“Barbara, how fine the day seems!”

“It is a beautiful day mamma.”

“I do think I should be all the better for going out.”

“I am sure you would, mamma,” was Barbara’s answer. “If you went out more, you would find the benefit. Every fine day you ought to do so. I will go and ask papa if he can spare Benjamin and the carriage.” She waltzed gaily out of the room, but returned in a moment.

“Mamma, it is all right. Benjamin is gone to get the carriage ready. You would like a bit of luncheon before you go—I will order the tray.”

“Anything you please, dear,” said the sweet-tempered gentlewoman. “I don’t know why, but I feel glad to go out today; perhaps because it is lovely.”

Benjamin made ready his carriage and himself, and drove out of the yard at the back, and brought the carriage round to the front gate.

The carriage—or phaeton as it was often called—was a somewhat old fashioned concern, as many country things are apt to be. A small box in front for the driver, and a wide seat with a head behind, accommodating Barbara well between them when Mr. and Mrs. Hare both sat in.

Benjamin drew the rug carefully over his mistress’s knees—the servants did not like Mr. Hare, but would have laid down their lives for her—ascended to his box, and drove them to their destination, the linen draper’s. It was an excellent shop, situated a little beyond the office of Mr. Carlyle, and Mrs. Hare and Barbara were soon engaged in that occupation said to possess for all women a fascination. They had been in about an hour, when Mrs. Hare discovered that her bag was missing.

“I must have left it in the carriage, Barbara. Go and bring it, will you, my dear? The pattern of that silk is in it.”

Barbara went out. The carriage and Benjamin and the sleek old horse were all waiting drowsily together. Barbara could not see the bag, and she appealed to the servant.

“Find mamma’s bag, Benjamin. It must be somewhere in the carriage.”

Benjamin got off his box and began to search. Barbara waited, gazing listlessly down the street. The sun was shining brilliantly, and its rays fell upon the large cable chain of a gentleman who was sauntering idly up the pavement, making its gold links and its drooping seal and key glitter, as they crossed his waistcoat. It shone also upon the enameled gold studs of his shirt front, making them glitter; and as he suddenly raised his ungloved hand to stroke his moustache—by which action you know a vain man—a diamond ring he wore gleamed with a light that was positively dazzling. Involuntarily Barbara thought of the description her brother Richard had given of certain dazzling jewels worn by another.

She watched him advance! He was a handsome man of, perhaps, seven or eight and twenty, tall, slender and well made, his eyes and hair black. A very pleasant expression sat upon his countenance; and on the left hand he wore a light buff kid glove, and was swinging its fellow by the fingers. But for the light cast at that moment by the sun, Barbara might not have noticed the jewellery, or connected it in her mind with the other jewellery in that unhappy secret.

“Hallo, Thorn, is that you? Just step over here.”

The speaker was Otway Bethel, who was on the opposite side of the street; the spoken to, the gentleman with the jewellery. But the latter was in a brown study, and did not hear. Bethel called out again, louder.

“Captain Thorn!”

That was heard. Captain Thorn nodded, and turned short off across the street. Barbara stood like one in a dream, her brain, her mind, her fancy all in a confused mass together.

“Here’s the bag, Miss Barbara. It had got among the folds of the rug.”

Benjamin held it out to her, but she took no notice; she was unconscious of all external things save one. That she beheld the real murderer of Hallijohn, she entertained no manner of doubt. In every particular he tallied with the description given by Richard; tall, dark, vain, handsome, delicate hands, jewellery, and—Captain Thorn! Barbara’s cheeks grew white and her heart turned sick.

“The bag, Miss Barbara.”

Away tore Barbara, leaving Benjamin and the bag in wonder. She had caught sight of Mr. Wainwright, the surgeon, at a little distance, and sped toward him.

“Mr. Wainwright,” began she, forgetting ceremony in her agitation, “you see that gentleman talking to Otway Bethel—who is he?”

Mr. Wainwright had to put his glasses across the bridge of his nose before he could answer, for he was short-sighted. “That? Oh, it is a Captain Thorn. He is visiting the Herberts, I believe.”

“Where does he come from? Where does he live?” reiterated Barbara in her eagerness.

“I don’t know anything about him. I saw him this morning with young Smith, and he told me he was a friend of the Herberts. You are not looking well, Miss Barbara.”

She made no answer. Captain Thorn and Mr. Bethel came walking down the street, and the latter saluted her, but she was too much confused to respond to it. Mr. Wainwright then wished her good day, and Barbara walked slowly back. Mrs. Hare was appearing at the shop door.

“My dear, how long you are! Cannot the bag be found?”

“I went to speak to Mr. Wainwright,” answered Barbara, mechanically taking the bag from Benjamin and giving it to her mother, her whole heart and eyes still absorbed with that one object moving away in the distance.

“You look pale, child. Are you well?”

“Oh, yes, quite. Let us get our shopping over, mamma.”

She moved on to their places at the counter as she spoke, eager to “get it over” and be at home, that she might have time for thought. Mrs. Hare wondered what had come to her; the pleased interest displayed in their purchases previously was now gone, and she sat inattentive and absorbed.

“Now, my dear, it is only waiting for you to choose. Which of the two silks will you have?”

“Either—any. Take which you like, mamma.”

“Barbara, what has come to you?”

“I believe I am tired,” said Barbara, with a forced laugh, as she compelled herself to pay some sort of attention. “I don’t like the green; I will take the other.”

They arrived at home. Barbara got just five minutes alone in her chamber before the dinner was on the table. All the conclusion she could come to was, she could do nothing save tell the facts to Archibald Carlyle.

How could she contrive to see him? The business might admit of no delay. She supposed she must go to East Lynne that evening; but where would be her excuse for it at home? Puzzling over it, she went down to dinner. During the meal, Mrs. Hare began talking of some silk she had purchased for a mantle. She should have it made like Miss Carlyle’s new one. When Miss Carlyle was at the grove, the other day, about Wilson’s character, she offered her the pattern, and she, Mrs. Hare, would send one of the servants up for it after dinner.

“Oh, mamma, let me go!” burst forth Barbara, and so vehemently spoke she, that the justice paused in carving, and demanded what ailed her. Barbara made some timid excuse.

“Her eagerness is natural, Richard,” smiled Mrs. Hare. “Barbara thinks she shall get a peep at the baby, I expect. All young folks are fond of babies.”

Barbara’s face flushed crimson, but she did not contradict the opinion. She could not eat her dinner—she was too full of poor Richard; she played with it, and then sent away her plate nearly untouched.

“That’s through the finery she’s been buying,” pronounced Justice Hare. “Her head is stuffed up with it.”

No opposition was offered to Barbara’s going to East Lynne. She reached it just as their dinner was over. It was for Miss Carlyle she asked.

“Miss Carlyle is not at home, miss. She is spending the day out; and my lady does not receive visitors yet.”

It was a sort of checkmate. Barbara was compelled to say she would see Mr. Carlyle. Peter ushered her into the drawing-room, and Mr. Carlyle came to her.

“I am so very sorry to disturb you—to have asked for you,” began Barbara, with a burning face, for, somehow, a certain evening interview of hers with him, twelve months before, was disagreeably present to her. Never, since that evening of agitation, had Barbara suffered herself to betray emotion to Mr. Carlyle; her manner to him had been calm, courteous, and indifferent. And she now more frequently called him “Mr. Carlyle” than “Archibald.”

“Take a seat—take a seat, Barbara.”

“I asked for Miss Carlyle,” she continued, “for mamma is in want of a pattern that she promised to lend her. You remember the Lieutenant Thorn whom Richard spoke of as being the real criminal?”

“Yes.”

“I think he is at West Lynne.”

Mr. Carlyle was aroused to eager interest.

“He! The same Thorn?”

“It can be no other. Mamma and I were shopping today, and I went out for her bag, which she left in the carriage. While Benjamin was getting it, I saw a stranger coming up the street—a tall, good-looking, dark-haired man, with a conspicuous gold chain and studs. The sun was full upon him, causing the ornaments to shine, especially a diamond ring which he wore, for he had one hand raised to his face. The thought flashed over me, ‘That is just like the description Richard gave of the man Thorn.’ Why the idea should have occurred to me in that strange manner, I do not know, but it most assuredly did occur, though I did not really suppose him to be the same. Just then I heard him spoken to by some one on the other side of the street; it was Otway Bethel, and he called him Captain Thorn.”

“This is curious, indeed, Barbara. I did not know any stranger was at West Lynne.”

“I saw Mr. Wainwright, and asked him who it was. He said a Captain Thorn, a friend of the Herberts. A Lieutenant Thorn four or five years ago would probably be Captain Thorn now.”

Mr. Carlyle nodded, and there was a pause.

“What can be done?” asked Barbara.

Mr. Carlyle was passing one hand over his brow; it was a habit of his when in deep thought.

“It is hard to say what is to be done, Barbara. The description you gave of this man certainly tallies with that given by Richard. Did he look like a gentleman?”

“Very much so. A remarkably aristocratic looking man, as it struck me.”

Mr. Carlyle again nodded assentingly. He remembered Richard’s words, when describing the other: “an out-and-out aristocrat.” “Of course, Barbara, the first thing must be to try and ascertain whether it is the same,” he observe............