When they reached the street, Humphrey Statham stopped short, and turning to Martin, said, 'You had better see Mrs. Claxton to her home. The excitement of the day has been too much for her, and the sooner she is under the fostering care of Madame Du Tertre--it seems impossible for me to call her by any other name--the less chance there will be of her suffering any ill-effects.'  
'Will you not go with us?' asked Martin, looking directly at his friend for the first time since the dread explanation concerning Emily Mitchell had passed between them, and still speaking with nervous trepidation; 'will you not go with us?'
 
'No,' replied Humphrey, 'not now; there is something which I think ought to be done, and I am the proper person to do it.'
 
'His manner was so odd that both Alice and Martin were struck by it at once, and the latter, taking Humphrey by the arm, drew him aside for a moment and said,
 
'I have an idea of what now fills your mind, and of the errand on which you are going. You will not suffer yourself to run into any danger?'
 
'Danger!'
 
'I repeat the word--danger! Life has a new happiness in store for you now, Humphrey Statham, and should consequently be more precious than you have ever yet considered it.'
 
His voice had regained its usual clear tone, and as he spoke he looked frankly in his friend's eyes. In the gaze which met his own, Martin saw that the deadly wrong which he had unwittingly wrought upon his companion was forgiven, and had he doubted it, the grasp with which his hand was seized would have been sufficient proof.
 
'Don't fear for me, old friend,' said Humphrey, his face glowing with delight at the idea which Martin's words had aroused; 'depend upon it I will run no risks, and neither by word or act give a chance by which I or others could be compromised. But it is necessary that a word of warning should be spoken in a certain quarter, with energy and promptitude. So for the present farewell.'
 
He turned to Alice as he finished speaking, and raising his hat was about to move away. But she put out her hand to him, and said, with pretty becoming hesitation, 'I cannot thank you as I ought, Mr. Statham, for the manner in which you have just pleaded my cause with--with that lady, any more than I can show my gratitude for the constant kindness I have met with at your hands.'
 
Humphrey Statham attempted to make a reply, but gave utterance to nothing. The words failed him, and for the first time in his life perhaps he was fairly nonplused. As the sweet young voice rang on his ear, as he felt the pressure of the warm soft hand, a strange vibration ran through him, and he knew himself on the point of giving way to an exhibition of feeling, the possibility of which a few months previously he would have laughed to scorn. So with a bow and a smile he turned on his heel and hurried rapidly away.
 
Martin watched his friend's departing figure for a moment, then with a half-sigh he said to his companion, 'I am glad that you spoke your thanks to Humphrey so warmly, Alice; for he has been your truest and best friend.'
 
'Rather say one of them,' said Alice, laying her hand lightly on his arm; 'you take no credit to yourself, Mr. Gurwood.'
 
The colour had faded from his cheeks and from his compressed lips ere he replied coldly, 'I take as much as is my due. Now let me call a cab and take you home, for on our way there I have something more to say to you.'
 
'Something more,' she cried, with a frightened air. 'O, Mr. Gurwood, nothing more dreadful, I hope; nothing that--'
 
'Do you imagine for an instant that I would put you to unnecessary suffering,' he said, almost tenderly, looking down into her pleading upturned eyes; 'that I, or any of us, would not shield you from any possible annoyance. No, what I have to say to you will, I think, be rather pleasant to you than otherwise. Here is the cab; I will tell you as we go along.'
 
When they were seated in the vehicle, Martin said to his companion, 'You have now, Alice, had Madame Du Tertre for your friend quite long enough to judge of her disposition, and to know whether the desire to serve your interests which she originally professed was dictated by a spirit of regard for you, or merely assumed to serve her own purposes.'
 
'There can be no question in the matter,' said Alice, almost indignantly; 'nothing can exceed the devotion which Pauline has exhibited to me ever since we came together. She is infinitely more like an elder sister to me than a person whose acquaintance I seem to have made by the merest chance.'
 
'There is often more than chance in these matters,' said Martin gravely; 'more than there seems to be in the chance use of a word. You have said that Pauline has seemed to you as an elder sister--suppose she really stood to you in that position?
 
'That could scarcely be,' said Alice; 'for years and years I had no relation but my poor brother, and since his death--'
 
'Since his death Providence has sent some one to fill his place much more efficiently than he ever filled it himself; so far as you are concerned, my poor child,' said Martin.
 
And then he told her what had occurred between them and Pauline at Statham's office, omitting, of course, all reference to the jealous feelings by which the Frenchwoman had at first been actuated, and dwelling upon the self-sacrifice and devotion with which she had espoused her kinswoman's cause.
 
Alice was much touched at this narrative, and when they reached home she embraced Pauline with such tenderness, that the latter knew at once that her story had been told; knew too, that Martin had been silent about the incidents of her early life and the reasons which had originally prompted her to throw herself in Alice's way, and was proportionately grateful to him.
 
Late that night, when they were together, Alice lying in her bed and Pauline sitting by her side, the two women had a long, earnest, and affectionate talk, in the course of which the strange events which the day had brought to light came under discussion. It was evident to Pauline that Alice had braced herself up to talk of her own position, and of the deception of which she had been the victim; but the Frenchwoman saw that her companion was in no condition to bear the excitement which such a topic would necessarily evoke, and gradually, but skilfully, drew her away from it. The case, however, was different when Alice depicted the rage and consternation of Mrs. Calverley at learning the part taken by her son in the concealment of the Claxton mystery. This was a point in which Pauline took the keenest interest, and she induced Alice to dilate on it at her will, framing her questions with much subtlety, and pondering over each answer she received. When Alice stated Mrs. Calverley's intention of disinheriting her son, and leaving him to struggle on in the comparatively obscure position which he then occupied, something like a ray of light shot into Pauline's darkened soul. Should the intention thus announced be carried out, should Martin be left to his own resources, she might then have the chance, such as never could occur to her under other circumstances, of proving her disinterested love for him. For the man of wealth, for the man even with great expectations, she could do nothing; any advances which she might make, any assistance which she might offer; the world would but regard as so much small bait thrown out for the purpose of securing a greater booty; and he, knowing as he did the circumstances of her previous life, the scheming predatory manner of her early existence, would too surely be of the opinion of the world. But if he were poor, and broken, and humbled, grieving over the alienation of his mother, and feeling himself solitary and shunned, her self-appointed task in winning him, in proving to him her devotion, in placing at his disposal the small means which she had, the worldly talent which even he acknowledged she possessed, would be a very much easier one.
 
'Mistress of her own fortune, and would continue to remain so; that is what she said, is it?' Pauline asked, after a pause.
 
'That is what she said, and that she renounced her son, and revoked all the declarations she had hitherto made in his favour,' said Alice. 'Was it not dreadful for poor Mr. Gurwood? I do pity him so.'
 
'Do you?' said Pauline, turning her searching gaze full upon the girl's face. 'Yes, I daresay you do. It is natural you should; Mr. Gurwood has been a good friend to you.'
 
'The best--almost the best--I had in the world.'
 
'Almost the best! Why, who could rank equal with him?'
 
'Mr. Gurwood himself said Mr. Statham,' cried Alice with downcast eyes.
 
'Ay, ay,' said Pauline quickly. Then, after an interval of a few minutes, the old cynical spirit coming over her, she added, more as if talking to herself than to her companion, 'I don't think we need trouble ourselves much, for Mr. Gurwood's sake, about that old woman's threat. I know her well; she is hard and cold and proud; but with all those charming qualities, and like many of your rigid English Pharisees, she is superstitious to a degree. She dare not make a will for fear of dying immediately she had signed her name to it; and if she dies without a will, her son inherits all her property. Vogue la galère,! Mr. Gurwood's chances are not so bad after all. There,' she added, in a softened voice, seeing Alice gazing at her in astonishment, 'get to sleep now, child; you have had a long and trying day, and must be quite wearied out.'
 
Alice fell asleep almost immediately, but for more than an hour afterwards Pauline sat with her feet on the fender gazing into the slowly dying embers and pondering over the circumstances by which she was surrounded. 'What was that Alice had said, that she so pitied Martin Gurwood? Yes, those were the words, and pity was akin to love.' But the expression on her face when she spoke had, as Pauline had noticed, nothing significant or tell-tale in it. Was there anything in the suspicion concerning Alice and Martin which had once crossed her mind? She thought not, she hoped not. And yet, what interest had she in that? There was but little chance that this one real passion of her life, her love for this quiet sedate young clergyman, this man so different in manner, thought, and profession from any other she had ever known--there was but little chance that her devotion would be recognised by or even known to him. Well, even in this world justice is sometimes meted out, as Père Gosselin used to tell her--ah, grand Dieu, how far away in the mists of ages seem Père Gosselin and the chapel of Notre Dame de la Garde and all the old Marseilles life!--and so she supposes she ought not to expect much happiness, and with a shrug of her shoulders and a wearied sigh, Pauline crept silently to her bed.
 
 
* * * * *
 
 
When Mr. Wetter, at the conclusion of his interview with Alice, took his departure from Pollington-terrace, he found himself unexpectedly with some spare time upon his hands. The result of that interview had been so............