me, and that I had made your acquaintance only since my arrival in London. Were you acquainted with the cause of my trouble, he asked. I said yes, you were, and that you were endeavoring to befriend me. He reflected a little before he continued, and when he spoke it was in the same kind and gentle voice, but more firmly than before. 'It amounts to this,' he said, 'that you have a secret which has brought grief upon you, and that you confide this secret to a stranger and deny it to me. I draw from this a reasonable inference--that you have a trouble of a private nature which you are deliberately concealing from those who have a right, if anyone has the right, to share it with you. Is it a pecuniary trouble?' I answered that it was no............