that night i dreamed of nothing but the scene, over and over again, and the two bars of music were constantly ringing in my ears. as soon as i had breakfasted the next morning i set off to mr turnbull’s, and told him what had occurred.

“it was indeed fortunate that the box was landed,” said he, “or you might have now been in prison; i wish i had had nothing to do with it; but, as you say, ‘what’s done can’t be helped;’ i will not give up the box, at all events, until i know which party is entitled to it, and i cannot help thinking that the lady is. but, jacob, you will have to reconnoitre, and find out what this story is. tell me, do you think you could remember the tune which he whistled so often?”

“it has been running in my head the whole night, and i have been trying it all the way as i pulled here. i think i have it exact. hear, sir.”—i whistled the two bars.

“quite correct, jacob, quite correct; well, take care not to forget them. where are you going to-day?”

“nowhere, sir.”

“suppose, then, you pull up the river, and find out the place where we landed, and when you have ascertained that, you can go on and see whether the young man is with the skiff; at all events you may find out something—but pray be cautious.”

i promised to be very careful, and departed on my errand, which i undertook with much pleasure, for i was delighted with anything like adventure. i pulled up the river, and in about an hour and a-quarter, came abreast of the spot. i recognised the cottage ornée, the parapet wall, even the spot where we lay, and perceived that several bricks were detached and had fallen into the river. there appeared to be no one stirring in the house, yet i continued to pull up and down, looking at the windows; at last one opened, and a young lady looked out, who, i was persuaded, was the same that we had seen the night before. there was no wind, and all was quiet around. she sat at the window, leaning her head on her hand. i whistled the two bars of the air. at the first bar she started up, and looked earnestly at me as i completed the second. i looked up; she waved her handkerchief once, and then shut the window. in a few seconds she made her appearance on the lawn, walking down towards the river. i immediately pulled in under the wall. i laid in my sculls, and held on, standing up in the boat.

“who are you? and who sent you?” said she, looking down on me, and discovering one of the most beautiful faces i had ever beheld.

“no one sent me ma’am,” replied i, “but i was in the boat last night. i am sorry you were so unfortunate, but your box and cloak are quite safe.”

“you were one of the men in the boat. i trust no one was hurt when they fired at you?”

“no ma’am.”

“and where is the box?”

“in the house of the person who was with me.”

“can he be trusted? for they will offer large rewards for it.”

“i should think so, ma’am,” replied i, smiling; “the person who was with me is a gentleman of large fortune, who was amusing himself on the river. he desires me to say that he will not give up the box until he knows to whom the contents legally belong.”

“good heavens, how fortunate! am i to believe you?”

“i should hope so, ma’am.”

“and what are you, then? you are not a waterman?”

“yes, ma’am, i am.”

she paused, looked earnestly at me for a little while, and then continued, “how did you learn the air you whistled?”

“the young gentleman whistled it six or seven times last night before you came. i tried it this morning coming up, as i thought it would be the means of attracting your attention. can i be of any service to you, ma’am?”

“service—yes, if i could be sure you were to be trusted—of the greatest service. i am confined here—cannot send a letter—watched as i move—only allowed the garden, and even watched while i walk here. they are most of them in quest of the tin box to-day, or i should not be able to talk to you so long.” she looked round at the house anxiously, and then said, “stop here a minute, while i walk a little.” she then retreated, and paced up and down the garden walk. i still remained under the wall, so as not to be perceived from the house. in about three or four minutes she returned and said, “it would be very cruel—it would be more than cruel—it would be very wicked of you to deceive me, for i am very unfortunate and very unhappy.” the tears started in her eyes. “you do not look as if you would. what is your name?”

“jacob faithful, ma’am, and i will be true to my name, if you will put your trust in me. i never deceived any one that i can recollect; and i’m sure i would not you—now that i’ve seen you.”

“yes, but money will seduce everybody.”

“not me, ma’am. i’ve as much as i wish for.”

“well, then, i will trust you, and think you sent from heaven to my aid; but how am i to see you? to-morrow my uncle will be back, and then i shall not be able to speak to you one moment, and if seen to speak to you, you will be laid in wait for, and perhaps shot.”

“well, ma’am,” replied i, after a pause, “if you cannot speak, you can write. you see that the bricks on the parapet are loose here. put your letter under this brick—i can take it away even in day-time, without being noticed, and can put the answer in the same place, so that you can secure it when you come out.”

“how very clever! good heavens, what an excellent idea!”

“was the young gentleman hurt, ma’am, in the scuffle last night?” inquired i.

“no, i believe not much, but i wish to know where he is, to write to him; could you find out?” i told her where we had met him, and what had passed. “that was lady auburn’s,” replied she; “he is often there—she is our cousin but i don’t know where he lives, and how to find him i know not. his name is william wharncliffe. do you think you could find him out?”

“yes, ma’am, with a little trouble it might be done. they ought to know where he is at lady auburn’s.”

“yes, some of the servants might—but how will you get to them?”

“that, ma’am, i must find out. it may not be done in one day, or two days, but if you will look every morning under this brick, if there is anything to communicate you will find it there.”

“you can write and read, then?”

“i should hope so, ma’am,” replied i, laughing.

“i don’t know what to make of you. are you really a waterman?”

“really, and—” she turned her head round at the noise of a window opening.

“you must go—don’t forget the brick;” and she disappeared.

i shoved my wherry along by the side of the wall, so as to remain unperceived until i was clear of the frontage attached to the cottage; and then, taking my sculls, pulled into the stream; and as i was resolved to see if i could obtain any information at lady auburn’s, i had to pass the garden again, having shoved my boat down the river instead of up, when i was under the wall. i perceived the young lady walking with a tall man by her side; he speaking very energetically, and using much gesticulation, she holding down her head. in another minute they were shut out from my sight. i was so much stricken with the beauty and sweetness of expression in the young lady’s countenance that i was resolved to use my best exertions to be of service to her. in about an hour-and-a-half i had arrived at the villa, abreast of which we had met the young gentleman, and which the young lady had told me belonged to lady auburn. i could see no one in the grounds, nor indeed in the house. after watching a few minutes, i landed as near to the villa as i could, made fast the wherry, and walked round to the entrance. there was no lodge, but a servant’s door at one side. i pulled the bell, having made up my mind how to proceed as i was walking up. the bell was answered by an old woman, who, in a snarling tone, asked me “what did i want?”

“i am waiting below, with my boat, for mr wharncliffe; has he come yet?”

“mr wharncliffe! no—he’s not come; nor did he say that he would come; when did you see him?”

“yesterday. is lady auburn at home?”

“lady auburn—no; she went to town this morning; everybody goes to london now, that they may not see the flowers and green trees, i suppose.”

“but i suppose mr wharncliffe will come,” continued i, “so i must wait for him.”

“you can do just as you like,” replied the old woman, about to shut the gate in my face.

“may i request a favour of you, ma’am, before you shut the gate—which is, to bring me a little water to drink, for the sun is hot, and i have had a long pull up here;” and i took out my handkerchief and wiped my face.

“yes, i’ll fetch you some,” replied she, shutting the gate and going away.

“this don’t seem to answer very well,” thought i to myself. the old woman returned, opened the gate, and handed me a mug of water. i drank some, thanked her, and returned the mug.

“i am very tired,” said i; “i should like to sit down and wait for the gentleman.”

“don’t you sit down when you pull?” inquired the old woman.

“yes,” replied i.

“then you must be tired of sitting, i should think, not of standing; at all events, if you want to sit, you can sit in your boat, and mind it at the same time.” with this observation she shut the door upon me, and left me without any more comment.

after this decided repulse on the part of the old woman, i had nothing to do but take her advice—viz., to go and look after my boat. i pulled down to mr turnbull’s, and told him my good and bad fortune. it being late, he ordered me some dinner in his study, and we sat there canvassing over the affair. “well,” said he, as we finished, “you must allow me to consider this as my affair, jacob, as i was the occasion of our getting mixed up in it. you must do all that you can to find this young man, and i shall hire stapleton’s boat by the day until we succeed; you need not tell him so, or he may be anxious to know why. to-morrow you go down to old beazeley’s?”

“yes, sir; you cannot hire me to-morrow.”

“still i shall, as i want to see you to-morrow morning before you go. here’s stapleton’s money for yesterday and to-day and now good-night.”

i was at mr turnbull’s early the next morning, and found him with the newspapers before him. “i expected this, jacob,” said he; “read that advertisement.” i read as follows:— “whereas, on friday night last, between the hours of nine and ten, a tin box, containing deeds and papers, was handed into a wherry from the grounds of a villa between brentford and kew, and the parties who owned it were prevented from accompanying the same. this is to give notice, that a reward of twenty pounds will be paid to the watermen, upon their delivering up the same to messrs james and john white, of number 14 lincoln’s inn fields. as no other parties are authorised to receive the said tin box of papers, all other applications for it must be disregarded. an early attention to this advertisement will oblige.”

“there must be papers of no little consequence in that box, jacob, depend upon it,” said mr turnbull; “however, here they are, and here they shall remain until i know more about it; that’s certain. i intend to try what i can do myself with the old woman, for i perceive the villa is to be let for three months—here is the advertisement in the last column. i shall go to town to-day, and obtain a ticket from the agent, and it is hard but i’ll ferret out something. i shall see you to-morrow. now you may go, jacob.”

i hastened away, as i had promised to be down to old tom’s to breakfast; an hour’s smart pulling brought me to the landing-place, opposite to his house.