“No.———Reade Street,
“New York, Aug. 11, 1884.
“Dear Sir:
“If you are in town, (and to-day was the day fixed for your return), please come right over here at your earliest convenience. Mrs. P. is in my private office! I am keeping her till your arrival.
“Yours truly,
“B. Peixada.”
Arthur stood still, his eyes glued upon this sheet of paper, long enough to have read it through a dozen times.
“Any answer?” Mr. Peixada’s envoy at last demanded.
“Oh—of course—I’ll go along with you at once.”
His heart was palpitating. The prospect of a face to face encounter with the redoubtable Mrs. Peixada caused him unwonted trepidation. The tidings conveyed in Peixada’s note were so unexpected and of such grave importance, no wonder Arthur’s serenity was ruffled. Striding up Broadway at the messenger’s heels, he tried to picture to himself the impending scene. The trap had sprung. What manner of creature would the quarry turn out to be? Poor woman! There was a lot of trouble in store for her. But it was not his fault. He had done nothing but that which his duty as an attorney had required of him. He would exert his influence in her behalf—try to smooth things down for her, and make them as comfortable as under the circumstances they could be. Still for all slips of hers, she was one of Eve’s family. He felt that he pitied her from the bottom of his soul.