himself. "But for the courier, I shouldn't feel sure of her even
now."

The second letter agreeably surprised him. It was announced that
the writer had just returned from the United States; it invited
him to dinner that evening; and it was signed "Randal Linley." In
Mr. Sarrazin's estimation, Randal had always occupied a higher
place than his brother. The lawyer had known Mrs. Linley before
her marriage, and had been inclined to think that she would have
done wisely if she had given her hand to the younger brother
instead of the elder. His acquaintance with Randal ripened
rapidly into friendship. But his relations with Herbert made no
advance toward intimacy: there was a gentlemanlike cordiality
between them, and nothing more.

At seven o'clock the two friends sat at a snug little table, in
the private room of a hotel, with an infinite number of questions
to ask of each other, and with nothing to interrupt them but a
dinner of such extraordinary merit that it insisted on being
noticed, from the first course to the last.

Randal began. "Before we talk of anything else," he said, "tell
me about Catherine and the child. Where are they?"

"On their way to England, after a residence in Germany."

"And the old lady?"

"Mrs. Presty has been staying with friends in London."