whole affair. And his discretion was rewarded; for the Squirradical,

laying a heavy hand upon his nephew's shoulder, had added these notable

expressions: 'I see what you are after, Gid. But if you're going to get

the girl, you have to work, sir.'

These pleasing sounds had cheered the barrister all day, as he sat

reading in chambers; they continued to form the ground-base of his manly

musings as he was whirled to Hampton Court; even when he landed at the

station, and began to pull himself together for his delicate interview,

the voice of Uncle Ned and the eyes of Julia were not forgotten.

But now it began to rain surprises: in all Hampton Court there was no

Kurnaul Villa, no Count Tarnow, and no count. This was strange; but,

viewed in the light of the incoherency of his instructions, not perhaps

inexplicable; Mr Dickson had been lunching, and he might have made some

fatal oversight in the address. What was the thoroughly prompt, manly,

and businesslike step? thought Gideon; and he answered himself at

once: 'A telegram, very laconic.' Speedily the wires were flashing the

following very important missive: 'Dickson, Langham Hotel. Villa and

persons both unknown here, suppose erroneous address; follow self next

train.--Forsyth.' And at the Langham Hotel, sure enough, with a brow

expressive of dispatch and intellectual effort, Gideon descended not

long after from a smoking hansom.

I do not suppose that Gideon will ever forget the Langham Hotel. No

Count Tarnow was one thing; no John Dickson and no Ezra Thomas, quite

168

The Wrong Box