The reader must be asked to accompany me once more to that room in Mount Street in which poor Archie practised diplomacy, and whither the courageous Doodles was carried prisoner in those moments in which he was last seen of us. The Spy was now sitting alone before her desk, scribbling with all her energy,—writing letters on foreign policy, no doubt, to all the courts of Europe, but especially to that Russian court to which her services were more especially due. She was hard at work, when there came the sound of a step upon the stairs. The practised ear of the Spy became erect, and she at once knew who was her visitor. It was not one with whom diplomacy would much avail, or who was likely to have money ready under his glove for her behoof. "Ah, Edouard, is that you? I am glad you have come," she said, as Count Pateroff entered the room.

"Yes, it is I. I got your note yesterday."

"You are good,—very good. You are always good." Sophie as she said this went on very rapidly with her letter,—so rapidly that her hand seemed to run about the paper wildly. Then she flung down her pen, and folded the paper on which she had been writing with marvellous quickness. There was an activity about the woman, in all her movements, which was wonderful to watch. "There," she said, "that is done; now we can talk. Ah! I have nearly written off my fingers this morning." Her brother smiled, but said nothing about the letters. He never allowed himself to allude in any way to her professional duties.

"So you are going to St. Petersburg?" he said.

"Well,—yes, I think. Why should I remain here spending money with both hands and through the nose?" At this idea, the brother again smiled pleasantly. He had never seen his sister to be culpably extravagant as she now described herself. "Nothing to get and everything to lose," she went on saying.

"You know your own affairs best," he answered.

"Yes; I know my own affairs. If I remained here, I should be taken away to that black building there;" and she pointed in the direction of the workhouse, which fronts so gloomily upon Mount Street. "You would not come to take me out."

The count smiled again. "You are too clever for that, Sophie, I think."

"Ah, it is well for a woman to be clever, or she must starve,—yes, starve! Such a one as I must starve in this accursed country, if I were not what you call, clever." The brother and sister were talking in French, and she spoke now almost as rapidly as she had written. "They are beasts and fools, and as awkward as bulls,—yes, as bulls. I hate them. I hate them all. Men, women, children,—they are all alike. Look at the street out there. Though it is summer, I shiver when I look out at its blackness. It is the ugliest nation! And they understand nothing. Oh, how I hate them!"

"They are not without merit. They have got money."

"Money,—yes. They have got money; and they are so stupid, you may take it from under their eyes. They will not see you. But of their own hearts, they will give you nothing. You see that black building,—the workhouse. I call it Little England. It is just the same. The naked, hungry, poor wretches lie at the door, and the great fat beadles swell about like turkey-cocks inside."

"You have been here long enough to know, at any rate."

"Yes; I have been here long,—too long. I have made my life a wilderness, staying here in this country of barracks. And what have I got for it? I came back because of that woman, and she has thrown me over. That is your fault,—yours,—yours!"

"And you have sent for me to tell me that again?"

"No, Edouard. I sent for you that you might see your sister once more,—that I might once more see my brother." This she said leaning forward on the table, on which her arms rested, and looking steadfastly into his face with eyes moist,—just moist, with a tear in each. Whether Edouard was too unfeeling to be moved by this show of affection, or whether he gave more credit to his sister\'s histrionic powers than to those of her heart, I will not say; but he was altogether irresponsive to her appeal. "You will be back again before long," he said.

"Never! I shall come back to this accursed country never again. No; I am going once and for all. I will soil myself with the mud of its gutters no more. I came for the sake of Julie; and now,—how has she treated me?" Edouard shrugged his shoulders. "And you,—how has she treated you?"

"Never mind me."

"Ah, but I must mind you. Only that you would not let me manage, it might be yours now,—yes, all. Why did you come down to that accursed island?"

"It was my way to play my game. Leave that alone, Sophie." And there came a frown over the brother\'s brow.

"Your way to play your game! Yes; and what has become of mine? You have destroyed mine; but you think nothing of that. After all that I have gone through, to have nothing; and through you,—my brother! Ah, that is the hardest of all,—when I was putting all things in train for you!"

"You are always putting things in train. Leave your trains alone, where I am concerned."

"But why did you come to that place in the accursed island? I am ruined by that journey. Yes; I am ruined. You will not help me to get a shilling from her,—not even for my expenses."

"Certainly not. You are clever enough to do your own work without my aid."

"And is that all from a brother? Well! And now that they have drowned themselves,—the two Claverings,—the fool and the brute; and she can do what she pleases—"

"She could always do as she pleased since Lord Ongar died."

"Yes; but she is more lonely than ever now. That cousin who is the greatest fool of all, who might have had everything,—mon Dieu! yes, everything;—she would have given it all to him with a sweep of her hand, if he would have taken it. He is to marry himself to a little brown girl, who has not a shilling. No one but an Englishman could make follies so abominable as these. Ah, I am sick,—I am sick when I remember it!" And Sophie gave unmistakeable signs of a grief which could hardly have been self-interested. But in truth she suffered pain at seeing a good game spoilt. It was not that she had any wish for Harry Clavering\'s welfare. Had he gone to the bottom of the sea in the same boat with his cousins, the tidings of his fate would have been pleasurable to her rather than otherwise. But when she saw such cards thrown away as he had held in his hand, she encountered that sort of suffering which a good player feels when he sits behind the chair of one who plays up to his adversary\'s trump, and makes no tricks of his own kings and aces.

"He may marry himself to the devil, if he please;—it is nothing to me," said the count.

"But she is there;—by herself,—at that place;—what is it called? Ten—bie. Will you not go now, when you can do no harm?"

"No; I will not go now."

"And in a year she will have taken some other one for her husband."

"What is that to me? But look here, Sophie, for you may as well understand me at once. If I were ever to think of Lady Ongar again as my wife, I should not tell you."

"And why not tell me,—your sister?"

"Because it would do me no good. If you had not been there she would have been my wife now."

"Edouard!"

"What I say is true. But I do not want to reproach you because of that. Each of us was playing his own game; and your game was not my game. You are going now, and if I play my game again I can play it alone."

Upon hearing this Sophie sat awhile in silence, looking at him. "You will play it alone?" she said at last. "You would rather do that?"

"Much rather, if I play any game at all."

"And you will give me something to go?"

"Not one sou."

"You will not;—not a sou?"

"Not half a sou,—for you to go or stay. Sophie, are you not a fool to ask me for money?"

"And you are a fool,—a fool who knows nothing. You need not look at me like that. I am not afraid. I shall remain here. I shall stay and do as the lawyer tells me. He says that if I bring my action she must pay me for my expenses. I will bring my action. I am not going to leave it all to you. No. Do you remember those days in Florence? I have not been paid yet, but I will be paid. One hundred and seventy-five thousand francs a year,—and after all I am to have none of it! Say;—should it become yours, will you do something for your sister?"

"Nothing at all;—nothing. Sophie, do you think I am fool enough to bargain in such a matter?"

"Then I will stay. Yes;—I will bring my action. All the world shall hear, and they shall know how you have destroyed me and yourself. Ah;—you think I am afraid; that I will not spend my money. I will spend all,—all,—all; and I will be revenged."

"You may go or stay; it is the same thing to me. Now, if you please, I will take my leave." And he got up from his chair to leave her.

"It is the same thing to you?"

"Quite the same."

"Then I will stay, and she shall hear my name every day of her life;—every hour. She shall be so sick of me and of you, that,—that—that— Oh, Edouard!" This last appeal was made to him because he was already at the door, and could not be stopped in any other way.

"What else have you to say, my sister?"

"Oh, Edouard, what would I not give to see all those riches yours? Has it not been my dearest wish? Edouard, you are ungrateful. All men are ungrateful." Now, having succeeded in stopping him, she buried her face in the corner of the sofa and wept plentifully. It must be presumed that her acting before her brother must have been altogether thrown away; but the acting was, nevertheless, very good.

"If you are in truth going to St. Petersburg," he said, "I will bid you adieu now. If not,—au revoir."

"I am going. Yes, Edouard, I am. I cannot bear this country longer. My heart is being torn to pieces. All my affections are outraged. Yes, I am going;—perhaps on Monday;—perhaps on Monday week. But I go in truth. My brother, adieu." Then she got up, and putting a hand on each of his shoulders, lifted up her face to be kissed. He embraced her in the manner proposed, and turned to leave her. But before he went she made to him one other petition, holding him by the arm as she did so. "Edouard, you can lend me twenty napoleons till I am at St. Petersburg?"

"No, Sophie; no."

"Not lend your sister twenty napoleons!"

"No, Sophie. I never lend money. It is a rule."

"Will you give me five? I am so poor. I have almost nothing."

"Things are not so bad with you as that, I hope?"

"Ah, yes; they are very bad. Since I have been in this accursed city,—now, this time, what have I got? Nothing,—nothing. She was to be all in all to me,—and she has given me nothing! It is very bad to be so poor. Say that you will give me five napoleons;—O my brother!" She was still hanging by his arm, and, as she did so, she looked up into his face with tears in her eyes. As he regarded her, bending down his face over hers, a slight smile came upon his countenance. Then he put his hand into his pocket, and taking out his purse, handed to her five sovereigns.

"Only five?" she said.

"Only five," he answered.

"A thousand thanks, O my brother." Then she kissed him again, and after that he went. She accompanied him to th............