daughter to return to-morrow; and to give directions, that I should write and order it to be so. Were that to happen, need I name the result?-all-all lost! Well, I obeyed, and wrote this letter".

"As he dictated?- -are you mad, holy father?" inquired the steward. "Not exactly. 'Tis thus worded::

"Rash Boy!

"Your mother's misconduct wrung my heart, and your unwarrantable intrusion has nearly brought me to the grave. As you dread the malediction of an old man-desist!-and for ever avoid the presence of one who can never look but with abhorrence on the offspring of a guilty daughter.'

""Tis signed-ay, and in his own handwriting too-
"JOHN CLIFFORD.'

"Excellent! This will prevent another visit," said the steward. "You are too sanguine, my friend. The young man is daring ;he may make a second effort. If he succeed-if he gain a second time the sight of his grandfather, the tale is told. This fabricated letter may prevent the meeting for a while-but more effectual measures to secure mutual safety are indispensable.”

"I understand you, holy father," returned the steward ;-"money will be necessary."

"Money shall not be wanting," said the Confessor. procrastinates, but does not avert the crisis."

"This note

The steward nodded his head. "'Tis a breathing-time, that shall not be thrown away;-I'm off to London immediately."

"Heaven speed thee!" said the monk; and the hand of God's minister, imprecating a blessing, was laid upon a wretch's head whose avowed embassy was-murder !

To my humble counsellors, the keeper and the sergeant, I communicated what we all considered the decided failure of my experiment. I resolved to return direct to town-and a place was booked accordingly in the stage. Another passenger accompanied me. and how different are the ends which influence men's actions! I hurried back to town to bask in the smiles of my young and artless Isidora. The object of my compagnon du voyage was very opposite,—the gentleman was Mr. Morley; and his embassy-nothing but to accomplish my assassination.

CHAPTER XX.

A MEETING BETWEEN MEN OF BUSINESS.

"What a dickens is the man always whimpering about murder
for? If business cannot be carried on without it, what would you
have a gentleman to do?"
BEGGARS' OPERA.

THE scene has changed; and we must request the gentle reader to accompany us into a close dark alley, with no thoroughfare connecting it to the opener streets around, save two narrow and crooked passages scarcely three feet wide. The houses are high and old-fashioned, and front each other so closely, that from roof to roof an active man might spring. Their general appearance betokens fear or wretchedness; for, while some of the windows are so jealously blinded, as to prevent all chance of espionage from without, others are recklessly exposed to the eye of the passenger, as if it were intended to display the extent of the dirt and poverty within. The large brick dwelling at the bottom of the court is curiously situated. At either gable, it opens by a side door into one of the foul dark passages we have described; the front is to the court; and the back abuts upon one of those small and half-forgotten cemeteries, not larger than a modern drawing-room, which may still be seen, studding here and there the more ancient portions of that "mighty mass of wood, and brick, and mortar," ycleped "the great metropolis."

Within this dwelling, there was a semblance of opulence that formed a striking contrast to the squalid poverty that was perceptible in every other building around it. The rooms were crowded with ill-assorted furniture, and the walls covered with mirrors and pictures. On the tables and mantelpiece, clocks, china, and fancy-ornaments were incongruously heaped together; the whole looking liker a broker's store-room than the private dwelling of a man in trade. The place was a receptacle for stolen property or in thieves' parlance, the house of " a fence."

In a large apartment on the first floor the owner of this singular abiding-place was seated. He seemed a man of fifty, and his own appearance was as curious as the domicile he inhabited. To judge by the outline of his countenance, you would call him an Irishman, while its character and expression were decidedly that of a Jew. Indeed nothing could be less prepossessing than both; and the look of the man, taken altogether, was low, blackguard, and repulsive.

On the table beside which this ill-favoured gentleman was seated, there were lights, glasses, and decanters; a comfortable fire was

blazing in the hearth. and window-shutters, plated with iron, were carefully secured with bolt and bar.

Mr. Brown, for so the master of the house was named, seemed occupied with business of no common interest; and to a letter, which he held open in his hand, frequent references were made. His actions were those of a man placed in a situation of perilous uncertainty; for he frequently rose from his chair and paced the room, muttering to himself disjointed sentences, and again returning to the table, to re-peruse an epistle which evidently contained matter of deep moment to the reader. Suddenly he rang the bell, and its summons was answered by a personage of remarkable exterior.

He was a hunchback, and so curiously distorted, that he seemed to be constructed of nothing but legs and arms. From his appearance you would guess him to be fifteen, but his face told you that he was at least five years older; and on every line and feature of that sinister countenance cunning and knavery were imprinted.

"Frank," said the master of the hunchback, "who brought Mr. Sloman's letter?"

"The red-haired man from the City-road, who proved our last alibi at the Bailey," was the reply.

"Humph!" returned Mr. Brown, again glancing his eyes over the letter, and favouring the hunchback with occasional extracts from its contents, Matter of deepest importance,' -'not a moment to be lost,' Be with you punctually,'-Come through the burial-ground at nine.' Have you unlocked the wicket, Frank?"

"Not till I had your orders," returned the attendant.

now.

"Right, Frank; people can never be too guarded; but Sloman's a safe hand, and we have done a good stroke of business together before It must be plate or jewels;—and yet I was talking to an old cracksman this very evening, and if there had been a smash last night of any consequence he would have been safe to know it and tell me. Unlock the wicket, Frank—and then slip over to the Fortune of War, and try if you can get any intelligence."

The hunchback disappeared; and during his absence, Mr. Brown divided his attention pretty equally between the contents of Mr. Sloman's epistle and those of the decanter at his elbow. In a quarter

of an hour, the hunchback's key was heard turning in the street-door lock, and he presently announced, that, having made diligent inquiries from several professional gentlemen who were refreshing themselves in the back parlour of the Fortune of War, he was then and there assured, that nothing had been done the preceding evening but the usual theatrical business-with the exception of a silver coffee-pot, that had been abstracted from a west-end hotel.

Another quarter of an hour passed-a church-bell chimed-nine was sounded from the belfry; and, ere the clock ceased striking, steps were heard upon the stairs, and "the thing of legs and arms” announced "Mr. Sloman."

The expected visitor was a large, corpulent, clumsy-looking nondescript, with a hooked nose, and light complexion, that rendered it impossible to decide whether he should be classed as Jew or Gentile.