“What?” she inquired.
“Why—a very convenient associate.”
“I can remain here but a few minutes. The errand is urgent—the time short.” She took a small packet from her bosom, where it had been concealed, laid it on the table, and then proceeded. “To a certain extent, I admit your charges. The statement of your being-plundered is correct, and the description of the plunderers is true; the Colonel was a fencing-master first, a cheat and thief afterwards. The Baron, I believe, a swindler from his cradle. Of me—ask not what I was—know what I am—a fallen woman—one who, in the common course of crime, has sunk by degrees, and at last, at twenty-one, become the confederate of thieves and ruffians. Oh Heaven! if women only knew what fearful penalties hang upon one lapse from virtue, how few would fall!”
She wept. The tears were irresistible.
“Adelaide,” I said, “you must forgive me. I have been severe—my losses have annoyed me. What is that parcel you desire me to take?”
“Your watch—I purloined it.”
“Good Heaven! impossible!”
“No, no, O’Halloran—it was only to secure it. Hear me—a few minutes, and we part for ever. I am a woman—a lost one—but still my heart is not altogether callous. I saw you—you were young and unsuspicious, and became an easy victim. I watched the course of spoliation—you imagined that I lost money, and generously made me a recompense. Am I forgiven?” she added. “And must I leave thee?”
“Not on my account, I trust,” responded a voice, deep as that of Lablache, at our elbow.
We started—Adelaide hurried from the room—I remained, so did the stranger—Mr. Hartley!