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CHAPTER XXXVII.

BERTRAND carried his strange news to Pigott, who at once took the view that M'Killop had been playing a deep game all along, and withholding the intelligence till Bertrand was fairly "landed;" no doubt thinking that the possession of a fortune makes a man fastidious in his matrimonial views. "It was a plant all along from the beginning, you may depend upon it, Bertrand," he said; "he had got the intelligence, and, being a freebooter, he was not going to part with it gratis he scented you out when you lay on your form at Gosport, and the way in which he got you into the toils was most creditable. Upon my life, I respect old M'Killop!

"The shooting was a plant. The very manner in which the young lady was brought into action -not too hurriedly, you remember-was a tour de force in itself. Tainsh was a 'bonnet,' and

all this mysterious juggle of negotiating with the uncle, was the height of art.

"He must be a thundering clever fellow; and such a masterpiece that wooden, stolid expression of his! The cunning old mole! His daughter must have lost her cue somehow, and ruined the whole thing. It is only another instance that half-confidences between confederates won't pay."

Pigott was delighted with his own sharpness, and laughed to scorn Bertrand's dissent from his theory; "but of course," he added, "I needn't congratulate you. You would never be so base as to deprive your uncle-that kind old uncle, grown grey in the service of his country. It will be necessary to guard the secret most carefully from the unfortunate old man, in case he should insist upon making restitution, or at all events inconvenience himself by doubling your allowance; and any sacrifice would be better than to dissipate his amiable dream that he has disinherited you. You must swear them all to secrecy. Begin with me.

"I am afraid you'll have to pay M'Killop something to keep him quiet; that is a bore. And I'm not sure that I oughtn't to turn an honest penny by the matter myself. You can

get the money on post-obits, you know. Your uncle's feelings would not suffer, he need never know."

"Stop all that nonsense, Pigott, for heaven's sake! I certainly shall claim my birthrighthave no fear on that point-though, of course, I shall do what is right by my uncle."

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Write yourself of Aberlona,' and let him draw the rents. Yes, that might perhaps mitigate the shock to his poor old feelings, a little." "There will be time enough to think of such matters when the investigation is made."

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And what are you going to do now?"

"Wait to give M'Killop time to divulge it all to me voluntarily."

"Ha ha ha! Exactly-give him time for new combinations. You ought to flourish in the next world, Bertrand, for your wisdom is certainly not of this."

During the next few days, while Bertrand's letter to Eila, and Morna's to Mr M'Killop, were on their way to Pau, the two divisions of our dramatis persona, on either side of the Channel, were, as far as the action of the piece went, pretty much in a state of inaction. There was a lull, for the key to all further action on either

side was in the keeping of His Imperial Majesty's Post-Office. We have not seldom had to mourn over the shortcomings of that department in France.

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That, monsieur, would be to effectively degrade the human being to the level of a precise automaton - an inanimate machine," was the ingenious reply of a postmaster in the Gironde. to our humble suggestion that a frequent variation of four hours in the time of delivery was inordinate, and might be rectified; but we are bound to say that even the French post-department, in our experience, always seemed to respect the proverb, "that ill news travel fast." The newspaper might be announced as manqué, day after day, and the remittance-bearing letter might linger on the road; but we can remember the most perfect punctuality in the arrival of certain other communications which do not, as a rule, sharpen one's appetite for the succeeding meal or two. How does it happen that these are the only exceptions? Why does not some one write a book of moral speculations on the post-office? It would suit Victor Hugo, with its sinister mysteries, its thousand epitomes of romance, passion, horror, crime-what you will. He might add

another ȧváykη to his existing triplet, and christen it "The Post-Office." From such a material he would turn you out a very first-class demon indeed: and we can imagine how it would hoard and grudge; how its baleful eyes would glitter with a malign light over messages of peace, happiness, and love; and how its festering heart would rejoice to project from ill-omened receptacles, with yells of obscene exultation, such despatches as might carry with them grief, terror, shame, a blow, a stab, and so forth.

Asking pardon for this digression-pardonable, perhaps, as the post-office stops the highway of our story—we repeat that the dramatis persona went on for a few days much as we left them. Eila, at Pau, devoured with secret apprehensions, yet bright as Euphrosyne to all the world about her; Sir Roland apparently enjoying himself very much with his new protégée and his old friends; M'Killop in Scotland, haggling for a luck-penny in the matter of Tolmie-Donnochie, but serenely expecting "the happy news;" those at Bournemouth constantly meeting on a pleasant friendly footing, but one of them looking anxiously, between hopes and fears, for the effect of the actual news upon him whose secret she had divulged.