been before mentioned—a venerable bristly warrior, with a little close-shaved grey head, with a silk nightcap, a red face and nose, and a great dyed moustache.

When Rawdon told the Captain he wanted a friend, the latter knew perfectly well on what duty of friendship he was called to act, and indeed had conducted scores of affairs for his acquaintances with the greatest prudence and skill. His Royal Highness the late lamented Commander-in-Chief had had the greatest regard for Macmurdo on this account, and he was the common refuge of gentlemen in trouble.

“What’s the row about, Crawley, my boy?” said the old warrior. “No more gambling business, hay, like that when we shot Captain Marker?”

“It’s about—about my wife,” Crawley answered, casting down his eyes and turning very red.

The other gave a whistle. “I always said she’d throw you over,” he began—indeed there were bets in the regiment and at the clubs regarding the probable fate of Colonel Crawley, so lightly was his wife’s character esteemed by his comrades and the world; but seeing the savage look with which Rawdon answered the expression of this opinion, Macmurdo did not think fit to enlarge upon it further.

“Is there no way out of it, old boy?” the Captain continued in a grave tone. “Is it only suspicion, you know, or—or what is it? Any letters? Can’t you keep it quiet? Best not make any noise about a thing of that sort if you can help it.” “Think of his only finding her out now,” the Captain thought to himself, and remembered a hundred particular conversations at the mess-table, in which Mrs. Crawley’s reputation had been torn to shreds.

“There’s no way but one out of it,” Rawdon replied— “and there’s only a way out of it for one of us, Mac—do you understand? I was put out of the way—arrested—I found ’em alone together. I told him he was a liar and a coward, and knocked him down and thrashed him.”

“Serve him right,” Macmurdo said. “Who is it?”

Rawdon answered it was Lord Steyne.

“The deuce! a Marquis! they said he—that is, they said you—”

“What the devil do you mean?” roared out Rawdon; “do you mean that you ever heard a fellow doubt about my wife and didn’t tell me, Mac?”

“The world’s very censorious, old boy,” the other replied. “What the deuce was the good of my telling you what any tom-fools talked about?”

“It was damned unfriendly, Mac,” said Rawdon, quite overcome; and, covering his face with his hands, he gave way to an emotion, the sight of which caused the tough old campaigner opposite him to wince with sympathy. “Hold up, old boy,” he said; “great man or not, we’ll put a bullet in him, damn him. As for women, they’re all so.”

“You don’t know how fond I was of that one,” Rawdon said, half-inarticulately. “Damme, I followed her like a footman. I gave up everything I had to her. I’m a beggar because I would marry her. By Jove, sir, I’ve pawned my own watch in order to get her anything she fancied; and she she’s been making a purse for herself all the time, and grudged me a hundred pound to get me out of quod.” He then fiercely and incoherently, and with an agitation under which his counsellor had never before seen him labour, told Macmurdo the circumstances of the story. His adviser caught at some stray hints in it. “She may be innocent, after all,” he said. “She says so. Steyne has been a hundred times alone with her in the house before.”

“It may be so,” Rawdon answered sadly, “but this don’t look very innocent”: and he showed the Captain the thousand-pound note which he had found in Becky’s pocket-book. “This is what he gave her, Mac,