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I begged her to speak, if she thought I could be of the least assistance.

“Yes, I will trust my son’s friend. Mr. Howard, I here solemnly accuse Theodosia Rowley of having stolen the Lumley Autograph!”

The dignity of manner, the concentrated passion of expression, the strength of emphasis with which Lady Holberton spoke, would have done honor to a Siddons. The natural start of horror and amazement on my part, was also, no doubt, very expressive–for I was speechless with surprise.

“I see you do not credit this,” continued the lady.

But thought, like a flash of lightning, had already recalled some circumstances of the last evening at Holberton-House. I did credit the accusation, and immediately informed Lady Holberton of what I had observed, but forgotten, until reminded of the facts by her own remarks. I had seen Miss Rowley, bending low over the album at a moment when some one was telling an exceedingly humorous story which engrossed the attention of the rest of the company.

“Could she have had an accomplice?” cried the lady, with dashing eyes.

I knew nothing on that point. But, I added, that soon after Miss Rowley had left the room very quietly; and as I followed her to fulfill another engagement, she had started, turned pale, and betrayed much nervousness, scarcely allowing me to assist her to her carriage, although we left the house at the same instant.

Lady Holberton’s suspicions were now confirmed beyond a doubt.

“And yet it seems incredible that any lady should be guilty of such conduct!” I exclaimed, almost repenting having allowed the previous remarks to pass my lips. “Miss Rowley is undoubtedly a woman of principle–or good moral standing.”

“Moral standing!–principle!” exclaimed Lady Holberton, bitterly. “Yes, where an autograph is concerned, Theodosia Rowley has all the principle of a Magpie.”

{Magpie = European bird known for stealing and hiding small bright objects.}

Whatever might have been the fact, it was clear at least that Lady Holberton’s opinion was now unalterably made up.

“Remember, she is a Butlerite!” added the lady, thus putting the last touch to the circumstantial evidence against Miss Rowley.

Weeks passed by. The advertisements remained unanswered. The police could give no information. Lady Holberton was in despair; the physicians declared that her health must eventually give way under the anxiety and disappointment consequent upon this melancholy affair. Much sympathy was felt for the afflicted lady; even Miss Rowley called often to condole, but she was never admitted.

“I could not see the crocodile!” exclaimed Lady Holberton, quite thrown off her guard one day, by the sight of Miss Rowley’s card which she threw into the fire.

Some consolation, however, appeared to be derived from the assiduous attentions of Mr. T—-, who personally admired Lady Holberton; at least he professed to do so, though some persons accused him of interested views, and aiming at her album rather than herself. But although his attentions were received, yet nothing could afford full consolation. At length, all other means failing, at the end of a month, it was proposed that two persons, mutual friends of Lady Holberton and Miss Rowley, should call on the latter lady, and appeal privately to her sense of honor, to restore the autograph if it were actually in her possession. This plan was finally agreed on; but the very day it was to have been carried into execution, Miss Rowley left town for an excursion in Finland.

As for myself, I was also on the wing, and left London about the same time. The parting with Lady Holberton was melancholy; she was much depressed, and the physicians had recommended the waters of Wiesbaden. Mr. T—- was also preparing for an excursion to Germany; and he was suspected of vacillating in his Butlerite views, brought over by Lady Holberton’s tears and logic.

Returning to London, some three months later, I found many of my former acquaintances were absent; but Lady Holberton, Miss Rowley, and Mr. T—- were all in town again. The day after I arrived–it was Tuesday the 20th of August–as I was walking along Piccadilly, about five o’clock in the afternoon, my eye fell on the windows of Mr. Thorpe’s great establishment. I was thinking over his last catalogue of autographs, when I happened to observe a plain, modest-looking young girl casting a timid glance at the door. There was something anxious and hesitating in her manner, which attracted my attention. Accustomed, like most Americans, to assist a woman in any little difficulty, and with notions better suited perhaps to the meridian of Yankee-land than that of London, I asked if she were in any trouble. How richly was I rewarded for the act of good-nature! She blushed and courtesied.