"But what is to be done, Sir Lionel?" asked Miss Plympton, impatiently.

"Done!" cried Sir Lionel--"every thing! First, we must get Miss Dalton
out of that rascal's clutches; then we, must hand that fellow and his
confederates over to the law. And if it don't end in Botany Bay and
hard labor for life, then there's no law in the land. Why, who is he? A
pettifogger--a miserable low-born, low-bred, Liverpool pettifogger!"

"Do you know him?"

"Know him, madam! I know all about him--that is, as much as I want to
know."

"Do you know anything about the relations that formerly existed between
him and Mr. Frederick Dalton?"

"Relations!" said Sir Lionel, pouring out another glass of
wine--"relations, madam--that is--ah--to say--ah--business relations,
madam? Well, they were those of patron and client, I believe--nothing
more. I believe that this Wiggins was one to whom poor Dalton behaved
very kindly--made him what he is, in fact--and this is his reward! A
pettifogger, by Heaven!--a pettifogger! Seizing the Dalton estates, the
scoundrel, and then putting Miss Dalton under lock and key! Why, the
man's mad--mad! yes, a raving maniac! He is, by Heaven!"

"And now, Sir Lionel, when shall we be able to effect her release!"

"Leave it all to me. Leave it all to me, madam. This infernal gout of
mine ties me up, but I'll take measures this very day; I'll send off to