written by a dying hand, the letter addressed by lord caterham to geoffrey ludlow was read when the doctors would scarcely have pronounced its recipient out of the jaws of death. gaunt, wan, hectic; with great bistre-rings round his big eyes, now more prominent than ever; with his shapely white hands now almost transparent in their thinness; with his bushy beard dashed here and there with gray patches; and with o such a sense of weariness and weakness,--old geoff, stretched supine on his bed, demanded news of margaret. they had none to give him: told him so--at first gently, then reiterated it plainly; but he would not believe it. they must know something of her movements; some one must have been there to tell him where she was; something must have been heard of her. to all these questions negative answers. then, as his brain cleared and his strength increased--for, except under both of these conditions, such a question would not have occurred to him--he asked whether, during his illness, there had been any communication from lord beauport's house. a mystery then--a desire to leave it over, until miss maurice's next call, which happened the next day, when caterham's letter, intact, was handed to him.

that letter lay on a chair by geoffrey's bedside the whole of that afternoon. to clutch it, to look at it, to hold it, with its seal yet unbroken, before his eyes, he had employed such relics of strength as remained to him; but he dared not open it. he felt that he could give no explanation of his feelings; but he felt that if he broke that seal, and read what was contained in that letter, all his recent tortures would return with tenfold virulence: the mocking demons that had sat on his bed and sneered at him; the fiery serpents that had uncoiled themselves between him and the easel on which stood the picture which urgent necessity compelled him to work at; the pale fair form, misty and uncertain generally, yet sometimes with margaret's hair and eyes, that so constantly floated across his vision, and as constantly eluded his outstretched arms,--all these phantasms of his fevered brain would return again. and yet, in it, in that sheet of paper lying so temptingly near to his pillow, there was news of her! he had but to stretch out his hand, and he should learn how far, at least, her story was known to the relatives of him who---- the thought in itself was too much; and geoffrey swooned off. when he recovered, his first thought was of the letter; his first look to assure himself that it had not been removed. no, there it lay i he could resist the temptation no longer; and, raising himself on his elbow, he opened and read it.

the effect of the perusal of that letter on geoffrey ludlow none knew but himself. the doctors found him "not quite so well" for the succeeding day or two, and thought that his "tone" was scarcely so good as they had been led to anticipate; certain it was that he made no effort to rouse himself, and that, save occasionally, when spoken to by til, he remained silent and preoccupied. on the third day he asked til to write to bowker, and beg him to come to him at once. within twenty-four hours that worthy presented himself at elm lodge.

after a few words with til downstairs, mr. bowker was shown up to geoffrey's room, the door of which til opened, and, when mr. bowker had entered, shut it behind him. the noise of the closing door roused geoffrey, and he turned in his bed, and, looking up, revealed such a worn and haggard face, that old bowker stopped involuntarily, and drew a long breath, as he gazed on the miserable appearance of his friend. there must have been something comical in the rueful expression of bowker's face, for old geoff smiled feebly, as he said,

"come in, william; come in, old friend! ive had a hard bout of it, old fellow, since you saw me; but there's no danger now--no infection, i mean, or any thing of that kind."

geoff spoke haphazard; but what he had said was the best thing to restore mr. bowker to himself.

"your william's fever-proof;" he growled out in reply, "and don't fear any nonsense of that kind; and if he did, it's not that would keep him away from a friend's bedside. i should have been here--that is, if you'd have let me; and, oddly enough, though i'm such a rough old brute in general, i'm handy and quiet in times of sickness,--at least so ive been told;" and here bowker stifled a great sigh. "but the first i heard of your illness was from your sister's letter, which i only got this morning."

"give me your hand, william; i know that fast enough. but i didn't need any additional nursing. til and the old lady--god bless them!--have pulled me through splendidly, and--but i'm beyond nursing now, william; what i want is--" and geoff's voice failed him, and he stopped.

old bowker eyed him with tear-blurred vision for a moment, and then said, "what you want is--"

"don't mind me just now, william; i'm horribly weak, and girlish, and trembling, but i shall get to it in time. what i want is, some man, some friend, to whom i can talk openly and unreservedly,--whose advice and aid i can seek, in such wretchedness as, i trust, but few have experienced."

it was a good thing that geoffrey's strength had in some degree returned, for bowker clutched his hand in an iron grip, as in a dull low voice, he said, "do you remember my telling you the story of my life? why did i tell you that? not for sympathy, but for example. i saw the rock on to which you were drifting, and hoped to keep you clear. i exposed the sadness of my life to you when the game was played out and there was no possibility of redemption. i can't tell what strait you may be in; but if i can help you out of it, there is no mortal thing i will not do to aid you."

as well as he could geoff returned the pressure; then, after a moment's pause, said, "you know, of course, that my wife has left me?"

bowker bowed in acquiescence.

"you know the circumstances?"

"i know nothing, geoff, beyond the mere fact. whatever talk there may be among such of the boys as i drop in upon now and then, if it turned upon you and your affairs, save in the matter of praising your art, it would be certain to be hushed as soon as i stepped in amongst them. they knew our intimacy, and they are by far too good fellows to say any thing that would pain me. so that beyond the mere fact which you have just stated, i know nothing."

then in a low weak voice, occasionally growing full and powerful under excitement, and subsiding again into its faint tone, geoffrey ludlow told to william bowker the whole history of his married life, beginning with his finding margaret on the doorstep, and ending by placing in his friend's hands the posthumous letter of lord caterham. throughout old bowker listened with rapt attention to the story, and when he came back from the window, to which he had stepped for the perusal of the letter, geoffrey noticed that there were big tears rolling down his cheeks. he was silent for a minute or two after he had laid the letter on geoffrey's bed; when he spoke, he said, "we're a dull lot, the whole race of us; and that's the truth. we pore over our own twopenny sorrows, and think that the whole army of martyrs could not show such a specimen as ourselves. why, geoff, dear old man, what was my punishment to yours! what was,--but, however, i need not talk of that. you want my services--say how."

"i want your advice first, william. i want to know how to--how to find my wife--for, o, to me she is my wife; how to find margaret. you'll blame me probably, and tell me that i am mad--that i ought to cast her off altogether, and to--but i cannot do that, william; i cannot do that; for i love her--o my god, how i love her still!" and geoffrey ludlow hid his face in his arms, and wept like a child.

"i shan't blame you, geoff, nor tell you any thing of the kind," said old bowker, in a deep low voice. "i should have been very much surprised if--however, that's neither here nor there. what we want is to find her now. you say there's not been the slightest clue to her since she left this house?"

"not the slightest."

"she has not sent for any thing--clothes, or any thing?"

"for nothing, as i understand."

"she has not sent,--you see, one must understand these things, geoff; all our actions will be guided by them,--she has not sent to ask about the child?"

geoff shuddered for an instant, then said, "she has not."

"that simplifies our plans," said bowker. "it is plain now that we have only one chance of discovering her whereabouts."

"and that is--"

"through blackett the detective, the man mentioned in lord caterham's letter. he must be a sharp fellow; for through the sheer pursuance of his trade, and without the smallest help, he must have been close upon her trail, even up to the night when you met her and withdrew her from the range of his search. if he could learn so much unaided, he will doubtless be able to strike again upon her track with the information we can give him."

"there's no chance of this man--this captain brakespere, having--i mean--now he's back, you know--having taken means to hide her somewhere--where--one couldn't find her, you know?" said geoffrey, hesitatingly.

"if your william knows any thing of the world," replied bowker, "there's no chance of captain thingummy having taken the least trouble about her. however, i'll go down to scotland yard and see what is to be made of our friend inspector blackett. god bless you, old boy! you know if she is to be found, i'll do it."

they are accustomed to odd visitors in scotland yard; but the police-constables congregated in the little stone hall stared the next day when mr. bowker pushed open the swing-door, and calmly planting himself among them, ejaculated "blackett." looking at his beard, his singular garb, and listening to his deep voice, the sergeant to whom he was referred at first thought he was a member of some foreign branch of the force; then glancing at the general wildness of his demeanour, had a notion that he was one of the self-accused criminals who are so constantly forcing themselves into the grasp of justice, and who are so impatient of release; and finally, comprehending what he wanted, sent him, under convoy of a constable, through various long corridors, into a cocoa-nut-matted room furnished with a long green-baize-covered table, on which were spread a few sheets of blotting-paper, and a leaden inkstand, and the walls of which were adorned with a printed tablet detailing the disposition of the various divisions of the police-force, and the situation of the fire-escapes in the metropolis, and a fly-blown stationers' almanac. left to himself, mr. bowker had scarcely taken stock of these various articles, when the door opened, and mr. inspector blackett, edging his portly person through the very small aperture which he had allowed himself for ingress, entered the room, and closed the door stealthily behind him.

"servant, sir," said he, with a respectful bow, and a glance at bowker, which took in the baldness of his head, the thickness of his beard, the slovenliness of his apparel, and the very shape of his boots,--"servant, sir. you asked for me?"

"i did, mr. blackett. ive come to ask your advice and assistance in a rather delicate manner, in which you've already been engaged--lord caterham's inquiry."

"o, beg pardon, sir. quite right. friend of his lordship's, may i ask, sir?"

"lord caterham is dead, mr.--"

"quite right, sir; all right, sir. right to be cautious in these matters; don't know who you are, sir. if you had not known that fact, must have ordered you out, sir. imposter, of course. all on the square, mr.--beg pardon; didn't mention your name, sir."

"my name is bowker. to a friend of mine, too ill now to follow the matter himself; lord caterham on his deathbed wrote a letter, detailing the circumstances under which he had employed you in tracing a young woman. that friend has himself been very ill, or he would have pursued this matter sooner. he now sends me to ask whether you have any news?"

"beg pardon, sir; can't be too cautious in this matter. what may be the name of that friend?"

"ludlow--mr. geoffrey ludlow."

"right you are, sir! know the name well; have seen mr. ludlow at his lordship's; a pleasant gentleman too, sir, though not given me the idea of one to take much interest in such a business as this. however, i see we're all square on that point, sir; and i'll report to you as exactly as i would to my lord, if he'd been alive--feeling, of course, that a gentleman's a gentleman, and that an officer's trouble will be remunerated--"

"you need not doubt that, mr. blackett."

"i don't doubt it, sir; more especially when you hear what i have got to tell. it's been a wearing business, mr. bowker, and that i don't deny; there have been many cases which i have tumbled-to quicker, and have been able to lay my finger upon parties quicker but this has been a long chase; and though other members of the force has chaffed me, as it were, wanting to know when i shall be free for any thing else, and that sort of thing, there's been that excitement in it that ive never regretted the time bestowed, and felt sure i should hit at it last. my ideas has not been wrong in that partic'ler, mr. bowker; i _have_ hit it at last!"

"the devil you have!"

"i have indeed, sir; and hit it, as has cur'ously happened in my best cases, by a fluke. it was by the merest fluke that i was at radley's hotel in southampton and nobbled mr. sampson hepworth, the absconding banker of lombard street, after daniel forester and all the city-men had been after him for six weeks. it was all a fluke that i was eatin' a bath-bun at swindon when the clerk that did them post-office robberies tried to pass one of the notes to the refreshment gal. it was all a fluke that i was turning out of grafton street, after a chat with the porter of the westminster club,--which is an old officer of the g's and a pal of mine,--into bond street, when i saw a lady that i'd swear to, if description's any use, though i never see her before, comin' out of long's hotel."

"a lady!--long's hotel!"

"a lady a-comin' out of long's hotel. a lady with--not to put too fine a point upon it--red hair and fine eyes and a good figure; the very moral of the description i got at tenby and them other places. i twigged all this before she got her veil down and i said to myself, blackett, that's your bird, for a hundred pound."

"and were you right? was it--"

"wait a minute, sir: let's take the things in the order in which they naturally present themselves. she hailed a cab and jumped in, all of a tremble like, as i could see. i hailed another--hansom mine was; and i give the driver the office, which he tumbled-to at once--most of the west-enders knows me; and we follows the other until he turned up a little street in nottin' 'ill, and i, marking where she got out, stopped at the end of it. when she'd got inside, i walked up and took stock of the house, which was a litle milliner's and stay-shop. it was cur'ous, wasn't, it, sir," said mr. blackett, with a grave professional smile, "that my good lady should want a little job in the millinery line done for her just then, and that she should look round into that very shop that evening, and get friendly with the missis, which was a communicative kind of woman, and should pay her a trifle in advance, and should get altogether so thick as to be asked in to take a cup of tea in the back-parlour, and get a-talking about the lodger? once in, i'll back my old lady against any ferret that was ever showed at jemmy welsh's. she hadn't had one cup of tea before she know'd all about the lodger; how she was the real lady, but dull and lonesome like; how she'd sit cryin' and mopin' all day; how she'd no visitors and no letters; and how her name was lambert, and her linen all marked m. l. she'd only been there a day ortwo then, and as she'd scarcely any luggage, the milliner was doubtful about her money. my good lady came back that night, and told me all this, and i was certain our bird was caged. so i put one of our men regular to sweep a crossin' during the daytime, and i communicated with the sergeant of the division to keep the house looked after at night. but, lor' bless you, she's no intention of goin' away. couldn't manage it, i think, if she had; for my missis, who's been up several times since, says the milliner says her lodger's in a queer way, she thinks."

"how do you mean in a queer way?" interrupted bowker; "ill?"

"well, not exactly ill, i think, sir. i can't say exactly how, for the milliner's rather a stupid woman; and it wouldn't do for my missis--though she'd find it out in a minute--to see the lady. as far as i can make out, it's a kind of fits, and she seems to have had 'em pretty bad--off her head for hours at a time, you know. it's rather cornered me, that has, as i don't exactly know how to act in the case; and i went round to the square to tell his lordship, and then found out what had happened. i was thinking of asking to see the hearl--"

"the what, mr. blackett?"

"the hearl--hearl beauport, his lordship's father. but now you've come, sir, you'll know what to do, and what orders to give me."

"yes, quite right," said bowker, after a moment's consideration. "you must not see lord beauport; he's in a sad state of mind still, and any further worry might be dangerous. you've done admirably, mr. blackett,--admirably indeed; and your reward shall be proportionate, you may take my word for that; but i think it will be best to leave matters as they are until--at all events, until i have spoken to my friend. the name was lambert, i think you said; and what was the address?"

"no. 102, thompson street, just beyond nottin'-'ill gate; milliner's shop, name of chapman. beg your pardon, sir, but this is a pretty case, and one as has been neatly worked up; you won't let it be spoilt by any amatoors?"

"eh?--by what? i don't think i understand you."

"you won't let any one go makin' inquiries on their own hook? so many of our best cases is spoilt by amatoors shovin' their oars in."

"you may depend on that, mr. blackett; the whole credit of the discovery is justly due to you, and you shall have it. now good day to you; i shall find you here, i suppose, when next i want you?"

mr. blackett bowed, and conducted his visitor through the hollow-sounding corridors, and bade him a respectful farewell at the door. then, when william bowker was alone, he stopped, and shook his head sorrowfully, muttering, "a bad job, a bad job! god help you, geoff, my poor fellow! there's more trouble in store for you--more trouble in store!"