“In the same house, sir, lodged a strangely matched couple. The one was a man of wily and sinister aspect, ever crawling instead of walking—insinuating, rather than saying, what he wished to convey—a man that had villain stamped upon, his face.”
“I rather think,” said Learmont, “I could match you such a man.”
“Let us hope, sir, there are few such,” added Albert, “but of such a character was he, who daily slunk in and out of this house, living apparently in great poverty. With him dwelt a young girl.”
“Ah,” thought Learmont, “love and poverty, the old story.”
“Oh, sir, she was beautiful—beautiful as Heaven, and her face was as a speaking mirror in which you might read all the pure and noble feelings of her soul. She must have been of noble and high origin, for the seeds of every high virtue were implanted in her breast, and even then were budding forth in beauty.”
“The soft blush of an Italian dawn, sir, was not more beautiful than were her eyes. Her brow, of snowy whiteness, rivalled the rarest sculpture, and her mouth—”
“You may describe her to me some other time,” said Learmont, with a slight tone of impatience.—“I should like to know how I can serve you.”
“I have lost her, sir.”
“Oh! You have lost her. Well, I presume she is to be found?”
“By your influence and means, sir, she may; but alas! I scarcely know in what direction to commence the search.”