"But who was it?--you haven't told me," he said, as Drysdale put it down at last empty.

"Why, that d--d St. Cloud. He was giving you a nice character, in a sort of sneaking deprecatory way, as if he was sorry for it.

Amongst other little tales, he said you used to borrow money from Jews--he knew it for a certainty because he had been asked himself to join you and another man--meaning me, of course--in such a transaction. You remember how he wouldn't acknowledge the money I lent him at play, and the note he wrote me which upset Blake so. I had never forgotten it. I knew I should get my chance some day, and here it was. I don't know what the girl thought of me, or how she got out of the balcony, but I stepped into the recess just as he had finished his precious story, and landed between him and a comfortable old boy, who was looking shocked.

He _must_ be your G.o.dfather, or something of the kind. I'll bet you a pony you are down for something handsome in his will."

"What was his name? Did you find out?"

"Yes; Potter, or Porter, or something like it. I've got his card somewhere. I just stared St. Cloud in the face, and you may depend upon it he winched. Then I told the old boy that I had heard their talk, and, as I was at St. Ambrose with you, I should like to have five minutes with him when St. Cloud had done. He seemed rather in a corner between us. However, I kept in sight till St. Cloud was obliged to draw off; and, to cut my story short, as the tankard is empty, I think I put you pretty straight there. You said we were quits just now; after last night, perhaps we are, for I told him the truth of the Benjamin story, and I think he is squared. He seems a good sort of old boy. He's a relation of yours, eh?"

"Only a distant connexion. Did anything more happen?"

"Yes; I saw that he was flurried and didn't know quite what to think; so I asked him to let me call, and I would bring him some one else to speak to your character. He gave me his card, and I'm going to take Blake there today. Then I asked him where you were, and he didn't know, but said he thought Grey could tell me."

"It is very kind of you, Drysdale to take so much trouble."

"Trouble! I'd go from here to Jericho to be even with our fine friend. I never forget a bad turn. I met him afterwards in the cloak-room, and went out of the door close after him, to give him a chance if he wants to say anything. I only wish he would. But why do you suppose he is lying about you?"

"I can't tell. I've never spoken to him since he left Oxford.

Never saw him till yesterday, riding with Mr. Porter. I suppose that reminded them of me."

"Well, St. Cloud is bent on getting round him for some reason or another, you may take your oath of that. Now my time's up; I shall go and pick up Blake. I should think I had better not take Jack to call in Eaton Square, though he'd give you a good character if he could speak; wouldn't you Jack?"

Jack wagged his tail, and descended from the sofa.

"Does Blake live up here? What is he doing?"

"Burning the candle at both ends, and in the middle, as usual.

Yes, he's living near his club. He writes political articles, devilish well I hear, too, and is reading for the bar; beside which he is getting into society, and going out whenever he can, and fretting his soul out that he isn't prime minister, or something of the kind. He won't last long at the pace he's going."

"I'm very sorry to hear it. But you'll come here again, Drysdale; or let me come and see you? I shall be very anxious to hear what has happened."

"Here's my pasteboard; I shall be in town for another fortnight.

Drop in when you like."

And so Drysdale and Jack went off, leaving Tom in a chaotic state of mind. All his old hopes were roused again as he thought over Drysdale's narrative. He could no longer sit still; so he rushed out, and walked up and down the river-side walk, in the Temple gardens, where a fine breeze blowing, at a pace which astonished the gate-keepers and the nursery-maids and children, who were taking the air in that favorite spot. Once or twice he returned to chambers, and at last found East reposing after his excursion to the Docks.

East's quick eye saw at once that something had happened; and he had very soon heard the whole story; upon which he deliberated for some minutes, and rejoiced Tom's heart by saying: "Ah! all up with New Zealand, I see. I shall be introduced after all before we start. Come along; I must stand you a dinner on the strength of the good news, and we'll drink her health."

Tom called twice that evening at Drysdale's lodgings, but he was out. The next morning he called again. Drysdale had gone to Hampton Court races, and had left no message. He left a note for him, but got no answer. It was trying work. Another day pa.s.sed without any word from Drysdale, who seemed never to be at home; and no answer to either of his letters. On the third morning he heard from his father. It was just the answer which he had expected--as kind a letter as could be written. Mr. Brown had suspected how matters stood at one time, but had given up the idea in consequence of Tom's silence; which he regretted, as possibly things might have happened otherwise, had he known the state of the case. It was too late now, however; and the less said the better about what might have been. As to New Zealand, he should not oppose Tom's going, if, after some time, he continued in his present mind. It was very natural for him just now to wish to go. They would talk it over as soon as Tom came home, which Mr. Brown begged him to do at once, or, at any rate, as soon as he had seen his friend off. Home was the best place for him.

Tom sighed as he folded it up; the hopes of the last three days seemed to be fading away again. He spent another restless day; and by night had persuaded himself that Drysdale's mission had been a complete failure, and that he did not write and kept out of the way out of kindness for him.

"Why, Tom, old fellow, you look as down in the mouth as ever to-night," East said, when Tom opened the door for him about midnight, on his return from his club; "cheer up; you may depend it's all to go right."

"But I haven't seen Drysdale again, and he hasn't written to me."

"There's nothing in that. He was glad enough to do you a good turn, I dare say, when it came in his way, but that sort of fellow never can keep anything up. He has been too much used to having his own way, and following his own fancies. Don't you lose heart because he won't put himself out for you."

"Well, Harry, you are the best fellow, in the world. You would put a backbone into anyone."

"Now, we'll just have a quiet cheroot, and then turn in; and see if you don't have good news to-morrow. How hot it is! The Strand to-night is as hot as the Punjaub, and the reek of it--phah! my throat is full of it still."

East took off his coat, and was just throwing it on a chair, when he stopped, and, feeling in his pocket, said--

"Let's see, here's a note for you. The porter gave it to me as I knocked in."

Tom took it carelessly, but the next moment was tearing it open with trembling fingers. "From my cousin," he said. East watched him read, and saw the blood rush to his face, and the light come into his eyes.

"Good news, Tom, I see. Bravo, old boy. You've had a long fight for it, and deserve to win."

Tom got up, tossed the note across the table, and began walking up and down the room; his heart was too full for speech.

"May I read?" said East, looking up. Tom nodded, and he read--

"DEAR TOM,--I am coming to town to spend a week with them in Eaton Square. Call on me to-morrow at twelve, or, if you are engaged then, between three and five. I have no time to add more now, but long to see you.

Your loving cousin,

KATIE

"P.S.--I will give you your parcel back to-morrow, and then you can _burn_ the contents yourself, or do what you like with them.

Uncle bids me say he shall be glad if you will come and dine to-morrow, and any other day you can spare while I am here."

When he had read the note, East got up and shook hands heartily with Tom, and then sat down again quietly to finish his cheroot, watching with a humorous look his friend's march.

"And you think it is really all right now?" Tom asked, in one form or another, after every few turns; and East replied in various forms of chaffing a.s.surance that there could not be much further question on the point. At last, when he had finished his cheroot, he got up, and, taking his candle, said, "Good night, Tom; when that revolution comes, which you're always predicting, remember, if you're not shot or hung, you'll always find a roost for you and your wife in New Zealand."

"I don't feel so sure about the revolution now, Harry."

"Of course you don't. Mind, I bargain for the dinner in Eaton Square. I always told you I should dine there before I started."

The next day Tom found that he was not engaged at twelve o'clock, and was able to appear in Eaton Square. He was shown up into the drawing-room, and found Katie alone there. The quiet and coolness of the darkened room was most grateful to him after the glare of the streets, as he sat down by her side.

"But Katie," he said, as soon as the first salutations and congratulations had pa.s.sed, "how did it all happen? I can't believe my senses yet. I am afraid I may wake up any minute."

"Well, it was chiefly owing to two lucky coincidences; though no doubt it would have all come right in time without them."

"Our meeting the other day in the street, I suppose, was one of them?"

"Yes. Coming across you so suddenly, carrying the little girl, reminded Mary of the day when she sprained her ankle, and you carried her through Hazel Copse. Ah, you never told me _all_ of that adventure, either of you."

"All that was necessary, Katie."

"Oh! I have pardoned you. Uncle saw then that she was very much moved at something, and guessed well enough what it was. He is so very kind, and so fond of Mary, he would do anything in the world that she wished. She was quite unwell that evening; so he and aunt had to go out alone; and they met Mr. St. Cloud at a party, who was said to be engaged to her."

"It wasn't true, then?"