was never tired of talking. The wedding-day
was fixed for Thursday, and Hugh was
coming down on the Tuesday night, and I
should be introduced to him, and we should
like each other so much; and, after their
marriage, I should come and stay with them
at the villa at Richmond which Hugh's father
had given them, and so on, and so on, until
I began rather to be bored by the constant
repetition of Hugh's name, and to preconceive
a dislike of him.

The long looked-for Tuesday night
arrived. I dined at the parsonage, and we
sat anxiously until the last train had
come in, but Mr. Elvyn did not come by it.
The Wednesday morning passed, and it was
not until late in the afternoon of that day
that the Elvyns, father and son, arrived at
Plenmouth. I walked up to the parsonage
in the evening, and was introduced to them,
and then learnt that their departure from
town had been delayed owing to the discovery
of some heavy forgeries on the bank, which
had been first communicated to the firm
through an anonymous letter, the writer of
which promised, in the event of certain
un-named events happening, as it was believed
they would, to name the forger. My
preconceived dislike to Mr. Hugh Elvyn was
not done away with by his personal appearance
or manner. He was very good-looking,
certainly, tall, well-made, and with fine black
hair and teeth. But his eyes were set very
deeply in his head, he had a shifting,
unsettled glance, never looking up into your
face, and his manner, even towards Annie
Vaughan, his betrothed, was nervous and
constrained.

The next morning all the inhabitants were
dressed in their best, the three bells of the
church tried their utmost to make a merry
peal; and, as the bridal party advanced,
young girls strewed flowers in their path.

I joined the party at the church door.
Mr. Vaughan, who was about to perform the
service himself, hurried before us to put on
his robes; and we had just formed in a
semi-circle round the altar rails, when a tall, thin
man, dressed in a tightly-buttoned blue
frock-coat, advanced. I recognised him at
once as a "plain-clothes" member of the
metropolitan police, who, the year before, had
been instrumental in regaining some papers
which I had lost. He stepped forward, and,
bowing to the elder Mr. Elvyn, gave him
"Good morning."

"Hollo, Martin!" said the old gentleman;
"followed me here! News already?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man. "If you and
the young gent 'll just step outside with me,
I've a word to say to you."

"Wait until the ceremony's over," said the
old gentleman; but, on being urged, and told
it "wouldn't take a minute," he passed his
arm through his son's, and they went out into
the porch.

I followed him closely, and no sooner were
we clear of the church than Martin said;
"Very disagreeable this, sir, but business is
business." Then, turning to Hugh Elvyn,
he added, as he gripped him by the elbow,
"Sir, you're my prisoner!"

I never shall forget the abject look of
mingled rage and despair that passed across
the young man's face as he heard these
words. As for the father, he stood perfectly
aghast; and it was some moments before he
muttered, "What does this mean?"

"Only this, sir," replied Martin. "A second
anonymous letter, in the same handwriting
as the first, came to the bank after you left
on Tuesday night; and, accordin' to your
instructions, I opened it. It named Mr. Hugh
Elvyn as the forger of the documents, and
the writer gave an address where further
proofs could be found. I went there at once,
and saw the writer of the letter, heard
certain evidence, and took the party to Bow
Street. Upon what she stated upon her oath,
the magistrate issued a warrant, which I've
got in my pocket now."

"She," exclaimed the father. "Was it a
woman, then?"

"It were, sir!" responded Martin, briefly.
"Ellen Monroe by name."

The young .man groaned, and clasped his
hands across his face; "Tell me, what did
she say?"

"About you, sir?" replied Martin,
carefully blinking the evidence, " She says,
'Hugh Elvyn,' says she, 'have ruined me,
now I'll do the same by him.' Those was
her words."

By this time the rest of the company came
hastening from the church to tell us that
Mr. Vaughan was waiting for the
bridegroom, and laughingly to reproach him for
one moment's absence on such an occasion.
Of course, the dreadful news had to be told
to them; and it is needless to describe the
scene that followed. One only person retained
the smallest self-possession, and that was Annie
Vaughan. She made no boisterous declaration
of her belief in her lover's innocence—
no melodramatic ranting or swooning; but,
after the first shock was over, she walked up
to his side, and, placing her hand in his, said,
"Hugh, I know you are not guilty of this
wickedness, and I know that you will be
proved innocent. We will bide our time."

This catastrophe was, of course, the finale
of my visit to Plenmouth. As soon as I
found that I could be of no use to the
Vaughans, I returned to London; and, six
weeks afterwards, was in the Central
Criminal Court, when Hugh Elvyn was found
guilty of forgery, and sentenced to
transportation for lite. The principal witness
against him was a young woman who,
alter having been the repository of all his
secrets, was deserted by him and left
to starve. Of the Vaughans I could learn
nothing, beyond that, immediately after the
trial, Mr. Vaughan had exchanged livings