charge you anything extra for the lemon, and you can squeeze her hand when she gives you the change. They're sure to come in here two at a time, and put their mark upon the gentleman in question. Is he in the house yet, old fellow?"
Richard turns to the quiet little man at his elbow, who is our old friend Mr. Peters, and asks him a question: he only shakes his head in reply.
"No, he's not here yet," says Dick; "let's have a look at the stage, and see what sort of stuff this Signor Mosquetti is made of."
"I shall cut him up, on principle," says Percy; "and the better he is, the more I shall cut him up, on another principle."
There is a great deal of curiosity about this new tenor of continental celebrity. The opera is the Lucia, and the appearance of Edgardo is looked forward to with anxiety. Presently the hero of the square-cut coat and jack-boots enters. He is a handsome fellow, with a dark southern face, and an easy insouciant manner. His voice is melody itself; the rich notes roll out in a flood of sweetness, without the faintest indication of effort. Though Richard pretends to look at the stage, though perhaps he does try to direct his attention that way, his pale face, his wandering glance, and his restless under-lip, show him to be greatly agitated. He is waiting for that moment when the detective shall say to him, "There is the murderer of your uncle. There is the man for whose guilt you have suffered, and must suffer, till he is brought to justice." The first act of the opera seemed endless to Daredevil Dick; while his philosophical friend, Mr. Cordonner, looked on as coolly as he would have done at an earthquake, or the end of the world, or any other trifling event of that nature.
The curtain has fallen upon the first act, when Mr. Peters lays his hand on Richard's arm and points to a box on the grand tier.
A gentleman and lady, and a little boy, have just taken their seats. The gentleman, as becomes him, sits with his back to the stage and faces the house. He lifts his opera-glass to take a leisurely survey of the audience. Percy puts his glass into Richard's hand, and with a hearty "Courage, old boy!" watches him as he looks for the first time at his deadliest enemy.
And is that calm, aristocratic, and serene face the face of a murderer? The shifting blue eyes and the thin arched lips are not discernible from this distance; but through the glass the general effect of the face is very plainly seen, and there is no fear that Richard will fail to know its owner again, whenever and wherever he may meet him.
Mr. Cordonner, after a deliberate inspection of the personal
