That night I dreamed of nothing but the scene, over and over again, and the two bars of music were constantly ringing in my ears. As soon as I had breakfasted the next morning I set off to Mr Turnbull’s, and told him what had occurred.  
“It was indeed fortunate that the box was landed,” said he, “or you might have now been in prison; I wish I had had nothing to do with it; but, as you say, ‘what’s done can’t be helped;’ I will not give up the box, at all events, until I know which party is entitled to it, and I cannot help thinking that the lady is. But, Jacob, you will have to reconnoitre, and find out what this story is. Tell me, do you think you could remember the which he whistled so often?”
 
“It has been running in my head the whole night, and I have been trying it all the way as I pulled here. I think I have it exact. Hear, sir.”—I whistled the two bars.
 
“Quite correct, Jacob, quite correct; well, take care not to forget them. Where are you going to-day?”
 
“Nowhere, sir.”
 
“Suppose, then, you pull up the river, and find out the place where we landed, and when you have that, you can go on and see whether the young man is with the skiff; at all events you may find out something—but pray be cautious.”
 
I promised to be very careful, and departed on my errand, which I undertook with much pleasure, for I was delighted with anything like adventure. I pulled up the river, and in about an hour and a-quarter, came of the spot. I recognised the cottage ornée, the parapet wall, even the spot where we lay, and perceived that several bricks were detached and had fallen into the river. There appeared to be no one stirring in the house, yet I continued to pull up and down, looking at the windows; at last one opened, and a young lady looked out, who, I was persuaded, was the same that we had seen the night before. There was no wind, and all was quiet around. She sat at the window, leaning her head on her hand. I whistled the two bars of the air. At the first bar she started up, and looked earnestly at me as I completed the second. I looked up; she waved her handkerchief once, and then shut the window. In a few seconds she made her appearance on the lawn, walking down towards the river. I immediately pulled in under the wall. I laid in my sculls, and held on, up in the boat.
 
“Who are you? and who sent you?” said she, looking down on me, and discovering one of the most beautiful faces I had ever .
 
“No one sent me ma’am,” replied I, “but I was in the boat last night. I am sorry you were so unfortunate, but your box and cloak are quite safe.”
 
“You were one of the men in the boat. I trust no one was hurt when they fired at you?”
 
“No ma’am.”
 
“And where is the box?”
 
“In the house of the person who was with me.”
 
“Can he be trusted? For they will offer large rewards for it.”
 
“I should think so, ma’am,” replied I, smiling; “the person who was with me is a gentleman of large fortune, who was amusing himself on the river. He desires me to say that he will not give up the box until he knows to whom the contents legally belong.”
 
“Good heavens, how fortunate! Am I to believe you?”
 
“I should hope so, ma’am.”
 
“And what are you, then? You are not a waterman?”
 
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
 
She paused, looked earnestly at me for a little while, and then continued, “How did you learn the air you whistled?”
 
“The young gentleman whistled it six or seven times last night before you came. I tried it this morning coming up, as I thought it would be the means of attracting your attention. Can I be of any service to you, ma’am?”
 
“Service—yes, if I could be sure you were to be trusted—of the greatest service. I am confined here—cannot send a letter—watched as I move—only allowed the garden, and even watched while I walk here. They are most of them in quest of the tin box to-day, or I should not be able to talk to you so long.” She looked round at the house anxiously, and then said, “Stop here a minute, while I walk a little.” She then retreated, and paced up and down the garden walk. I still remained under the wall, so as not to be perceived from the house. In about three or four minutes she returned and said, “It would be very cruel—it would be more than cruel—it would be very wicked of you to deceive me, for I am very unfortunate and very unhappy.” The tears started in her eyes. “You do not look as if you would. What is your name?”
 
“Jacob Faithful, ma’am, and I will be true to my name, if you will put your trust in me. I never deceived any one that I can ; and I’m sure I would not you—now that I’ve seen you.”
 
“Yes, but money will everybody.”
 
“Not me, ma’am. I’ve as much as I wish for.”
 
“Well, then, I will trust you, and think you sent from heaven to my aid; but how am I to see you? To-morrow my uncle will be back, and then I shall not be able to speak to you one moment, and if seen to speak to you, you will be laid in wait for, and perhaps shot.”
 
“Well, ma’am,” replied I, after a pause, “if you cannot speak, you can write. You see that the bricks on the parapet are loose here. Put your letter under this brick—I can take it away even in day-time, without being noticed, and can put the answer in the same place, so that you can secure it when you come out.”
 
“How very clever! Good heavens, what an excellent idea!”
 
“Was the young gentleman hurt, ma’am, in the scuffle last night?” inquired I.
 
“No, I believe not much, but I wish to know where he is, to write to him; could you find out?” I told her where we had met him, and what had passed. “That was Lady Auburn’s,” replied she; “he is often there—she is our cousin but I don’t know where he lives, and how to find him I know not. His name is William Wharncliffe.............