She wore a purple habit, long and sweeping; it disclosed a fine, erect and rounded form, set off to advantage by the grace of her attitude and the ease of all her movements. When I first looked, her face was turned away, and concealed partly by the long curls of her hair and partly by her streaming veil, but she presently changed her position, and then I saw a fine decided profile, a bright eye, and a complexion of exquisite bloom. From the first moment I knew she was not a stranger.

‘I’ve seen that face before,’ said I to Sir William. Then, as my recollection cleared, I added, ‘It was last night in the mercer’s shop opposite Stancliffe’s.’ For in fact this was the very girl whom I had watched from the window.

‘I, too, have seen her before,’ returned the Baronet. ‘I know her name. It is Miss Moore, the daughter of the noted barrister.’

‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘Jane – the beautiful Angrian?’ Perhaps my readers may recollect a description of this young lady which appeared some time since, in a sort of comparison between Eastern and Western women.

Sir William proceeded. ‘I saw her last autumn at the musical festival which was held in September in the minster at Zamorna. You remember the anecdote concerning her which was told in the papers at that time?’

‘Can’t say I do.’

‘Why, people said that she had particularly attracted the attention of His Majesty, who attended the Festival, and that he has bestowed on her the title of the Rose of Zamorna.’

‘Was it true?’

‘No further than this: she sat full in his sight and he stared at her as everybody else did, for she really was a very imposing figure in her white satin dress and stately plume of snowy ostrich feathers. He asked her name, too, and when somebody told him, he said, “By God, she’s the Rose of Zamorna! I don’t see another woman to come near her.” That was all. I daresay he never thought of her afterwards. She’s not one of his sort.’

‘Well, but,’ continued I, ‘I should like to see a little more of her. Heigho! I believe I’m in love!’

‘So am I,’ said Percy, echoing the sigh. ‘Head over ears! Look now, did you ever see a better horse-woman? What grace and spirit! But there’s that cursed angle in the road, it will hide her. There, she’s turned it. I declare, my sun is eclipsed. Is not yours, Townshend?’

‘Yes, totally; but can’t we follow her, Colonel? Where does she live?’

‘Not far off. I really think we might manage it, though I never was introduced to her in my life, nor you either, I dare say.’

‘To my sorrow, never.’

‘Well then, have you any superfluous modesty? Because if you have, put it into your waistcoat pocket and button your coat over it. Now, man, are you eased of the commodity?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Come along, then. Her father is a barrister and attending the assizes at Angria. Consequently, he is not at home. What so natural as for two elegant young men like you and I to be wanting him on business, respecting a mortgage – on a friend’s estate, possibly, or probably on our own – or a lawsuit concerning our rich old uncle’s contested will? The servants having answered that Mr Moore is not at home, can’t we inquire for his daughter (she has no mother by the bye), to give her some particular charge which we won’t entrust to menials? Now, man, have you got your cue?’

I put my thumb to the side of my nose, and we mutually strode on.

Mr Moore’s house is a lease-hold on Lord Hartford’s property, and he has the character in Zamorna of being a toady of that nobleman’s. The barrister, though an able man, is certainly, according to report, but lightly burdened with principle, and it is possible that with his large fortune he may have hopes of one day contesting the election of the city with its present representative – in which case Lord Hartford’s influence would be no feather in the scale of success.

‘We enter here,’ said Percy, pausing at a green gate which opened sweetly beneath an arch of laburnums upon a lawn like velvet. A white-walled villa stood before us, bosomed in a blooming shrubbery, with green walks between the rose-trees and a broad carriage-road winding through all to the door. In that bright hour (it was now nearly noon) nothing could be more soothing than its aspect of shade and retirement. One almost preferred it to the wide demesne and princely mansion which it fronted with such modest dignity. Arrived at the door, Sir William knocked. A footman opened it.

‘Is Mr Moore within?’

‘No, sir; master left home last week for the assizes.’

Sir William affected disappointment. He turned, and made a show of consulting me in a whisper. Then again, addressing the servant:

‘Miss Moore is at home, perhaps?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then be kind enough to give in our names to her – Messrs Clarke and Gardiner – and say we wish to see her for an instant on a matter of some importance.’

The servant bowed, and politely requesting us to walk forward, threw open the door of a small sitting-room.

The apartment was prettily furnished.