which seemed to justify the highest opinion of his talent and energy.

I had much to fear from qualities like these. What struck me as the most inexplicable part of the matter, and suggested very uncomfortable suspicions, was the fact of these two men having been in the same house in which Tyler and his friends were supping, and that they should appear from their conversation to be connected with them. Was it possible that any of that company belonged to that party of which Thompson spoke? These were grave questions. It was probable enough that those persons whom I had encountered at the shore, and who had robbed my friend Seward of his money, were of this same party, and I remembered that I had overheard them express the intention of inveigling me in the same manner when I came up to town. Mr. Tyler had shared Seward's losses before, and possibly he might here also be the victim of this club, and indeed might have been employed as the duped decoy of me to this house. I sat for a long time pondering the various conjectures which these and other considerations suggested. There was a struggle to take place which would probably require the exercise of all the power which I could summon into action, as well as all the ingenuity of which I was master.

On the following morning this second letter from my father was delivered from the post.

"MY DEAR HENRY,

"When I wrote to you yesterday, I entertained a hope that all the measures which we should adopt, might be taken before any thing was known by those persons whose craft and violence we have chiefly to fear. That hope is disappointed.

"I had just finished my last letter to you, and had put it into my pocket with the intention of giving it to my servant to bring to you, when a person by the name of Harold was announced, and came into the drawingroom where I was. He handed me a letter of introduction purporting to be from an intimate friend of mine,

but bearing date two days after I knew that he had certainly sailed for Europe. The moment I looked at it, I perceived that it was a forgery. I said nothing, but was of course strictly on guard.

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My immediate suspicion was that he was one of the gang of which Thompson's letter made mention. I saw that at least he might be one, and knowing that no harm could result from acting upon that conjecture in negatives, I determined on the utmost caution in his presence. He spent the day with me in delightful conversation, and such as might have routed many a suspicion, but I did not relax from my purpose. I retained my letter in my pocket until late in the afternoon, and then finding, for the first time, an opportunity of speaking alone to my servant without suspicion, I gave him my orders, and he set off without the knowledge of this Mr. Harold.

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My caution I knew was not foolish, and I soon found that it was very fortunate. I retired at my usual hour, and having locked the door of my chamber I went to bed, and soon fell asleep. At an advanced hour in the night, I was startled by a noise in the room, and woke up. A lamp was standing on my secretary, the light of which was kept from my eyes by a screen which had been lifted there from the corner of the room; near the secretary stood a man. Fortunately, I had waked in the first instance without noise or motion, and soon apprehending the state of the case, I remained still. Looking guardedly over the top of the screen, I saw that the person in the room was Harold; he was examining my papers. He turned over all of them, and at length took up my letter-book, in which I had noted the receipt of Thompson's letter, and its having been sent to you. He nodded his head, laid it down, closed the secretary, and having restored every thing to its place, left the room and the house. I heard him descend the steps, mount his horse and ride off. I went immediately into his room, and found on his table a note to

me, dated sunrise of the following morning, and apologising for his leaving me.

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That this man was one of Thompson's former confederates, that he had heard of his having written to me, and that the object of his visit was to obtain some information on the subject, or, as is more probable, to get possession of the letter, are circumstances which indeed are very surprising, but not on that account the less credible. This letter which I sent to you, tells enough to ruin the reputation of persons to whom unsullied and unsuspected character is probably of great consequence; no effort to possess it will probably be spared. I send you this instant information that you may be prepared in any encounter with this person or his party. You will be obliged to exert the utmost vigilance.

"ATKYNS STANLEY."

This account completed and explained that of the person whom I had met in the entry the evening before, and showed the error of my first notion that that man was the Mr. Torrens spoken of by my father. One mystery was superadded. My father spoke of this man as bearing the name of Harold; the other mentioned Harold as being at that time in the supper-room. How this multiplication of names took place it was difficult to imagine. That the visiter of my father should assume an unreal name it was natural to suppose: but to adopt the name of another of his party, would serve no better purpose than to expose his own. That Harold was the true name of the person spoken of at the club, appeared from the natural use made of it in this man's confidential discourse, and from its being apparently understood as the true name by the person to whom he spoke.' This impossibility no surmise of mine could explain.

I sat down soon after, and wrote to my father an account of what I had observed and conned. I pointed out how accurate his suspicions were of the character of his visiter, and how narrow and how lucky had been his escape from his vigilant energy; and I assured him

of my willingness to co-operate with him to the extent of my ability in his efforts to baffle these men.

That evening when I retired to bed, I placed Thompson's letter under my pillow, that there might be no possibility of its being stolen. When I awoke on the

following morning, it was gone.

CHAPTER XIII.

There is a pleasure in frank dialogue,

Where mind meets mind in free and full debate.
Men may live years and never know the strength
That is in others or within themselves.

SOUTHEY.

I was sitting in my library on the morning of that day, meditating upon the singular facts disclosed in the letters of my father, and brought before me in my own recent experience, when Mr. Tyler entered the room. Pleased with the visit of one whose conversation was always interesting, I dismissed all memory of these affairs from my mind, and prepared to, "cope him," in his learned inquiries.

A volume of Southey's "Sir Thomas More," was lying upon the table. "It is singular," said Tyler, turning over one or two of the leaves, "that such a man as the Laureate should exhibit a disposition to believe in ghosts; and, by-the-by, the inclination is not characteristic of him, for unsophisticated as he is in respect of feeling, few men are more boldly and sternly rational in matters of belief. Probably a few writers with whom the composition of this work led him to be conversant at the time, had tinged his mind with a peculiar hue when he penned these opening pages. In fact it often happens with bookish men that their perceptions are temporarily warped by some great writer with whose effusions they have recently communed, and the opinions expressed under such impressions are not so much their own thoughts, as the views of another, enforced by their reason."

"As a Christian," said I, "Mr. Southey might be