comfort."

While the landlord was musing thus, the lodger was employed in a manner
which might well have awakened his curiosity, could he have beheld her
at that moment.

She had fallen on her knees before a low easy-chair--her face buried in
her hands, her slender frame shaken by passionate sobs.

"My child!" she exclaimed, in almost inarticulate murmurs; "my beloved,
my idol!--it is so bitter to be absent from you! so bitter! so bitter!"

* * * * *

Early on the morning after her arrival in London, Honoria Eversleigh,
otherwise Mrs. Eden, went in a cab to the office of an individual
called Andrew Larkspur, who occupied dingy chambers in Lyon's Inn.

The science of the detective officer had not, at that time, reached its
present state of perfection; but even then there were men who devoted
their lives to the work of private investigations, and the elucidation
of the strange secrets and mysteries of social life.

Such a man was Andrew Larkspur, late Bow Street runner, now hanger-on
of the new detective police. He was renowned for his skill in the
prosecution of secret service; and it was rumoured that he had amassed
a considerable fortune by his mysterious employment.

He was not a man who openly sought employers. His services were in
great request among a certain set of people, and he had little idle