"I mean—that is to say—his daughter—Miss Leslie."
The shrewd doctor turned his gray eyes sideways on the querist.
"Ah, his daughter. What did you wish to know of her, sir?"
"Merely to inquire——" said Morton, stammering and blushing visibly. "I mean only to ask if she is well."
"I know nothing to the contrary. She seemed very well when I brought her down from Matherton last evening. I dare say, though, she can tell you herself a great deal better than I can. Good morning, Mr. Morton."
And with a slight twinkle in his eye, Dr. Steele drove off.
Morton looked after the chaise, as it lumbered down the street.
"May I be hanged and quartered if I ever question you again; you are too sharp, by half."
The doctor's information was very welcome, however; and, armed with an anxious inquiry after her mother's health, Morton proceeded to call upon Miss Leslie. She had come to the city, as he had already judged, on some mission connected with the wants of the invalid, and was to go back to Matherton, with Dr. Steele, in the afternoon.
Thenceforward, for a week or upwards, he saw her no more; but, during the interval, he contrived, by various expedients, to keep himself advised of the condition and movements of the family at Matherton. Among other incidents, he became aware of two visits made them by Vinal, and was tormented, in consequence, with an unutterable jealousy. One morning he met the purblind old housekeeper, mousing along in spectacles through the crowded street, and, stopping her, to her great alarm and perplexity, he made his usual inquiry concerning Mrs. Leslie's health. This investigation led to the discovery that Miss Edith was coming from Matherton that very afternoon.