allow myself to question the right of Mrs. Wentworth; a right accruing
to her in consequence of Welbeck's failure in the payment of his rent;
but there was one thing which I felt an irresistible desire, and no
scruples which should forbid me, to possess, and that was, the
manuscript to which Welbeck had alluded, as having been written by the
deceased Lodi.

I was well instructed in Latin, and knew the Tuscan language to be
nearly akin to it. I despaired not of being at some time able to
cultivate this language, and believed that the possession of this
manuscript might essentially contribute to this end, as well as to many
others equally beneficial. It was easy to conjecture that the volume was
to be found among his printed books, and it was scarcely less easy to
ascertain the truth of this conjecture. I entered, not without tremulous
sensations, into the apartment which had been the scene of the
disastrous interview between Watson and Welbeck. At every step I almost
dreaded to behold the spectre of the former rise before me.

Numerous and splendid volumes were arranged on mahogany shelves, and
screened by doors of glass. I ran swiftly over their names, and was at
length so fortunate as to light upon the book of which I was in search.
I immediately secured it, and, leaving the candle extinguished on a
table in the parlour, I once more issued forth into the street. With
light steps and palpitating heart I turned my face towards the country.
My necessitous condition I believed would justify me in passing without
payment the Schuylkill bridge, and the eastern sky began to brighten
with the dawn of morning not till I had gained the distance of nine
miles from the city.

Such is the tale which I proposed to relate to you. Such are the