Mr Merriman was delighted. He laughed over my retort till the room rang again. I was not half so good- humoured on my side; I came back to business, and closed the interview.

`This is Friday,' I said. `Give us till Tuesday next for our final answer.'

`By all means,' replied Mr Merriman. `Longer, my dear sir, if you like.' He took up his hat to go, and then addressed me again. `By the way,' he said, `your clients in Cumberland have not heard anything more of the woman who wrote the anonymous letter, have they?'

`Nothing more,' I answered. `Have you found no trace of her?'

`Not yet,' said my legal friend. `But we don't despair. Sir Percival has his suspicions that Somebody is keeping her in hiding, and we are having that Somebody watched.'

`You mean the old woman who was with her in Cumberland,' I said.

`Quite another party, sir,' answered Mr Merriman. `We don't happen to have laid hands on the old woman yet. Our Somebody is a man. We have got him close under our eye here in London, and we strongly suspect he had something to do with helping her in the first instance to escape from the Asylum. Sir Percival wanted to question him at once, but I said, ``No. Questioning him will only put him on his guard -- watch him, and wait.'' We shall see what happens. A dangerous woman to be at large, Mr Gilmore; nobody knows what she may do next. I wish you good morning, sir. On Tuesday next I shall hope for the pleasure of hearing from you.' He smiled amiably and went out.

My mind had been rather absent during the latter part of the conversation with my legal friend. I was so anxious about the matter of the settlement that I had little attention to give to any other subject, and the moment I was left alone again I began to think over what my next proceeding ought to be.

In the case of any other client I should have acted on my instructions, however personally distasteful to me, and have given up the point about the twenty thousand pounds on the spot. But I could not act with this business-like indifference towards Miss Fairlie. I had an honest feeling of affection and admiration for her -- I remembered gratefully that her father had been the kindest patron and friend to me that ever man had -- I had felt towards her while I was drawing the settlement as I might have felt, if I had not been an old bachelor, towards a daughter of my own, and I was determined to spare no personal sacrifice in her service and where her interests were concerned. Writing a second time to Mr Fairlie was not to be thought of -- it would only be giving him a second opportunity of slipping through my fingers. Seeing him and personally remonstrating with him might possibly be of more use. The next day was Saturday. I determined to take a return ticket and jolt my old bones down to Cumberland, on the chance of persuading him to adopt the just, the independent, and the honourable course. It was a poor chance enough, no doubt, but when I had tried it my conscience would be at ease. I should then have done all that a man in my position could do to serve the interests of my old friend's only child.

The weather on Saturday was beautiful, a west wind and a bright sun. Having felt latterly a return of that fulness and oppression of the head, against which my doctor warned me so seriously more than two years since, I resolved to take the opportunity of getting a little extra exercise by sending my bag on before me and walking to the terminus in Euston Square. As I came out into Holborn a gentleman walking by rapidly stopped and spoke to me. It was Mr Walter Hartright.

If he had not been the first to greet me I should certainly have passed him. He was so changed that I hardly knew him again. His face looked pale and haggard -- his manner was hurried and uncertain -- and his dress, which I remembered as neat and gentleman-like when I saw him at Limmeridge, was so slovenly now that I should really have been ashamed of the appearance of it on one of my own clerks.