For a time Mr. Clarkson lived with his sister-in-law in a princely
style in Detroit. They entertained largely and handsomely, and
most of their guests neither cared nor enquired who they were, or
whence they came. They had not been there more than six weeks when
Mrs. Clarkson made the acquaintance of Count Von Alba, who for some
time had been the lion of fashionable circles in Detroit. Von Alba was
a Russian, who (for political reasons said his friends, for criminal
reasons said his enemies) had emigrated to America and lived on his
fortune (his friends insisted)--his wits, said his enemies again.

Whichever surmise was correct, Von Alba was undoubtedly good-looking.
He stood five feet eleven inches in his stockings, and was
powerfully built; his complexion, like most Russians was dark, and
his lofty forehead was surmounted with curls of the darkest brown.
At the time of the Clarksons residence, the Count was about
five-and-thirty years old; he had naturally a genial manner and a
good-humored expression of countenance, and a scar on his forehead
(obtained, he said, when a lad, at Inkerman) made him an object of
feminine admiration, while he was at the same time greatly envied by
the opposite sex.

Von Alba was a sort of Admirable Crichton. He rode like Nimrod,
danced like Terpsichore, drove like Jehu, shot like William Tell,
and sang like Sims Reeves. It was in the _latter_ accomplishment,
however, that he chiefly excelled; he would stand up at the end of a
crowded drawing-room, and, playing a delicate accompaniment on his
guitar, would vocalize one of the passionate love-songs of his
native land. Sometimes he sang in English, then his defective
pronunciation lent a strange charm to his singing, which, although
it could scarcely be accounted for, made itself felt even in the