'A jilt in time saves nine,' says the proverbial wisdom of our
forefathers, adding, 'One jilt makes many.' In the last chapter of the
book of this chronicle, we told how the mercenary Mr. Jephson proved
false to the beautiful Miss Willoughby, who supported existence by her
skill in deciphering and transcribing the manuscript records of the past.
We described the consequent visit of Miss Willoughby to the office of the
Disentanglers, and how she reminded Merton that he had asked her once 'if
she had a spark of the devil in her.' She had that morning received, in
fact, a letter, crawling but explicit, from the unworthy Jephson, her
lover. Retired, he said, to the rural loneliness of Derbyshire, he had
read in his own heart, and what he there deciphered convinced him that,
as a man of honour, he had but one course before him: he must free Miss
Willoughby from her engagement. The lady was one of those who suffer in
silence. She made no moan, and no reply to Jephson's letter; but she did
visit Merton, and, practically, gave him to understand that she was ready
to start as a Corsair on the seas of amorous adventure. She had nailed
the black flag to the mast: unhappy herself, she was apt to have no mercy
on the sentiments and affections of others.

Merton, as it chanced, had occasion for the services of a lady in this
mood; a lady at once attractive, and steely-hearted; resolute to revenge,
on the whole of the opposite sex, the baseness of a Fellow of his
College. Such is the frenzy of an injured love--illogical indeed (for we
are not responsible for the errors of isolated members of our sex), but
primitive, natural to women, and even to some men, in Miss Willoughby's
position.

The occasion for such services as she would perform was provided by a
noble client who, on visiting the office, had found Merton out and Logan