Without communicating with his family, who supposed him on his
journey southward, Mr. Markland took the first train for New York,
and in a few hours arrived in that city, and called at the office of
Mr. Fenwick. A single glance at the agent's countenance told him
that much was wrong. A look of trouble shadowed it, and only a
feeble smile parted his lips as he came forward to meet him.
"What news have you?" eagerly inquired Mr. Markland.
"Bad news, I am sorry to say," was answered.
"What is its nature?" The face of Mr. Markland was of an ashen hue,
and his lips quivered.
"I fear we have been mistaken in our man," said Mr. Fenwick.
"In Lyon?"
"Yes. His last letters are of a very unsatisfactory character, and
little in agreement with previous communications. We have, besides,
direct information from a partly on the ground, that tends to
confirm our worst fears."
"Worst fears of what?" asked Markland, still strongly agitated.
"Unfair--nay, treacherous--dealing."
"Treachery!"
"That word but feebly expresses all we apprehend.
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