In Friendship's Guise

BY WM. MURRAY GRAYDON

AUTHOR OF "The Cryptogram," etc.

1899

CONTENTS.

[CHAPTER I.—The Duplicate Rembrandt]
[CHAPTER II.—Five Years Afterwards]
[CHAPTER III.—An Old Friend]
[CHAPTER IV.—Number 320 Wardour Street]
[CHAPTER V.—A Mysterious Discussion]
[CHAPTER VI.—A Visitor from Paris]
[CHAPTER VII.—Love's Young Dream]
[CHAPTER VIII.—An Attraction in Pall Mall]
[CHAPTER IX.—Uncle and Nephew]
[CHAPTER X.—A London Sensation]
[CHAPTER XI.—A Mysterious Discovery]
[CHAPTER XII.—A Cowardly Communication]
[CHAPTER XIII.—The Tempter]
[CHAPTER XIV.—The Dinner at Richmond]
[CHAPTER XV.—From the Dead]
[CHAPTER XVI.—The Last Card]
[CHAPTER XVII.—Two Passengers from Calais]
[CHAPTER XVIII.—Home Again]
[CHAPTER XIX.—A Shock for Sir Lucius]
[CHAPTER XX.—At a Night Club]
[CHAPTER XXI.—A Quick Decision]
[CHAPTER XXII.—Another Chance]
[CHAPTER XXIII.—On the Track]
[CHAPTER XXIV.—A Fateful Decision]
[CHAPTER XXV.—A Fruitless Errand]
[CHAPTER XXVI.—A Thunderbolt from the Blue]
[CHAPTER XXVII.—An Amateur Detective]
[CHAPTER XXVIII.—A Discovery]
[CHAPTER XXIX.—The Vicar of Dunwold]
[CHAPTER XXX.—Run to Earth]
[CHAPTER XXXI.—Noah Hawker's Disclosure]
[CHAPTER XXXII.—How the Day Ended]
[CHAPTER XXXIII.—Conclusion]

IN FRIENDSHIP'S GUISE.

CHAPTER I.

THE DUPLICATE REMBRANDT.

The day began well. The breakfast rolls were crisper than usual, the butter was sweeter, and never had Diane's slender white hands poured out more delicious coffee. Jack Clare was in the highest spirits as he embraced his wife and sallied forth into the Boulevard St. Germain, with a flat, square parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm. From the window of the entresol Diane waved a coquettish farewell.

"Remember, in an hour," she called down to him. "I shall be ready by then, Jack, and waiting. We will lunch at Bignon's—"

"And drive in the Bois, and wind up with a jolly evening," he interrupted, throwing a kiss. "I will hasten back, dear one. Be sure that you put on your prettiest frock, and the jacket with the ermine trimming."

It was a clear and frosty January morning, in the year 1892, and the streets of Paris were dry and glistening. There was intoxication in the very air, and Jack felt thoroughly in harmony with the fine weather. What mattered it that he had but a few francs in his pocket—that the quarterly remittance from his mother, who dreaded the Channel passage and was devoted to her foggy London, would not be due for a fortnight? The parcel under his arm meant, without doubt, a check for a nice sum. He and Diane would spend it merrily, and until the morrow at least his fellow-workers at Julian's Academy would miss him from his accustomed place.

Bright-eyed grisettes flung coy looks at the young artist as he strode along, admiring his well-knit figure, his handsome boyish features chiseled as finely as a cameo, the crisp brown hair with a slight tendency to curl, his velvet jacket and flowing tie. Jack nodded and smiled at a familiar face now and then, or paused briefly to greet a male acquaintance; for the Latin Quarter had been his little world for three years, and he was well-known in it from the Boulevard St. Michel to the quays of the Seine. He snapped his fingers at a mounted cuirassier in scarlet and silver who galloped by him on the Point Royal, and whistled a few bars of "The British Grenadiers" as he passed the red-trowsered, meek-faced, under-sized soldiers who shouldered their heavy muskets in the courts of the Louvre. The memory of Diane's laughing countenance, as she leaned from the window, haunted him in the Avenue de l'Opera.

"She's a good little girl, except when she's in a temper," he said to himself, "and I love her every bit as much as I did when we were married a year ago. Perhaps I was a fool, but I don't regret it. She was as straight as a die, with a will of her own, and it was either lose her altogether or do the right thing. I couldn't bear to part with her, and I wasn't blackguard enough to try to deceive her. I'm afraid there will be a row some day, though, when the Mater learns the truth. What would she say if she knew that Diane Merode, one of the most popular and fascinating dancers of the Folies Bergere, was now Mrs. John Clare?"

It was not a cheerful thought, but Jack's momentary depression vanished as he stopped before the imposing facade of the Hotel Netherlands, in the vicinity of the Opera. He entered boldly and inquired for Monsieur Martin Von Whele. The gentleman was gone, a polite garcon explained. He had received a telegram during the night to say that his wife was very ill, and he had left Paris by the first train.

The happiness faded from Jack's eyes.

"Gone—gone back to Amsterdam?" he exclaimed incredulously.

"Yes, to his own country, monsieur."

"And he left no message for me—no letter?"

"Indeed, no, monsieur; he departed in great haste."

An appeal to a superior official of the hotel met with the same response, and Jack turned away. He wandered slowly down the gay street, the parcel hanging listlessly under his left arm, and his right hand jingling the few coins in his pocket. His journey over the river, begun so hopefully, had ended in a bitter disappointment.

Martin Von Whele was a retired merchant, a rich native of Amsterdam, and his private collection of paintings was well known throughout Europe. He had come to Paris a month before to attend a private sale, and had there purchased, at a bargain, an exceedingly fine Rembrandt that had but recently been unearthed from a hiding-place of centuries. He determined to have a copy made for his country house in Holland, and chance brought him in contact with Jack Clare, who at the time was reproducing for an art patron a landscape in the Luxembourg Gallery—a sort of thing that he was not too proud to undertake when he was getting short of money. Monsieur Von Whele liked the young Englishman's work and came to an agreement with him. Jack copied the Rembrandt at the Hotel Netherlands, going there at odd hours, and made a perfect duplicate of it—a dangerous one, as the Hollander laughingly suggested. Jack applied the finishing touches at his studio, and artfully gave the canvas an appearance of age. He was to receive the promised payment when he delivered the painting at the Hotel Netherlands, and he had confidently expected it. But, as has been seen, Martin Von Whele had gone home in haste, leaving no letter or message. For the present there was no likelihood of getting a cheque from him.

The brightness of the day aggravated Jack's disappointment as he walked back to the little street just off the Boulevard St. Germain. He tried to look cheerful as he mounted the stairs and threw the duplicate Rembrandt into a corner of the studio, behind a stack of unfinished sketches. Diane entered from the bedroom, ravishingly dressed for the street in a costume that well set off her perfect figure. She was a picture of beauty with her ivory complexion, her mass of dark brown hair, and the wonderfully large and deep eyes that had been one of her chief charms at the Folies Bergere.

"Good boy!" she cried. "You did not keep me waiting long. But you look as glum as a bear. What is the matter?"

Jack explained briefly, in an appealing voice.

"I'm awfully sorry for your sake, dear," he added. "We are down to our last twenty-franc piece, but in another fortnight—"

"Then you won't take me?"

"How can I? Don't be unreasonable."

"You promised, Jack. And see, I am all ready. I won't stay at home!"

"Is it my fault, Diane? Can I help it that Von Whele has left Paris?"

"You can help it that you have no money. Oh, I wish I had not given up the stage!"

Diane stamped one little foot, and angry tears rose to her eyes. She tore off her hat and jacket and dashed them to the floor. She threw herself on a couch.

"You deceived me!" she cried bitterly. "You promised that I should want for nothing—that you would always have plenty of money. And this is how you keep your word! You are selfish, unkind! I hate you!"

She continued to reproach him, growing more and more angry. Words of the lowest Parisian argot, picked up from her companions of the Folies Bergere, fell from her lovely lips—words that brought a blush of shame, a look of horror and repulsion, to Jack's face.

"Diane," he said pleadingly, as he bent over the couch.

Her mood changed as quickly, and she suddenly clasped her arms around his neck.

"Forgive me, Jack," she whispered.

"I always do," he sighed.

"And, please, please get some money—now."

"You know that I can't."

"Yes, you can. You have lots of friends—they won't refuse you."

"But I hate to ask them. Of course, Jimmie Drexell would gladly loan me a few pounds—"

"Then go to him," pleaded Diane, as she hung on his neck and stopped his protests with a shower of kisses. "Go and get the money, Jack, dear—you can pay it back when your remittance comes. And we will have such a jolly day! I am sure you don't want to work."

Jack hesitated, and finally gave in; it was hard for him to resist a woman's tears and entreaties—least of all when that woman was his fascinating little wife. A moment later he was in the street, walking rapidly toward the studio of his American friend and fellow-artist, Jimmie Drexell.

"How Diane twists me around her finger!" he reflected ruefully. "I hate these rows, and they have been more frequent of late. When she is in a temper, and lets loose with her tongue, she is utterly repulsive. But I forget everything when she melts into tears, and then I am her willing slave again. I wonder sometimes if she truly loves me, or if her affection depends on plenty of money and pleasure. Hang it all! Why is a man ever fool enough to get married?"

On a corner of the Boulevard St. Michel and a cross street there is a brasserie beloved of artists and art students, and slightly more popular with them than similar institutions of the same ilk in the Latin Quarter. Here, one hazy October evening, nine months after Mr. Von Whele's hurried departure from Paris, might have been found Jack Clare. Tête-à-tête with him, across the little marble-topped table, was his friend Victor Nevill, whom he had known in earlier days in England, and whose acquaintance he had recently renewed in gay Paris. Nevill was an Oxford graduate, and a wild and dissipated young man of Jack's age; he was handsome and patrician-looking, a hail-fellow-well-met and a favorite with women, but a close observer of character would have proclaimed him to be selfish and heartless. He had lately come into a large sum of money, and was spending it recklessly.

The long, low-ceilinged room was dim with tobacco smoke, noisy with ribald jests and laughter. Here and there the waitresses, girls coquettishly dressed, tripped with bottles and syphons, foaming bocks, and glasses of brandy or liqueurs. The customers of the brasserie were a mixed lot of women and men, the latter comprising' numerous nationalities, and all drawn to Paris by the wiles of the Goddess of Art. Topical songs of the day succeeded one another rapidly. A group of long-haired, polyglot students hung around the piano, while others played on violins or guitars, which they had brought to contribute to the evening's enjoyment. At intervals, when there was a lull, the click of billiard balls came from an adjoining apartment. Out on the boulevard, under the glaring lights, the tide of revelers and pleasure-seekers flowed unceasingly.

"I consider this a night wasted," said Jack. "I would rather have gone to the Casino, for a change."

"It didn't much matter where we went, as long as we spent our last evening together," Victor Nevill replied. "You know I leave for Rome to-morrow. I fancy it will be a good move, for I have been going the pace too fast in Paris."

"So have I," said Jack, wearily. "I'm not as lucky as you, with a pot of money to draw on. I intend to turn over a new leaf, old chap, and you'll find me reformed when you come back. I've been a fool, Nevill. When my mother died last February I came into 30,000 francs, and for the last five months I have been scattering my inheritance recklessly. Very little of it is left now."

"But you have been working?"

"Yes, in a sort of a way. But you can imagine how it goes when a fellow turns night into day."

"It's time you pulled up," said Nevill, "before you go stone broke. You owe that much to your wife."

He spoke with a slight sneer which escaped his companion.

"I like that," Jack muttered bitterly. "Diane has spent two francs to my one—or helped me to spend them."

"Such is the rosy path of marriage," Nevill remarked lightly.

"Shut up!" said Jack.

He laughed as he drained his glass of cognac, and then settled back in his seat with a moody expression. His thoughts were not pleasant ones. Since the early part of the year he and his wife had been gradually drifting apart, and even when they were together at theatres or luxurious cafes, spending money like water, there had been a restraint between them. Of late Diane's fits of temper had become more frequent, and only yielded to a handful of gold or notes. Jack had sought his own amusements and left her much alone—more than was good for her, he now reflected uneasily. Yet he had the utmost confidence in her still, and not a shadow of suspicion had crossed his mind. He believed that his honor was safe in her care.

"I have wished a thousand times that I had never married," he said to himself, "but it is too late for that now. I must make the best of it. I still love Diane, and I don't believe she has ceased to care for me. Poor little girl! Perhaps she feels my neglect, and is too proud to own it. I was ready enough to cut work and spend money. Yes, it has been my fault. I'll go to her to-night and tell her that. I'll ask her to move back to our old lodgings, where we were so happy. And then I'll turn over that new leaf—"

"What's wrong with you, my boy?" broke in Victor Nevill. "Have you been dreaming?"

"I am going home," said Jack, rising. "It will be a pleasant surprise for Diane."

Nevill looked at him curiously, then laughed. He took out his watch.

"Have another drink," he urged. "We part to-night—who knows when we will meet again? And it is only half-past eleven."

"One more," Jack assented, sitting down again.

Brandy was ordered, and Victor Nevill kept up a rapid conversation, and an interesting one. From time to time he glanced covertly at his watch, and it might have been supposed that he was purposely detaining his companion. More brandy was placed on the table, and Jack frequently lifted the glass to his lips. With a cigar between his teeth, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, he laughed as merrily as any in the room. But he did not drink too much, and the hand that he finally held out to Nevill was perfectly steady.

"I must be off now," he said. "It is long past midnight. Good-by, old chap, and bon voyage."

"Good-by, my dear fellow. Take care of yourself."

It was an undemonstrative parting, such as English-men are addicted to. Jack sauntered out to the boulevard, and turned his steps homeward. His thoughts were all of Diane, and he was not to be cajoled by a couple of grisettes who made advances. He nodded to a friendly gendarme, and crossed the street to avoid a frolicksome party of students, who were bawling at the top of their voices the chorus of the latest topical song by Paulus, the Beranger of the day—

"Nous en avons pour tous les gouts."

Victor Nevill heard the refrain as he left the brasserie and looked warily about. He stepped into a cab, gave the driver hurried instructions, and was whirled away at a rattling pace toward the Seine.

"He will never suspect me," he muttered complacently, as he lit a cigar.

With head erect, and coat buttoned tightly over his breast, Jack went on through the enticing streets of Paris. He had moved from his former lodgings to a house that fronted on the Boulevard St. Germain. Here he had the entresol, which he had furnished lavishly to please his wife. He let himself in with a key, mounted the stairs, and opened the studio door. A lamp was burning dimly, and the silence struck a chill to his heart.

"Diane," he called.

There was no reply. He advanced a few feet, and caught sight of a letter pinned to the frame of an easel. He turned up the lamp, opened the envelope, and read the contents:

"Dear Jack:—

"Good-by forever. You will never see me again. Forgive me and try to forget. It is better that we should part, as I could not endure a life of poverty. I love you no longer, and I am sure that you have tired of me. I am going with one who has taken your place in my heart—one who can gratify my every wish. It will be useless to seek for me. Again, farewell. DIANE."

The letter fell from Jack's hand, and he trampled it under foot. He reeled into the dainty bedroom, and his burning eyes noted the signs of confusion and flight—the open and empty drawers, the despoiled dressing table, the discarded clothing strewn on the floor.

"Gone!" he cried hoarsely. "Gone at the bidding of some scoundrel—perhaps a trusted friend and comrade! God help my betrayer when the day of reckoning comes! But I am well rid of her. She was heartless and mercenary. She never could have loved me—she has left me because she knew that my money was nearly spent. But I love her still. I can't tear her out of my heart. Diane, my wife, come back! Come back!"

His voice rang through the empty, deserted rooms. He threw himself on the bed, and tore the lace coverings with his finger nails. He wept bitter tears, strong man though he was, while out on the boulevard the laughter of the midnight revelers mocked at his grief.

Finally he rose; he laughed harshly.

"Damn her, she would have dragged me down to her own level," he muttered. "It is for the best. I am a free man once more."

CHAPTER II.

FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS.

Jack Vernon looked discontentedly at the big canvas on the easel, and with a shrug of the shoulders he turned his back on it. He dropped his palette and flung his sheaf of brushes into an open drawer.

"I am not fit for anything to-day," he said petulantly. "I was up too late last night. No, most decidedly, I am not in the mood for work."

He sauntered to the huge end window of the studio, and looked out over the charming stretch of Ravenscourt Park. It was an ideal morning toward the close of April, 1897—such a morning as one finds at its best in the western suburbs of mighty London. The trees were in fresh leaf and bud, the crocuses were blooming in the well-kept beds, and the grass was a sheet of glittering emeralds. The singing of birds vied with the jangle of tram-bells out on the high-road.

"A pull on the river will take the laziness out of me," thought Jack, as he yawned and extended his arms. "What glorious weather! It would be a shame to stop indoors."

A mental picture of the silvery Thames, green-wooded and sunny, proved too strong an allurement to resist. Jack did not know that Destiny, watchful of opportunity, had taken this beguiling shape to lead him to a turning-point of his life—to steer him into the thick of troubled and restless waters, of gray clouds and threatening storms. He discarded his paint-smeared blouse—he had worn one since his Paris days—and, getting quickly into white flannel and a river hat, he lit a briar pipe and went forth whistling to meet his fate.

He was fond of walking, and he knew every foot of old Chiswick by heart. He struck across the high-road, down a street of trim villas to a more squalid neighborhood, and came out by the lower end of Chiswick Mall, sacred to memories of the past. He lingered for a moment by the stately house immortalized by Thackeray in Vanity Fair, and pictured Amelia Sedley rolling out of the gates in her father's carriage, while Becky Sharpe hurled the offending dictionary at the scandalized Miss Pinkerton. Tempted by the signboard of the Red Lion, and by the red-sailed wherries clustered between the dock and the eyot, he stopped to quaff a foaming pewter on a bench outside the old inn.

A little later he had threaded the quaint passage behind Chiswick Church, left the sonorous hammering of Thorneycroft's behind him, and was stepping briskly along Burlington Lane, with the high wall of Devonshire House on his right, and on his left, far over hedges and orchards, the riverside houses of Barnes. He was almost sorry when he reached Maynard's boat-house, where he kept a couple of light and serviceable craft; but the dimpled bosom of the Thames, sparkling in the sunlight, woke a fresh enthusiasm in his heart, and made him long to transfer the picture to canvas.

"Even a Turner could not do it half justice," he reflected.

It was indeed a scene to defy any artist, but there were some bold enough to attempt it. As Jack pulled up the river he saw, here and there, a fellow-craftsman ensconced in a shady nook with easel and camp-chair. His vigorous strokes sent him rapidly by Strand-on-the-Green, that secluded bit of a village which so few Londoners have taken the trouble to search out. A narrow paved quay, fringed with stately elm trees, separated the old-fashioned, many-colored houses from the reedy shore, where at high tide low great black barges, which apparently go nowhere, lie moored in picturesque array.

It was all familiar to Jack, but he never tired of this stretch of the Thames. He dived under Kew Bridge, shot by Kew Gardens and ancient Brentford, and turned around off Isleworth. He rowed leisurely back, dropping the oars now and again to light his pipe.

"There's nothing like this to brace a fellow up," he said to himself, as he drew near Maynard's. "I should miss the river if I took a studio in town. I'll have a bit of lunch at the Red Lion, and then go home and do an afternoon's work."

A churning, thumping noise, which he had disregarded before, suddenly swelled louder and warned him of possible danger. He was about off the middle of Strand-on-the-Green, and, glancing around, he saw one of the big Thames excursion steamers, laden with passengers, ploughing up-stream within fifty yards of him, but at a safe distance to his right. The same glimpse revealed a pretty picture midway between himself and the vessel—a young girl approaching in a light Canadian canoe. She could not have been more than twenty, and the striking beauty of her face was due to those charms of expression and feature which are indefinable. A crimson Tam-o'-Shanter was perched jauntily on her golden hair, and a blue Zouave jacket, fitting loosely over her blouse, gave full play to the grace and skill with which she handled the paddle.

Jack was indifferent to women, and wont to boast that none could enslave him, but the sight of this fair young English maiden, if it did not weaken the citadel of his heart, at least made that organ beat a trifle faster. He shot one look of bold admiration, then turned and bent to the oars.

"I don't know when I have seen so lovely a face," he thought. "I wonder who she is."

The steamer glided by, and the next moment Jack was nearly opposite to the canoe. What happened then was swift and unexpected. Above the splash of the revolving paddles he heard hoarse shouts and warning cries. He saw green waves approaching, flung up in the wake of the passing vessel. As he dropped the oars and leapt anxiously to his feet the frail canoe, unfitted to encounter such a peril, was clutched and lifted broadside by the foaming swell. Over it went instantly, and there was a flash of red and blue as the girl was flung headfirst into the river.

As quickly Jack clasped his hands and dived from his boat. He came to the top and swam forward with desperate strokes. He saw the upturned canoe, the floating paddle, the half-submerged Tam-o'-Shanter. Then a mass of dripping golden hair cleft the surface, only to sink at once.

But Jack had marked the spot, and, taking a full breath, he dived. To the onlookers the interval seemed painfully long, and a hundred cheering voices rent the air as the young artist rose to view, keeping himself afloat with one arm, while the other supported the girl. She was conscious, but badly scared and disposed to struggle.

"Be quite still," Jack said, sharply. "You are in no danger—I will save you if you trust me."

The girl obeyed, looking into Jack's eyes with a calmer expression. The steamer had stopped, and half a dozen row-boats were approaching from different directions. A grizzled waterman and his companion picked up the two and pulled them across to Strand-on-the-Green. Others followed towing Jack's boat and the canoe, and the big steamer proceeded on her way to Kew Pier.

The Black Bull, close by the railway bridge, received the drenched couple, and the watermen were delighted by the gift of a sovereign. A motherly woman took the half-dazed girl upstairs, and Jack was led into the oak-panelled parlor of the old inn by the landlord, who promptly poured him out a little brandy, and then insisted on his having a change of clothing.

"Thank you; I fear I must accept your offer," said Jack. "But I hope you will attend to the young lady first. Your wife seemed to know her."

"Quite well, sir," was the reply. "Bless you, we all know Miss Madge Foster hereabouts. She lives yonder at the lower end of the Green—"

"Then she had better be taken home."

"I think this is the best place for her at present, sir. Her father is in town, and there is only an old servant."

"You are quite right," said Jack. "I suppose there is a doctor near by."

"There is, sir, and I will send for him at once," the landlord promised. "If you will kindly step this way—"

At that moment there was a stir among the curious idlers who filled the entrance passage of the inn. An authoritative voice opened a way between them, and a man pushed through to the parlor. His face changed color at the sight of Jack, who greeted him with a cry of astonishment.

CHAPTER III.

AN OLD FRIEND

There was gladness as well as surprise in Jack's hearty exclamation, for the man who stood before him in the parlor of the Black Bull was his old friend Victor Nevill, little altered in five years, except for a heavier mustache that improved his dark and handsome face. To judge from appearances, he had not run through with all his money. He was daintily booted and gloved, and wore morning tweeds of perfect cut; a sprig of violets was thrust in his button-hole. The two had not met since they parted in Paris on that memorable night, nor had they known of each other's whereabouts.

"Nevill, old chap!" cried Jack, holding out a hand.

Nevill clasped it warmly; his momentary confusion had vanished.

"My dear Clare—" he began.

"Not that name," Jack interrupted, laughingly. "I'm called Vernon on this side of the Channel."

"What, John Vernon, the rising artist?"

"The same."

"It's news to me. I congratulate you, old man. If I had known I would have looked you up long ago, but I lost all trace of you."

"That's my case," said Jack. "I supposed you were still abroad. Been back long?"

"Yes, a couple of years."

"By Jove, it's queer we didn't meet before. Fancy you turning up here!"

"I stopped last night with a friend in Grove Park," Nevill answered, after a brief hesitation, "and feeling a bit seedy this morning, I came for a stroll along the river. I hear of a gallant rescue from the water, and, of course, you are the hero, Jack. Is the young lady all right?"

"I believe so."

"Do you know who she is?"

"Miss Madge Poster, sir," spoke up the landlord, "and I can assure you she was very nearly drowned—"

"Not so bad as that," modestly protested Jack.

Victor Nevill's face had changed color again, and for a second there was a troubled look in his eyes. He spoke the girl's name carelessly, then added in hurried tones:

"You must get into dry clothes at once, Jack, or you will be ill—"

"Just what I told him, sir," interrupted the landlord. "Young men will be reckless."

"I am going back to town to keep an engagement," Nevill resumed. "Can I do anything for you?"

"If you will, old chap," Jack said gratefully. "Stop at my studio," giving him the address, "and send my man Alphonse here with a dry rig."

"I'll go right away," replied Neville. "I can get a cab at Kew Bridge. Come and see me, Jack. Here is my card. I put up in Jermyn street."

"And you know where to find me," said Jack. "I am seldom at home in the evenings, though."

A few more words, and Neville departed. Jack was prevailed upon by the landlord to go to an upper room, where he stripped off his drenched garments and rubbed himself dry, then putting on a suit of clothes belonging to his host. The latter brought the cheering news that Miss Foster had taken a hot draught and was sleeping peacefully, and that it would be quite unnecessary to send for a doctor.

A little later Alphonse and a cab arrived at the rear of the Black Bull, where there was a lane for vehicular traffic, and Jack once more changed his attire. He left his card and a polite message for the girl, pressed a substantial tip on the reluctant landlord, and was soon rattling homeward up Chiswick high-road, feeling none the worse for his wetting, but, on the contrary, gifted with a keen appetite. He had sent his boat back to Maynard's.

"What a pretty girl that was!" he reflected. "It's the first time in five years I've given a serious thought to a woman. But I shall forget her as quickly—I am wedded to my art. It's rather a fetching name, Madge Foster. Come to think of it, it was hardly the proper thing to leave my card. I suppose I will get a fervid letter of gratitude from the girl's father, or the two of them may even invade my studio. How could I have been so stupid?"

He ate a hearty lunch, and set to work diligently. But he could not keep his mind from the adventure of the morning, and he saw more frequently the face of the lovely young English girl, than that of the swarthy Moorish dancer he was doing in oils.

Those five years had made a different man of Jack Clare—had brought him financial prosperity, success in his art, and contentment with life. He was now twenty-seven, clean-shaven, and with the build of an athlete; and his attractive, well-cut features had fulfilled the promise of youth. But for six wretched months, after that bitter night when Diane fled from him, he had suffered acutely. In vain his friends, none of whom could give him any clew to his betrayer, sought to comfort him; in vain he searched for trace of tidings of his wife, for her faithlessness had not utterly crushed his love, and the recollections of the first months of his marriage were very sweet to him. The chains with which the dancer of the Folies Bergere bound him had been strong; his hot youth had fallen victim to the charms of a face and figure that would have enslaved more experienced men.

But the healing power of time works wonders, and in the spring of the succeeding year, when Paris burst into leaf and blossom, Jack began to take a fresh interest in life, and to realize with a feeling little short of satisfaction that Diane's desertion was all for the best, and that he was well rid of a woman who must ultimately have dragged him down to her own level. The sale of his mother's London residence, a narrow little house in Bayswater, put him in possession of a fairly large sum of money. He left Paris with his friend Jimmie Drexell, and the two spent a year in Italy, Holland and Algeria, doing pretty hard work in the way of sketching. Jack returned to Paris quite cured, and with a determination to win success in his calling. He saw Drexell off for his home in New York, and then he packed up his belongings—they had been under lock and key in a room of the house on the Boulevard St. Germain—and emigrated to London. His great sorrow was only an unpleasant memory to him now. He had friends in England, but no relations there or anywhere, so far as he knew. His father, an artist of unappreciated talent, had died twenty years before. It was after his death that Jack's mother had come into some property from a distant relative.

Taking his middle name of Vernon, Jack settled in Fitzroy Square. A couple of hundred pounds constituted his worldly wealth. His ambition was to be a great painter, but he had other tastes as well, and his talent lay in more than one channel. Within a year, by dint of hard work, he obtained more than a foothold. He had sold a couple of pictures to dealers; his black-and-white drawings were in demand with a couple of good magazines, and a clever poster, bearing his name, and advertising a popular whisky was displayed all over London. Then, picking up a French paper in the Monico one morning, he experienced a shock. The body of a woman had been found in the Seine and taken to the Morgue, where several persons unhesitatingly identified her as Diane Merode, the one-time fascinating dancer of the Folies Bergere.

Jack turned pale, and crushed the paper in his hand. Evening found him wandering on the heights of Hampstead, but the next morning he was at his easel. He was a free man now in every sense, and the world looked brighter to him. He worked as hard as ever, and with increasing success, but he spent most of his evenings with his comrades of the brush, with whom he was immensely popular. He was indifferent to women, however, and they did not enter into his life.

But a few months before the opening of this story Jack had taken his new studio at Ravenscourt Park, in the west of London. It was a big place, with a splendid north light, and with an admirable train service to all parts of town; in that respect he was better off than artists living in Hampstead or St. John's Wood. He had a couple of small furnished rooms at one end of the studio, in one of which he slept. He usually dined in town, Paris fashion, but his breakfast and lunch were served by his French servant, Alphonse, an admirable fellow, who had lodgings close by the studio; he could turn his hand to anything, and was devoted to his master.

Jack had achieved success, and he deserved it. His name was well known, and better things were predicted of him. The leading magazines displayed his black-and-white drawings monthly, and publishers begged him to illustrate books. He was making a large income, and saving the half of it. Nor did he lose sight of his loftier goal. His picture of last year had been accepted by the Academy, hung well, and sold, and he had just been notified that he was in again this spring. Fortune smiled on him, and the folly of his youth was a fading memory that could never cloud or dim his future.

It was two days after the adventure on the river, late in the afternoon. Jack was reading over the manuscript of a book, and penciling possible points for illustration, when Alphonse handed him a letter. It was directed in a feminine hand, but a man had clearly penned the inclosure. The writer signed himself Stephen Foster, and in a few brief sentences, coldly and curtly expressed, he thanked Mr. Vernon for the great and timely service he had rendered his daughter. That was all. There was no invitation to the house at Strand-on-the-Green—no hope or desire for a personal acquaintance.

Jack resented the bald, stereotyped communication. He felt piqued—slightly hurt. He had been trying to forget the girl, but now, thinking of her as something out of his reach, he wanted to see her again.

"A conceited, crusty old chap—this Stephen Foster," he said to himself. "No doubt he is a money-grubber in the city, and regards artists with contempt. If I had a daughter like that, and a man saved her life, I should be properly grateful. Poor girl, she can't lead a very happy life."

He lighted a pipe, read a little further, and then tossed the sheaf of manuscript aside. He rose and put on a hat and a black coat—he wore evening dress as little as possible.

"Will you dine in town to-night, sir?" asked Alphonse, who was cleaning a stack of brushes.

"Yes, oh, yes," Jack answered. "You can go when you have finished."

Whatever may have been his intention when he left the studio, Jack did not cross the park toward the District Railway station. He walked slowly to the high-road, and then westward with brisker step. He struck down through Gunnersbury, by way of Sutton Court, and came out at the river close to the lower end of Strand-on-the-Green.

A girl was sitting on a bench near the shore, pensively watching the sun drooping over the misty ramparts of Kew Bridge; she held a closed book in one hand, and by her side lay a sketching-block and a box of colors. She heard the young artist's footsteps, and glanced up. A lovely blush suffused her countenance, and for an instant she was speechless. Then, with less confusion, with the candor of an innocent and unconventional nature, she said:

"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Vernon."

"That is kind of you," Jack replied, with a smile.

"Yes, I wanted to thank you—"

"Your father has written to me."

"But that is different. I wanted to thank you for myself."

"I wish I were deserving of such gratitude," said Jack, thinking that the girl looked far more charming than when he had first seen her.

"Ah, don't say that. You know that you saved my life. I am a good swimmer, but that morning my clothes seemed to drag me down."

"I am glad that I happened to be near at the time," Jack replied, as he seated himself without invitation on the bench. "But it is not a pleasant topic—let us not talk about it."

"I shall never forget it," the girl answered softly. She was silent for a moment, and then added gravely: "It is so strange to know you. I admire artists so much, and I saw your picture in last year's Academy. How surprised I was when I read your card!"

"You paint, yourself, Miss Foster?"

"No, I only try to. I wish I could."

She reluctantly yielded her block of Whatman's paper to Jack, and in the portfolio attached to it he found several sketches that showed real promise. He frankly said as much, to his companion's delight, and then the conversation turned on the quaintness of Strand-on-the-Green, and the constant and varied beauty of the river at this point—a subject that was full of genuine interest to both. When the sun passed below the bridge the girl suddenly rose and gathered her things.

"I must go," she said. "My father is coming home early to-day. Good-by, Mr. Vernon."

"Not really good-by. I hope?"

An expression of sorrow and pain, almost pitiful, clouded her lovely face. Jack understood the meaning of it, and hated Stephen Foster in his heart.

"I shall see you here sometimes?" he added.

"Perhaps."

"Then you do not forbid me to come again?"

"How can I do that? This river walk is quite free, Mr. Vernon. Oh, please don't think me ungrateful, but—but—"

She turned her head quickly away, and did not finish the sentence. She called a word of farewell over her shoulder, and Jack moodily watched her slim and graceful figure vanish between the great elm trees that guard the lower entrance to Strand-on-the-Green.

"John Vernon, you are a fool," he said to himself. "The best thing for you is to pack up your traps and be off to-morrow morning for a couple of months' sketching in Devonshire. You've been bitten once—look out!"

He took a shilling from his pocket, and muttered, as he flipped it in the air: "Tail, Richmond—head, town."

The coin fell tail upward, and Jack went off to dine at the Roebuck on the hill, beloved of artists, where he met some boon companions and argued about Whistler until a late hour.

CHAPTER IV.

NUMBER 320 WARDOUR STREET.

The rear-guard of London's great army of clerks had already vanished in the city, and the hour was drawing near to eleven, when Victor Nevill shook off his lassitude sufficiently to get out of bed. A cold tub freshened him, and as he dressed with scrupulous care, choosing his clothes from a well-filled wardrobe, he occasionally walked to the window of his sitting-room and looked down on the narrow but lively thoroughfare of Jermyn street. It was a fine morning, with the scent of spring in the air, and the many colors of the rumbling 'busses glistened like fresh paint in the sunlight.

His toilet completed, Victor Nevill pressed an electric bell, in answer to which there presently appeared, from some mysterious source downstairs, a boy in buttons carrying a tray on which reposed a small pot of coffee, one of cream, a pat of butter, and a couple of crisp rolls. Nevill ate his breakfast with the mechanical air of one who is doing a tiresome but necessary thing, meanwhile consulting a tiny memorandum-book, and counting over a handful of loose gold and silver. Then he put on his hat and gloves, looked at the fit of his gray frock-coat in the glass, and went into the street. At Piccadilly Circus he bought a boutonniere, and as he was feeling slightly rocky after a late night at card-playing, he dropped into the St. James. He emerged shortly, fortified by a brandy-and-soda, and sauntered westward along the Piccadilly pavement.

A typical young-man-about-town, an indolent pleasure-lover, always dressed to perfection and flush with money—such was Victor Nevill in the opinion of the world. For aught men knew to the contrary, he thrived like the proverbial lily of the field, without the need of toiling or spinning. He lived in expensive rooms, dined at the best restaurants, and belonged to a couple of good clubs. To his friends this was no matter of surprise or conjecture. They were aware that he was well-connected, and that years before he had come into a fortune; they naturally supposed that enough of it remained to yield him a comfortable income, in spite of the follies and extravagances that rumor attributed to him in the past, while he was abroad.

But Nevill himself, and one other individual, knew better. The bulk of his fortune exhausted by reckless living on the Continent, he had returned to London with a thousand pounds in cash, and a secured annuity of two hundred pounds, which he was too prudent to try to negotiate. The thousand pounds did not last long, but by the time they were spent he had drifted into degraded and evil ways. None had ever dared to whisper—none had ever suspected—that Victor Nevill was a rook for money-lenders and a dangerous friend for young men. He knew what a perilous game he was playing, but he studied every move and guarded shrewdly against discovery. There were many reasons, and one in particular, for keeping his reputation clean and untarnished. It was a matter of the utmost satisfaction to him that his uncle, Sir Lucius Chesney, of Priory Court in Sussex, cared but little for London, and seldom came up to town. For Sir Lucius was childless, elderly, and possessed of fifteen thousand pounds a year.

Victor Nevill's progress along Piccadilly was frequently interrupted by friends, fashionably dressed young men like himself, whose invitations to come and have a drink he declined on the plea of an engagement. Just beyond Devonshire House he was accosted eagerly by a fresh-faced, blond-haired boy—he was no more than twenty-two—who was coming from the opposite direction.

"Hullo, Bertie," Nevill said carelessly, as he shook hands. "I was on my way to the club."

"I got tired of waiting. You are half an hour over the time, Vic. I thought of going to your rooms."

"I slept later than I intended," Nevill replied. "I had a night of it."

"So had I—a night of sleeplessness."

The Honorable Bertie Raven, second son of the Earl of Runnymede, might have stepped out of one of Poole's fashion-plates, so far as dress was concerned. But there was a strained look on his handsome, patrician face, and in his blue eyes, that told of a gnawing mental anxiety. He linked arms with his companion, and drew him to the edge of the pavement.

"Is it all right?" he asked, pleadingly and hurriedly. "Were you able to fix the thing up for me?"

"You are sure there is no other way, Bertie?"

"None, Vic. I have until this evening, and then—"

"Don't worry. I saw Benjamin and Company yesterday."

"And they will accommodate me?"

"Yes, at my request."

"You mean for your indorsement on the bill?" the lad exclaimed, blushing. "Vic, you're a trump. You're the best fellow that ever lived, and I can't tell you how grateful I am. God only knows what a weight you've lifted from my mind. I'm going to run steady after this, and with economy I can save enough out of my allowance—"

"My dear boy, you are wasting your gratitude over a trifle. Could I refuse so simple a favor to a friend?"

"I don't know any one else who would have done as much, Vic. I was in an awful hole. Will—will they give me plenty of time?"

"As much as you like. And, I say, Bertie, this affair must be quite entre nous. There are plenty of chaps—good fellows, too—who would like to use my name occasionally. But one must draw the line—"

"I understand, Vic. I'll be mum as an oyster."

"Well, suppose we go and have the thing over," said Nevill, "and then we'll lunch together."

They turned eastward, walking briskly, and a few minutes later they entered a narrow court off Duke street, St. James. Through a dingy and unpretentious doorway, unmarked by sign or plate, they passed into the premises of Benjamin and Company. In a dark, cramped office, scantily furnished, they found an elderly Jewish gentleman seated at a desk.

Without delay, with a smoothness that spoke well for the weight and influence of Victor Nevill's name, the little matter of business, as the Jew smilingly called it, was transacted. A three-months' bill for five hundred pounds was drawn up for Bertie's signature and Nevill's indorsement. The lad hesitated briefly, then wrote his name in a bold hand. He resisted the allurements of some jewelry, offered him in part payment, and received the amount of the bill, less a prodigious discount for interest. The Jew servilely bowed his customers out.

The Honorable Bertie's face was grave and serious as he walked toward Piccadilly with his friend; he vaguely realized that he had taken the first step on a road that too frequently ends in disgrace and ruin. But this mood changed as he felt the rustling bank notes in his pocket. The world had not looked so bright for many a day.

"I never knew the thing was so easy," he said. "What a good fellow you are, Vic! You've made a new man of me. I can pay off those cursed gambling losses, and a couple of the most pressing debts, and have nearly a hundred pounds over. But I wish I had taken that ruby bracelet for Flora—it would have pleased her."

"Cut Flora—that's my advice," replied Nevill.

"And jolly good advice, too, Vic. I'll think about it seriously. But where will you lunch with me?"

"You are going to lunch with me," said Nevill, "at the Arlington."

In Wardour street, Soho, as many an enthusiastic collector has found out to the depletion of his pocket-book, there are sufficient antique treasures of every variety stored away in dingy shop windows and dingier rooms to furnish a small town. Number 320, which by chance or design failed to display the name of its proprietor, differed from its neighbors in one marked respect. Instead of the usual conglomerate mass, articles of value cheek by jowl with worthless rubbish, the long window contained some rare pieces of china and silver, an Italian hall-seat of richly carved oak, and half a dozen paintings by well-known artists of the past century, the authenticity of which was an excuse for the amount at which they were priced.

Behind the window was a deep and narrow room, lined on both sides with cabinets of great age and curious workmanship, oaken furniture belonging to various periods, pictures restored and pictures cracked and faded, cases filled with dainty objects of gold and silver, brass work from Moorish and Saracenic craftsmen, tall suits of armor, helmets and weapons that had clashed in battle hundreds of years before, and other things too numerous to mention, all of a genuine value that put them beyond the reach of a slim purse.

In the rear of the shop—which was looked after by a salesman—was a small office almost opulent in its appearance. Soft rugs covered the floor, and costly paintings hung on the walls. The chairs and desk, the huge couch, would have graced a palace, and a piece of priceless tapestry partly overhung the big safe at one end. An incandescent lamp was burning brightly, for very little light entered from the dreary court on which a single window opened.

Here, at 3 o'clock in the afternoon, Stephen Foster sat poring over a sheaf of papers. He was a man of fifty-two, nearly six feet tall and correspondingly built—a man with a fine head and handsome features, a man to attract more than ordinary attention. His hands were white, slim and long. His eyes were deep brown, and his mustache and beard—the latter cut to a point—were of a tawny yellowish-brown color, mixed with gray to a slight degree. It would be difficult to analyze his character, for in many ways he was a contradiction. He was not miserly, but his besetting evil was the love of accumulating money—the lever that had made him thoroughly unscrupulous. He was rich, or reputed so, but in amassing gold, by fair means or foul, lay the keynote to his life. And it was a dual life. He had chosen the old mansion at Strand-on-the-Green to be out of the roar and turmoil of London life, and yet within touch of it. Here, where his evenings were mostly spent, he was a different man. He derived his chief pleasures from his daughter's society, from a table filled with current literature, from a box of choice Havanas. In town he was a sordid man of business, clever at buying and selling to the best advantage. He had loved his wife, the daughter of a city alderman and a friend of his father's, and her death twelve years before had been a great blow to him. Madge resembled her, and he gave the girl a father's sincere devotion.

Few persons knew that Stephen Foster was the proprietor of the curio-shop in Wardour street—his daughter was among the ignorant—and but one or two were aware that the business of Benjamin and Company, carried on in Duke street, belonged also to him. None, assuredly, among his sprinkling of acquaintances, would have believed that he could stoop to lower things, or that he and his equally unscrupulous and useful tool, Victor Nevill, the gay young-man-about-town, had been mixed up in more than one nefarious transaction that would not bear the light of day. He had taken the place in Wardour street within the past five years, and prior to that time he had held a responsible position as purchasing agent—there was not a better judge of pictures in Europe—with the well-known firm of Lamb and Drummond, art dealers and engravers to Her Majesty, of Pall Mall.

A slight frown gathered on Stephen Foster's brow as he put aside the packet of papers, and it deepened as he recognized a familiar step coming through the shop. But he had a cheery smile of greeting ready when the office door opened to admit Victor Nevill. The young man's face was flushed with excitement, and he carried in one hand a crumpled copy of the Westminster Budget.

"Seen the evening editions yet?" he exclaimed.

"No; what's in them?" asked the curio-dealer.

"I was lunching at the Arlington, with the Honorable Bertie—By the way, he took the hook," Nevill replied, in a calmer tone, "and when I came out I bought this on the street. But read for yourself."

He opened the newspaper, folded it twice, and tossed it down on Stephen Foster's desk.

CHAPTER V.

A MYSTERIOUS DISCUSSION.

The paragraph in the Westminster Budget to which Victor Nevill referred was headed in large type, and ran as follows:

"This morning, at his palatial residence in Amsterdam, commenced the sale of the gallery of valuable paintings collected by the late Mr. Martin Von Whele, who died while on a visit to his coffee estate in Java. He left everything to his son, with the exception of the pictures, which, by the terms of his will, were to be disposed of in order to found a hospital in his native town. Mr. Von Whele was a keen and discriminating patron of art, a lover of both the ancient and the modern, and his vast wealth permitted him to indulge freely in his hobby. His collection was well known by repute throughout the civilized world. But the trustees of the estate seem to have committed a grave blunder—which will undoubtedly cause much complaint—in waiting until almost the last moment to announce the sale. But few bidders were present, and these had things pretty much their own way, apparently owing to the gross ignorance of the auctioneer. The gem of the gallery, the famous Rembrandt found and purchased in Paris some years ago by Mr. Von Whele, was knocked down for the ridiculous sum of £2,400. The lucky purchaser was Mr. Charles Drummond, of the firm of Lamb and Drummond, Pall Mall."

A remark that would not look well in print escaped Stephen Foster's lips as he threw the paper on his desk.

"A blunder?" he cried. "It was criminal! A rascally conspiracy, with Drummond at the bottom of it—British cunning against Dutch stupidity! I seldom miss anything in the papers, Nevill, and yet I never heard of Von Whele's death. I didn't get a hint of the sale."

"Nor I," replied Nevill. "It's a queer business. I thought the paragraph would interest you. The sale continues—do you think of running over to Amsterdam?"

"No; I shan't go. It's too late. By to-morrow a lot of dealers will have men on the spot, and the rest of the pictures will likely fetch full value. But £2,400 for the Rembrandt! Why, it's worth five times as much if it's worth a penny! There's a profit for you, Nevill. And I always coveted that picture. I had a sort of a hope that it would drop into my hands some day. I believe I spoke to you about it."

"You did," assented Nevill, "and I remembered that at once when I read of the sale. But I had another reason—one of my own—for calling your attention to the matter."

Stephen Foster apparently did not hear the latter remark.

"I saw the Rembrandt when I was in Amsterdam, two years ago," he said bitterly. "It was a splendid canvas—the colors were almost as fresh and bright as the day they were laid on. And as a character study it was a masterpiece second to none, and in my estimation superior to his 'Gilder,' which is now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. It represented a Pole or a Russian, with a face of intense ferocity. His rank was shown by his rich cloak, the decorations on his furred hat, and by the gold-beaded mace held in his hand. Von Whele declared that the subject was John the Third, of Poland; but that was mere conjecture. And now Drummond has the picture, and it will soon be drawing crowds around the firm's window, I dare say. What a prize I have let slip through my fingers!"

"I want to ask you a question," Nevill started abruptly. "Suppose this Rembrandt, or any other painting of value and renown, should be stolen from a big dealer's shop. How could the thief dispose of it?"

"He would have little or no chance of doing so at once," was the reply, "unless he found some unscrupulous collector who was willing to buy it and hide it away. But in the course of a few years, when the affair had blown over, the picture could be sold for its full value, without any risk to the seller, if he was a smart man."

"Then, if you had this Rembrandt locked up in your safe, you would regard it as a sound and sure investment, to be realized on in the future?"

"Certainly. I should consider it as an equivalent for £10,000," Stephen Foster replied. "But there is not much of that sort of thing done—the ordinary burglar doesn't understand the game," he went on, carelessly. "And a good thing for the dealers, too. With my knowledge of the place, I could very easily remove a picture from Lamb and Drummond's store-room any night."

"Yes, you know the ground thoroughly. Would you like to make £10,000 at a single stroke, without risk?"

"I don't think I should hesitate long, if it was a sure thing," Stephen Foster replied, laughingly. "Nevill, what are you driving at?" he added with sudden earnestness.

"Wait a moment, and I'll explain."

Victor Nevill stepped to the door, listened briefly, and turned the key noiselessly in the lock. He drew a chair close to his companion and sat down.

"I am going to tell you a little story," he said. "It will interest you, if I am not mistaken."

It must have been a very important and mysterious communication, from the care with which Nevill told it, from the low and cautious tone in which he spoke. Stephen Foster listened with a blank expression that gradually changed to a look of amazement and satisfaction, of ill-concealed avarice. Then the two discussed the matter together, heedless of the passage of time, until the clock struck five.

"It certainly appears to be simple enough," said Stephen Foster, "but who will find out about—"

"You must do that," Nevill interrupted. "If I went, it might lead to awkward complications in the future."

"It's the worst part, and I confess I don't like it. But I'll take a night to think it over, and give you an answer to-morrow. It's an ugly undertaking—"

"But a safe one. If it comes off all right, I want £500 cash down, on account."

"It is not certain that it will come off at all," said Stephen Foster, as he rose. "Come in to-morrow afternoon. Oh, I believe I promised you some commission to-day."

"Yes; sixty pounds."

The check was written, and Nevill pocketed it with a nod. He put on his hat, moved to the door, and paused.

"By the by, there's a new thing on at the Frivolity—awfully good," he said. "Miss Foster might like to see it. We could make up a little party of three—"

"Thank you, but my daughter doesn't care for theatres. And, as you know, I spend my evenings at home."

"I don't blame you," Nevill replied, indifferently. "It's a snug and jolly crib you have down there by the river. And the fresh air does a fellow a lot of good. I feel like a new man when I come back to town after dining with you. One gets tired of clubs and restaurants."

"Come out when you like," said Stephen Foster, in a voice that lacked warmth and sincerity.

"That's kind of you," Nevill replied. "Good-night!"

A minute later he was walking thoughtfully down Wardour street.

CHAPTER VI.

A VISITOR FROM PARIS.

It was seven o'clock in the evening, ten days after Jack's second encounter with Madge Foster, and a blaze of light shone from the big studio that overlooked Ravenscourt Park. The lord and master of it was writing business letters, a task in which he was assisted by frequent cigarettes. A tray containing whisky, brandy and siphons stood on a Moorish inlaid smoking stand, and suggested correctly that a visitor was expected. At noon Jack had received a letter from Victor Nevill, of whom he had seen nothing since their meeting at Strand-on-the-Green, to say that he was coming out at eight o'clock that night to have a chat over old times. Alphonse, being no longer required, had gone to his lodgings near by.

"It will be a bit awkward if Nevill wants his dinner," Jack said to himself, in an interval of his letter writing. "I'll keep him here a couple of hours, and then take him to dine in town. He's a good fellow, and will understand. He'll find things rather different from the Paris days."

There was a touch of pardonable pride in that last thought, for few artists in London could boast of such luxuriously decorated quarters, or of such a collection of treasures as Jack's purse and good taste had enabled him to gather around him. The hard oak floor, oiled and polished by the hands of Alphonse, was sparsely strewn with Oriental rugs and a couple of tiger skins. A screen of stamped leather hid three sides of the French stove. The eye met a picturesque confusion of inlaid cabinets with innumerable drawers, oak chests and benches, easy chairs of every sort, Chippendale trays and escritoires, Spanish lanterns dangling from overhead, old tables worn hollow on top with age, countless weapons and pieces of armor, and shelves stacked with blue delf china and rows of pewter plates. A long costume case flashed its glass doors at a cosy corner draped with art muslin. On the walls, many of them presented by friends, were scores of water-colors and oil paintings, etchings and engravings, no two of them framed alike. Minor articles were scattered about in profusion, and a couple of bulging sketch-books bore witness to their owner's summer wanderings about England.

The letters finished and stamped, Jack closed his desk with a sigh of relief. The evening was chilly, and he had started a small fire of coals in the grate—he used his stove only in wintry weather. He pulled a big chair to the blaze, stretched his legs against the fender, and fell straightway into a reverie; an expression that none of his English companions had ever seen there softened his handsome face.

"I wonder what she is doing now," he thought. "I fancy I can see her sitting opposite to her father, at the dinner table, with the soft lamplight on her lovely cheeks, and that bewitching look in her eyes. I am a conceited fool to believe that she cares for me, and yet—and yet—By Jove, I would marry her in a minute. She is the most winsome girl I ever saw. It is not like the passion I had for Diane—I was a foolish, hot-headed boy then. Madge would be my good angel. In spite of myself, she has come into my life and taken a deep hold on my heart—I can't put her out again. Jack, my boy, you had better have gone on that sketching tour—better have fled to Devonian wilds before it was too late."

But was it too late now? If so, the fact did not seem to trouble Jack much, for he laughed softly as he stirred the fire. He, the impregnable and boastful one, the woman-hater, had fallen a victim when he believed himself most secure. It was unutterably sweet to him—this second passion—and he knew that it was not to be shaken off.

During the past ten days he had seen Madge frequently. Nearly every afternoon, when the fading sun glimmered through a golden haze, he had wandered down to Strand-on-the-Green, confident that the girl would not be far away, that she would welcome him shyly and blushingly, with that radiant light in her eyes which he hoped he could read aright. They had enjoyed a couple of tramps together, when time permitted—once up the towing-path toward Richmond, and again down the river to Barnes.

They were happy hours for both. Madge was unconventional, and would have resented a hint that she was doing anything in the least improper. She had left boarding school two years before, and since then she had rejoiced in her freedom, not finding life dull in the sleepy Thames-side suburb of London. As for Jack, his conscience gave him few twinges in regard to these surreptitious meetings. It would be different, he told himself, had Stephen Foster chosen to receive him as a visitor. But he had gathered, from what Madge told him, that her father was eccentric, and detested visitors—that he would permit nothing to break the monotonous and regular habits of the secluded old house. Madge admitted that one friend of his, a young man, came sometimes; but she intimated unmistakably that she did not like him. Jack was curious to know what business took Stephen Foster to town every day, but on that subject the girl never spoke.

As the young artist sat watching the fire in the grate, his fancy painted pleasing pictures. "Why should I not marry?" he mused. "Bachelor life is well enough in its way, but it can't compare with a snug house, and one's own dining-table, and a charming wife to drive away the occasional blue-devils. I have money put aside, and it won't be long till I'm making an easy twelve hundred a year. By Jove, I will—"

A noisy rap at the door interrupted Jack's train of thought, and brought him to his feet.

"Come in!" he cried, expecting to see Nevill.

But the visitor was a telegraph boy, bearing the familiar brown envelope. Jack signed for it, and tore open the message.

"Awfully seedy," Victor Nevill wired. "Sorry I can't get out to-night. Am going to bed."

"No answer," said Jack, dismissing the boy. With his hands in his pockets he strolled undecidedly about the studio for a couple of minutes. "I hope nothing serious is the matter with Nevill," he reflected. "He's not the sort of a chap to go to bed unless he feels pretty bad. What shall I do now? I must be quick about it if I want to get any dinner in town. It's past eight, and—"

There was the sound of slow footsteps out in the passage, followed by the nervous jingling of the electric bell.

"Who can that be?" Jack muttered.

He pulled a cord that turned the gas higher in the big circlet of jets overhead, and opened the door curiously. The man who entered the studio was a complete stranger, and it was certain that he was not an Englishman, if dress and appearance could decide that fact. He was very tall and well-built, with a handsome face, so deeply tanned as to suggest a recent residence in a tropical country. His mustaches were twisted into waxed points, and there was a good deal of gray in his beard, which was parted German fashion in the middle, and carefully brushed to each side. His top hat was unmistakably French, with a flat rim, and his boots were of patent leather. As he opened his long caped cloak, the collar of which he kept turned up, it was seen that he was in evening dress.

"Do I address Monsieur Vernon, the artist?" he asked in good English, with a French accent.

"Yes, that's right."

"Formerly Monsieur John Clare?"

"I once bore that name," said Jack, with a start of surprise; he was ill-pleased to hear it after so many years.

The visitor produced a card bearing the name of M. Felix Marchand, Parc Monceaux, Paris.

"I do not recall you," said Jack. "Will you take a seat."

"We have not met until now," said M. Marchand, "but I have the honor to be familiar with your work, and to possess some of it. Pictures are to me a delight—I confess myself a humble patron of art—and a few years ago I purchased several water-color sketches signed by your name. They appealed to me especially because they were bits of Paris—one looking down the river from the bridge of the Carrousel, and the other a night impression of Montmartre."

"I remember them vaguely," said Jack. "They, with others, were sold for me by a dealer named Cambon—"

"Monsieur is right. It was from Jacques Cambon, of the Quai Voltaire, I obtained the sketches. They pleased me much, and I went again to seek more—that was eighteen months later, when I returned to Paris after a long absence. Imagine my disappointment to learn that Jacques Cambon had no further knowledge of Monsieur Clare, and no more of his sketches to sell."

"No; I had come to London by that time—or was in Italy," said Jack. "But perhaps—pardon me—you would prefer to carry on our conversation in French."

"Monsieur is thoughtful," replied M. Marchand. "He will understand that I desire, while in England, to improve as much as possible my knowledge of the language."

"Quite so," assented Jack. "You speak it already like a native born," he added to himself.

"The years passed on," resumed the Frenchman, "but I did not forget the author of my little sketches. A few weeks ago I resolved to cross the Channel and pay a visit to London, which I last saw in 1891. I had but lately returned from a long trip to Algeria and Morocco, and I was told that the English spring was mild; in Paris I found the weather too cold for my chest complaint. So I said to myself, 'I will make endeavor to find the artist, John Clare.' But how? I had an idea. I went to the school of the great Julian, and there my inquiries met with success. 'Monsieur Clare,' one of the instructors told me, 'is now a prosperous painter of London, by the name of Vernon.' They gave me the address of a magazine in your Rue Paternoster, and at that place I was this morning informed where to find you. I trust that my visit is not an intrusion."

"Oh, not at all," said Jack. "Who at Julian's can have known so much about me?" he thought.

"I have spoken with freedom—perhaps too much," M. Marchand went on. "But I desired to explain clearly. I have come on business, monsieur, hoping that I may be privileged to purchase one or two pictures to take back with me to Paris."

"I am very sorry," said Jack, "but I fear I have nothing whatever to sell at present. I am indeed flattered by your kind interest in my work."

"Monsieur has nothing?"

Jack shook his head.

"You see I do a great deal in the way of magazine drawing," he explained. "The half-finished water-colors on the easels are orders. I expect to have a large painting in the Royal Academy shortly."

"Alas, I will not be able to see it," M. Marchand murmured. "I leave London to-morrow." All the time he was speaking he had been looking with interest about the studio, and his eyes still wandered from wall to wall. "Ah, monsieur, I have a thought," he added suddenly. "It is of the finished pictures, of your later work, that you speak. But surely you possess many sketches, and among them would be some of Paris, such as you placed with Jacques Cambon. Is it not so?"

Jack, in common with all artists, was reluctant to part with his sketches. But he was growing uncomfortably hungry, and felt disposed to make a sacrifice for the sake of getting rid of his importunate visitor.

"I will show you my collection," he answered briefly.

Lifting the drapery of a couch, he pulled out one of half a dozen fat portfolios, of huge dimensions. He untied the strings and opened it, exhibiting a number of large water-color drawings on bristol-board, most of them belonging to his student days in Paris, some made in Holland and Normandy. The sight of them, recalling his married life with Diane, awoke unpleasant memories. He moved away and lighted a cigarette.

The Frenchman began to turn the sketches over eagerly, and presently Jack saw him staring hard at an unstiffened canvas which he had found. It was the duplicate Rembrandt painted for Martin Von Whele. Jack had not been reading the papers much of late, and was ignorant of the Hollander's death.

"That is nothing of any account," he said. "It is the copy of an old master."

"Ah, I have a little taste for the antique," replied M. Marchand. "This is repulsive—it is a frightful face. Were it in my collection, monsieur, it would quite spoil my pretty bits of scenery."

He tossed the canvas carelessly aside, and finally chose a couple of water-colors, both showing picturesque nooks of Paris.

"I should like to have these," he said, "if monsieur is willing to name a price."

"Fifteen pounds for the two," Jack announced reluctantly. "Can I send them for you?" he added.

"No; I will take them with me."

Jack tied up the portfolio and replaced it under the couch, an operation that was closely watched by his visitor. Then he wrapped up the two sketches, and received three five-pound notes.

"May I offer you some refreshment?" he said, politely. "You will find brandy there—"

"I love the golden whisky of England," protested M. Marchand.

He mixed some for himself, and after drinking it he wiped his lips with a handkerchief. As he returned it to his pocket Jack saw on the white linen a brown stain that he was sure had not been there before.

M. Felix Marchand looked at his watch, shook hands with Jack, and hoped that he would have the pleasure of seeing him again. Then he bowed ceremoniously, and was gone, carrying the parcel under his arm. Jack closed the door, and retired to an inner room to change his clothing for the evening.

"I'll have a grill at the Trocadero," he told himself, "and drop in at the Alhambra for the last few numbers. A queer chap, that Frenchman! Where did he pick up such good English? He was all right, of course, but I can't help feeling a bit puzzled. Fancy his taking a craze for my studies of Paris! I remember that they gathered dust for months in old Cambon's window, until one day I missed them. It's a funny thing about that brown mark which came off on his handkerchief after he wiped his mustache. Still, I've known men to use such stuff to give them a healthy color, though this chap didn't look as if he needed it. And he said he suffered from a chest complaint."

At eight o'clock Jack was up and splashing in his bath, a custom that he hugely enjoyed, winter and summer. He had come home the night before by the last train, after dining with some friends he had picked up, and spending an hour with them at the Alhambra.

He dressed himself with unusual care and discrimination, selecting a suit of dark brown tweeds that matched his complexion, and a scarf with a good bit of red in it. Prepared for him in the studio, and presided over by Alphonse in a white apron, were rolls and coffee, eggs and bacon. The sun was shining brightly outside. The postman came while he was at breakfast, and he read his batch of letters; from some of which dropped checks. One he purposely saved for the last, and the contents—only a few lines—brought a smile to his lips. He tore the dainty sheet of note-paper into small pieces and threw them into the fire. Then he filled his cigar case with choice Regalias, pulled on his driving gloves, and perched a jaunty Alpine hat on his head.

"Alphonse, you must be here all day," he said. "Mordaunt, of the Frivolity, will send for that poster; and a messenger may come from the Piccadilly Magazine—the drawings are in a parcel on my desk. Say to any person who calls that I will not be back until evening."

"I will remember," assured Alphonse.

"By the by, Alphonse, you were living in a big house in the Parc Monceaux half a dozen years ago?"

"Monsieur is right."

"Do you remember a gentleman by the name of Marchand—M. Felix Marchand?"

"My memory may be at fault," Alphonse answered, "but I do not recall a person of that name."

"Well, no matter. He may not have resided there then, and the Parc Monceaux means a large neighborhood."

Jack banished M. Marchand from his mind with ease, as he went out into the sunshine and freshness of the spring morning; the singing of the birds, and the beauty of the trees and flowers, told him that it was a glorious thing to be alive. He waited a few moments at a nearby livery stable, while the attendants brought out a very swell-looking and newly varnished trap, and put into the shafts a horse that would have held his own in Hyde Park.

Chiswick high-road, with its constantly widening and narrowing perspectives, its jumble of old and modern houses, had never looked more cheerful as Jack drove rapidly westward. He crossed Kew Bridge, rattled on briskly, and finally entered Richmond, where he pulled up by the curb opposite to the station where centre a number of suburban railway lines.

He had not long to wait—a glance at his watch told him that. Five minutes later the rumble of an incoming train was heard, and presently a double procession of passengers came up the steps to the street. Jack had eyes for one only, a radiant vision of loveliness, as sweet and fresh and blushing as a June rose. The vision was Madge Foster, her graceful figure set off by a new spring gown from Regent street, and a sailor hat perched on her golden curls. She stepped lightly into the trap, and nestled down on the cushions.

"Oh, Jack, what will you think of me after this," she cried, half seriously.

"I think that the famed beauties of Hampton Court would turn green in their frames with envy if they could see you now," Jack answered evasively, as he flicked the horses with his whip. "Here we go for a jolly day. It will come to an end all too soon."

CHAPTER VII.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

The trap rattled up crooked George street, and swung around and down to classic-looking Richmond Bridge, with its gorgeous vistas of river scenery right and left over the low parapets. Madge was very quiet for a time, and it was evident that she felt some misgivings as to the propriety of what she had consented to do at Jack's urgent request. She had left home soon after her father's departure for town, and she must be back before six o'clock to meet him on his return. Her secret was shared with the old servant, Mrs. Sedgwick, who was foolishly fond of the girl, and naturally well-disposed toward Jack because he had saved Madge's life. This faithful creature, on the death of her young husband twenty years before, had entered Mrs. Foster's service; she practically managed Stephen Foster's establishment, assisted by a housemaid and by the daily visits of a charwoman.

Until Richmond was left behind, Jack was as serious and thoughtful as his companion. He had a high sense of honor, a hatred of anything underhanded, and his conscience pricked him a little. However, it was not his fault, he told himself. Stephen Foster had no business to be churlish and ungrateful, and treat his daughter as though she were a school miss still in her teens. And what wrong could there be about the day's outing together, if no harm was intended? It would all come right in the end, unless, unless—

He felt reassured as he stole a glance at Madge's face, and saw her quick blush. She laughed merrily, and nestled a little closer to his side.

"You are not sorry?" he asked.

"Sorry? Oh, no. It is so good of you, Jack, and the weather is perfect—we could not have had a better day."

Their depression vanished like a summer cloud, as they rode through Twickenham and Teddington, under the shade of the great trees, enjoying the occasional views of the shining river, and the peeps into the walled gardens of the fine old houses.

"It is all new to me," said Madge, with a sigh. "I used to go to Hampton Court with father on Sundays, but that was long ago; he doesn't take me anywhere now, except to the theatre once or twice a year."

"It is a shame," Jack replied indignantly, "when you enjoy things so much."

"Oh, but I dearly love Strand-on-the-Green. I am very happy there."

"And you never long for a wider life?"

"Yes—sometimes. I want to go abroad and travel. It must be delightful to see the places and countries one has read about, to roam in foreign picture galleries."

"I would like to show you the Continent," said Jack. "We have the same tastes, and—"

A rapturous "Oh!" burst from Madge. They had turned suddenly in at the gates of Bushey Park, and before them was the twenty-mile-long perspective of the chestnut avenue, bounded by the white sunlit walls of the hospitable Greyhound. The girl's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and in her excitement, as some fresh bit of beauty was revealed, she rested a tiny gloved hand on Jack's arm.

"I will take you out often, if you will let me," he said.

They drove out of the park, and swung around the weather-beaten wall of Hampton Court. Red-coated soldiers were lounging by the barracks in the palace yard, and the clear notes of a bugle rose from quarters; a tide of people and vehicles was flowing in the sunlight over Molesey Bridge. Jack turned off into the lower river road, and so on by shady and picturesque ways to the ancient village of Hampton.

They put up the horse and trap at the Flower Pot, and lunched in the coffee-room of that old-fashioned hostelry, at a little table laid in the bow-window, looking out on the quaint high-street. It was a charming repast, and both were hungry enough to do it justice. The Chambertin sparkled like rubies as it flowed from the cobwebbed bottle, and Jack needed little urging from Madge to light a fragrant Regalia.

Then they sauntered forth into the sunshine, down to the river shore, and Jack chose a big roomy boat, fitted with the softest of red cushions. He pulled for a mile or more up the rippling Thames, chatting gaily with Madge, who sat opposite to him and deftly managed the rudder-ropes. A little-known backwater was the goal, and suddenly he drove the boat under a screen of low-drooping bushes and into a miniature lake set in a frame of leafy trees that formed a canopy of dense foliage overhead.

"What do you think of it?" Jack asked, as he ran the bow gently ashore and pulled in the oars.

"It is like fairyland. It is too beautiful for words."

Madge averted her eyes from his, and pushed back a tress of golden hair that had strayed from under her hat; she took off one glove, and dipped the tips of her fingers in the water.

"I wish I had brought a book," she said. "Why don't you smoke? You have my permission, sir. But we must not stop long."

Jack felt for his cigar-case and dropped it again. The next instant he was beside the girl, and one arm encircled her waist.

"Madge, my darling!" he cried. "Don't you know—can't you guess—why I brought you here?"

Her silence, the droop of her blushing face, emboldened him. The old, old story, the story that was born when the world began, fell from his lips. They were honest, manly words, with a ring of heartfelt passion and pleading.

"Have I surprised you, Madge?" he went on. "Have I spoken too soon? We have known each other only a short time, it is true, but I could not care more for you had we been acquainted for months or years. I am not an impulsive boy—I know my own heart. I loved you from the day you came into my life. I love you now, and will always love you. I will be a good and true husband. Have you no answer for me, dear?"

The girl suddenly raised her face to his. Half-shed tears glistened in her eyes, but there was also a radiant look there which trilled his heart with unspeakable joy. He knew that he had won her.

"Madge, my sweet Madge!" he whispered.

She trembled as his arm tightened about her waist.

"Jack, do you really, really love me?"

"More than I can tell you, dear. Can you doubt me? Have you nothing to say? Do you think it so strange—"

"Strange? Yes, it is more than I dared to hope for. Don't think me unwomanly, Jack, for telling the truth, but—but I do love you with all my heart."

"Madge! You have made me the happiest man alive! God grant that I be always worthy of your affection!"

A bird began to sing overhead, and Jack thought it was the sweetest music he had ever heard, as he drew Madge to him and pressed a lover's first kiss on her lips. Side by side they sat there in the leafy retreat, heedless of time, while the afternoon sun drooped lower in the sky. They had much to talk of—many little confidences to exchange. They lived over again the events of that brief period in which they had known each other.

"You have upset all my plans," said Madge, with a pretty pout. "I was going to devote my life to art, and become a second Rosa Bonheur or Lady Butler."

"One artist in the family will be enough," her lover answered, laughingly. "But you shall continue to paint, dearest. We will roam over Europe with our sketch-books."

"Oh, how delightful! To think of it—my dreams will be realized! I knew your work, Jack, before I knew you. But I am so ignorant of the world—even of the little world of London."

"Madge, you are talking nonsense. You are my queen—you are the dearest, sweetest little woman that ever man won. And I love you the better because you are as fresh and pure as a flower, untainted by the wicked world, where innocence rubs off her bloom on vice's shoulders. I am not old, dear, but I have lived long enough to appreciate the value of—"

"Hush, or I shall think you do not mean all you say. Oh, Jack, promise me that you will never repent of your bargain. I wonder that some woman did not enslave you long ago."

A shadow crossed Jack's face, and he was silent for a moment.

"Madge," he said, hesitatingly, "I have not been a bad man in my time, nor have I been a particularly good one. I was an art student in Paris for years, and Paris is a city of dissipation, full of pitfalls and temptations to young fellows like myself. There is something connected with my past, which I feel it is my duty to—"

"Don't tell me, Jack—please don't. I might not like to hear it. I will try to forget that you had a past, and I will never ask you about it. You are mine now, and we will think only of the present and the future. I trust you, dear, and I know that you are good and true. You will always love me, won't you?"

"Always, my darling," Jack replied in a tone of relief. He told himself, as he kissed the troubled look from the girl's eyes, that it was better to keep silence. What could he gain by dragging up the black skeleton of the past? He was a free man now, and the withholding of that bitter chapter of his life would be the wisest course. If the future ever brought it to light, Madge would remember that she herself had checked the story on his lips.

"Jack, you are looking awfully serious."

"Am I? Well, I won't any more. But, I say, Madge, when will you be my wife? And how about speaking to your father? You know—"

"I can't tell him yet, Jack, really—you must wait a while. You won't mind, will you?"

"I hate this deception."

"So do I. But father has not been quite himself lately—I think something troubles him."

"Does he want to marry you to any one else?" Jack asked, jealously. "Is there anything of the sort between him and that young chap who comes to the house?"

"I can't be certain, Jack, but sometimes I imagine so, though father has never spoken to me about it. I dislike Mr. Royle, and discourage his attentions."

"His attentions?"

"Oh, Jack, don't look at me in that way—you make me feel wretched. Won't you trust me and believe me? I love you with all my heart, and I am as really yours as if I were married to you."

"My darling, I do trust you," he said contritely. "Forgive me—I was very foolish. I know that nothing can separate us, and I will await your own time in patience. And when you are willing to have me speak to your father—"

"It shall be very soon, dear," whispered Madge, looking up at him with a soft light in her eyes. "If I find him in a good humor I will tell him myself. We are great chums, you know."

Jack kissed her, and then glanced at his watch.

"Four o'clock," he said, regretfully. "We must be off."

He pulled the boat back to Hampton, and ordered the hostler at the Flower Pot to get the trap ready. The world looked different, somehow, to the happy couple, as they drove Londonwards. Love's young dream had been realized, and they saw no shadow in the future.

The ride home was uneventful until they reached Richmond. Then, on the slope of the hill in front of the Talbot, where the traffic was thick and noisy, a coach with half a dozen young men on top was encountered, evidently bound for a convivial dinner at the Star and Garter or the Roebuck. A well-known young lord was driving, and beside him sat Victor Nevill. He smiled and nodded at Jack, and turned to gaze after his fair companion.

"That was an old friend of mine," remarked Jack, as the trap passed on. "A jolly good fellow, too."

"Drive faster, please," Madge said, abruptly. "I am afraid it is late."

There was a troubled, half-frightened look on her face, and she was very quiet until the station was reached, where she was sure to get a train to Gunnersbury within a few minutes. She sprang lightly to the pavement, and let her hand rest in Jack's for a moment, while her eyes, full of unspeakable affection, gazed into his. Then, with a brief farewell, she had vanished down the steps.

"She is mine," thought Jack, as he drove on toward Kew and Chiswick. "I have won a pearl among women. I think I should kill any man who came between us."

CHAPTER VIII.

AN ATTRACTION IN PALL MALL.

There was a counter-attraction in Pall Mall—a rival to Marlborough House, opposite which, ranged along the curb, a number of persons are usually waiting on the chance of seeing the Prince drive out. The rival establishment was the shop of Lamb and Drummond, picture dealers and engravers to Her Majesty. Since nine o'clock that morning, in the blazing May sunshine, there had been a little crowd before the plate glass window, behind which the firm had kindly exposed their latest prize to the public gaze. Newspaper men had been admitted to a private view of the picture, and for a couple of days previous the papers had contained paragraphs in reference to the coming exhibition. Rembrandts are by no means uncommon, nor do all command high prices; but this particular one, which Martin Von Whele had unearthed in Paris, was conceded to be the finest canvas that the master-artist's brush had produced.

It was the typical London crowd, very much mixed. Some regarded the picture with contemptuous indifference and walked away. Others admired the rich, strong coloring, the permanency of the pigments, and the powerful, ferocious head, either Russian or Polish, that seemed to fairly stand out from the old canvas. A few persons, who were keener critics, envied Lamb and Drummond for the bargain they had obtained at such a small figure.

Early in the afternoon Jack Vernon joined the group before the shop window; an interview with the editor of the Piccadilly Magazine had brought him to town, and, having read the papers, he had walked from the Strand over to Pall Mall. Memories of his Paris life, of the morning when he had trudged home in bitter disappointment to the Boulevard St. Germain and Diane, surged into his mind.

"It is the same picture that I copied at the Hotel Netherlands," he said to himself, "and it ought to sell for a lot of money. How well I recall those hours of drudgery, with old Von Whele looking over my shoulder and puffing the smoke of Dutch tobacco into my eyes! I was sorry to read of his death, and the sale of his collection. He was a good sort, if he was forgetful. By Jove, I've half a mind to box up my duplicate and send it to his executors. I wonder if they would settle the long-standing account."

Several hours later, when Jack had gone home and was hard at work in his studio, Victor Nevill sauntered down St. James street. He wore evening dress, and carried a light overcoat on his arm. He stopped at Lamb and Drummond's window for a few moments, and scrutinized the Rembrandt carelessly, but with a rather curious expression on his face. Then he looked at his watch—the time was half-past five—and cutting across into the park he walked briskly to St. James' Park station. The train that he wanted was announced, and when it came in he watched the row of carriages as they flashed by him. He entered a first-class smoker, and nodded to Stephen Foster. The two were not alone in the compartment, and during the ride of half an hour they exchanged only a few words, and gave close attention to their papers. But they had plenty to talk about after they got out at Gunnersbury, and their conversation was grave and serious as they walked slowly toward the river, by the long shady streets lined with villas.

Stephen Foster's house stood close to the lower end of Strand-on-the-Green. It was more than a century old, and was larger than it looked from the outside. It had the staid and comfortable stamp of the Georgian period, with its big square windows, and the unique fanlight over the door. Directly opposite the entrance, across the strip of paved quay, was a sort of a water-gate leading down to the sedgy shore of the Thames—a flight of stone steps, cut out of the masonry, from the foot of which it was possible to take boat at high tide. In the rear of the house was a walled garden, filled with flowers, shrubbery, and fruit trees.

Opening the door with his key, Stephen Foster led his guest into the drawing-room, where Madge was sitting with a book. She kissed her father, and gave a hand reluctantly to Nevill, whom she addressed as Mr. Royle. She resumed her reading, perched on a couch by the window, and Nevill stole numerous glances at her while he chatted with his host.

The curio-dealer dined early—he was always hungry when he came back from town—and dinner was announced at seven o'clock. It was a protracted ceremony, and the courses were well served and admirably cooked; the wine came from a carefully selected cellar, and was beyond reproach. Madge presided at the table, and joined in the conversation; but it evidently cost her an effort to be cheerful. After the dessert she rose.

"Will you and Mr. Royle excuse me, father?" she said. "I know you want to smoke."

"I hope you are not going to desert us, Miss Foster," Nevill replied. "Your company is preferable to the best cigar."

"We will go up stairs and smoke," said Stephen Foster. "Come, Royle; my daughter would rather play the piano."

The library, whither Nevill accompanied his host, was on the second floor front. It was a cozy room, trimmed with old oak, with furniture to match, lined with books and furnished with rare engravings and Persian rugs. Stephen Foster lighted the incandescent gas-lamp on the big table, drew the window curtains together, and closed the door. Then he unlocked a cabinet and brought out a box of Havanas, a siphon, a couple of glasses, and a bottle of whisky and one of Maraschino.

"Sit down, and help yourself," he said. "Or is it too early for a stimulant?"

Nevill did not reply; he was listening to the low strains of music from the floor beneath, where Madge was at the piano, singing an old English ballad. He hesitated for a moment, and dropped into an easy chair. Stephen Foster drew his own chair closer and leaned forward.

"We are quite alone," he said, "and there is no danger of being overheard or disturbed. You intimated that you had something particular to say to me. What is it? Does it concern our little—"

"No; we discussed that after we left the train. It is quite a different matter."

Nevill's usual self-possession seemed to have deserted him, and as he went on with his revelation he spoke in jerky sentences, with some confusion and embarrassment.

"That's all there is about it," he wound up, aggressively.

"All?" cried Stephen Foster.

He got up and walked nervously to the window. Then he turned back and confronted Nevill; there was a look on his face that was not pleasant to see, as if he had aged suddenly.

"Is this a jest, or are you serious?" he demanded, coldly. "Do I understand that you love my daughter?—that you wish to marry her?"

"I have told you so plainly. You must have known that I loved her—you cannot have been blind to that fact all this time."

"I have been worse than blind, Nevill, I fear. Have you spoken to Madge?"

"No; I never had a chance."

"Do you consider yourself a suitable husband for her?"

"Why not?" Nevill asked; he was cool and composed now. "If you are good enough to be her father, am I not worthy to be her husband?"

"Don't say that," Stephen Foster answered. "You are insolent—you forget to whom you are speaking. Whatever our relations have been and are, whatever sort of man I am at my desk or my ledgers, I am another person at home. Sneer if you like, it is true. I love my daughter—the child of my dead wife. She does not know what I do in town—you are aware of that—and God forbid that she ever does learn. I want to keep her in ignorance—to guard her young life and secure her future happiness. And you want to marry her!"

"I do," replied Nevill, trying to speak pleasantly.

"How will you explain the deception—the fact that you have been coming here under a false name?"

"I will get around that all right. It was your suggestion, you remember, not mine, that I should take the name of Royle. Look here, Foster, I know there is some reason in what you say—I respect your motives. But you misunderstand and misjudge me. I love the girl with all my heart, with a true, pure and lasting affection. I might choose a wife in higher places, but Madge has enslaved me with her sweet face and charming disposition. As for our relations—you know what poverty drove me to. Given a secure income, and I should never have stooped to dishonor. The need of money stifled the best that was in my nature. It is not too late to reform, though. I don't mean now, but when I come into my uncle's fortune, which is a sure thing. Then, I promise you, I will be as straight as you could wish your daughter's husband to be. Believe me, I am sincere. No man could offer Madge a deeper affection."

There was no doubt that Victor Nevill spoke the truth, for once in his life; he loved Madge with a passion that dominated him, and he knew his own unworthiness. Stephen Foster paced the floor with a haggard face, with knitted brows.

"It is impossible," he said to himself. "I would rather see her married to some poor but honest clerk." He lighted a cigar and bit it savagely. "What if I refuse?" he added aloud.

A dangerous light flashed in Nevill's eyes.

"I won't give her up," he replied; and in the words there was a hidden menace which Stephen Foster understood.

"Give her up?" he echoed. "You have not won her yet."

"I know that, but I hope to succeed."

"What do you expect me to do?"

"All in your power. Give me a fair show."

"The girl shan't be bullied or browbeaten—I won't force her into such a step against her wishes. If she marries you, it will be of her own free will."

"That's fair enough. But I want an open field. You must keep other admirers away from the girl, and there isn't any time to lose about it. It may be too late now—"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Madge has improved her acquaintance with the chap who pulled her out of the river a couple of weeks ago."

"Impossible, Nevill!"

"It is perfectly true. And do you know who the man is? It is none other than Jack Vernon, the artist."

"By heavens, Jack Vernon! The same who—"

"Yes, the same. I did not tell you before."

"And I did not dream of it. I wrote a letter of gratitude to the fellow, and told Madge to get his address from the landlord of the Black Bull—I did not know it myself, else—"

"I was afraid you might have some scruples. It is too late for that now."

"It was like your cursed cunning," exclaimed Stephen Foster. "Yes, I should have hesitated. But are you certain that Madge has seen the fellow since?"

"Certain? Why, I passed them in George street, Richmond, last evening, as I was driving to the Star and Garter. They were together in a trap, going toward Kew. That is the reason I determined to speak to you to-night."

Stephen Foster rose and hurried toward the door; his face was pale with anger and alarm.

"Stop!" cried Nevill. "What are you going to do?"

"Sit still," was the hoarse reply. "I'll tell you when I return."

CHAPTER IX.

UNCLE AND NEPHEW.

Victor Nevill was on his feet instantly, and by a quick move he intercepted Foster and clutched him by the arm. He repeated his question: "What are you going to do?"

"Take your hand off me. I shall hear from Madge's own lips a denial of your words. How dare you accuse her of stooping to an intrigue?"

"I wouldn't call it that. Madge is young and innocent. She knows little of the censorious world. She has been left pretty much to herself, and naturally she sees no harm in meeting Vernon. As for denying my words—she can't do that."

"I will call her to account, and make her confess everything."

"But not to-night," urged Nevill. "Come, sit down."

Stephen Foster yielded to the solicitation of his companion, and went back to his chair. He mixed a whisky and soda, and drank half of it.

"I forget," he muttered, "that my little Madge has grown to womanhood. Her very innocence would make her an easy prey to some unscrupulous scoundrel. I must speak to her, Nevill."

"Yes, by all means."

"And why not to-night?"

"Need you ask? Would not Madge know at once that it was I who told you? And what, then, would be my chance of winning her?"

"It couldn't be any poorer than it is now," thought Stephen Foster. "Did she see you yesterday?" he said aloud.

"No, by good luck she did not—at least I feel pretty sure of it. A jolly good thing, too, for Vernon recognized me and nodded to me. But whether Madge saw me or not won't make much difference under present circumstances. If you go downstairs now and start a row with her, she will be sure to suspect that you received your information from me."

"Quite likely. What do you want me to do?"

"Wait until to-morrow evening, when you return from town. Then tell her that some stock-broking friend of yours in the city saw her near Richmond station."

"That is the best plan," assented Stephen Foster. "I will take your advice."

"Of course you will forbid her to have anything more to do with Vernon, and will see that your wishes are enforced?"

"Decidedly. The man has behaved badly, and I can't believe that he has any honorable intentions. He has been simply amusing himself with the girl."

"That's like him," Nevill said carelessly. "Jack Vernon was always a rake and a roue; though, as I am a friend of his, I ought not to tell you this. But for your daughter's sake—"

"I understand. The warning is timely, and I will see that the girl's eyes are opened."

"And you will give Madge to me if I can win her consent."

"She shall marry the man she loves—the man of her choice," replied Stephen Foster, "provided he is worthy of her. But I won't compel her to do anything against her wishes."

"I am not asking you to do that. I have your permission, then, to visit here as a suitor?"

"Yes; I shall be glad to see you a couple of times a week."

Stephen Foster did not speak very cordially, and his expression was not that of a father who has found a suitable husband for his daughter; but Victor Nevill had gained his point, and was satisfied with what he had so far accomplished. He was a vain man, and possessed an overweening amount of self-confidence, especially where women were concerned.

The two had other subjects to discuss. For a couple of hours—long after Madge had forsaken the piano and gone to bed—a whispered conversation was carried on that had no reference to the girl. It was nearly eleven o'clock when Nevill left the house, and bade Stephen Foster good-night on the step. He knew the way in spite of the darkness and the paucity of street lamps. Having lighted a cigar, he walked briskly toward Gunnersbury.

"It was a narrow squeak yesterday," he reflected. "Until I met the girl to-night, I was doubtful as to her having failed to see me on the coach. It would have been most unfortunate had both of them recognized me; they would have compared notes in that case, and discovered that Victor Nevill and Mr. Royle were one and the same. I must be more careful in future. Foster was rather inclined to be ugly, but he promised certain things, and he knows that he can't play fast and loose with me. I am afraid some harm has been done already, but it will blow over if he keeps a tight rein on his daughter. As for Vernon, he must be forced to decamp. Curse the fate that brought him across my path! There's not much I would stop at if he became a dangerous rival. But there is no danger of that. I have the inner track, and by perseverance I will win the girl in the end. She is not a bit like other women—that's her charm—but it ought to count for something when she learns that I am Sir Lucius Chesney's heir. I've been going to the devil pretty fast, but I meant what I told Foster. I love Madge with all my better nature, and for her sake I would run as straight as a die. A look from her pretty eyes makes me feel like a blackguard."

Thus Nevill communed with himself until he neared Gunnersbury station, when the distant rumble of a train quickened his steps. He had just time to buy his ticket, dash down the steps, and jump into a first-class carriage. Getting out at Portland road, he took a cab to Regent street, and dropped in at the Cafe Royal for a few minutes. Then he started toward his lodgings on foot. It was that witching hour when West End London, before it goes to sleep, foams and froths like a glass of champagne that will soon be flat and flavorless. Men and women, inclined to be hilarious, thronged the pavements under the strong lights. Birds of prey, male and female, prowled alertly.

A jingling hansom swung from Piccadilly Circus into the Quadrant. Its occupants were a short, Jewish-looking man with a big diamond in his shirt-front, and a woman who leaned forward more prominently than her companion. She was richly dressed, and—at least by gaslight—strikingly beautiful, with great eyes of a purplish hue, and a mass of golden-red hair that might or might not have been natural; only at close range could one have detected the ravages of an unfortunate and unbridled life—the tell-tale marks that the lavish use of powder and rouge could not utterly hide.

The vehicle very nearly ran Victor Nevill down—he had been about to cross the street—and as he dodged back to the sidewalk his face was for an instant close to the woman's, and he saw her distinctly. He uttered an exclamation of surprise, and started as though an unseen hand had dealt him a blow. He hesitated briefly, seemingly dazed, and then started in pursuit. But he ran into a couple of men at the outset, and by the time he had stammered an apology, and was free to look about him again, the swift-moving hansom was lost to sight in a maze of similar vehicles.

"It's no use to follow in a cab," muttered Nevill. "And I must be mistaken, anyway. It can't be she whom I saw—she is dead."

He stood at the edge of the pavement, staring undecidedly up the curve of the street. When a brace of painted women, emboldened by his attitude, shot covert remarks at him, he turned on them sharply. But, seeing a policeman approaching, he walked on.

"By heavens, I was not mistaken!" he said to himself. "The papers must have blundered—such things often happen. She is much altered, but they were her eyes, her lips. To think that her peerless beauty should have brought her so low! She is nothing to me now, though I nearly broke my heart over her once. But she may serve as a useful tool. She will be a trump card to play, if need be. She has probably come to London recently, and if she stays any time it would not be a difficult matter for me to find her. I daresay she drained the Russian's purse, and then served him as she served me. The heartless vampire! But I am glad I saw her to-night. With her aid it will be easier than I hoped, perhaps, to win Madge."

Since ten o'clock an unexpected visitor had been waiting in Victor Nevill's rooms on Jermyn street. In a big basket-chair, drawn close to the light, sat Sir Lucius Chesney. He had helped himself to cigars and brandy-and-soda, and had dipped into half a dozen late novels that were scattered about the table, but without finding any to interest him. It was long past twelve now, and he was beginning to feel drowsy and out of temper. He wished he had remained in the smoking-room of his hotel, or hunted up some old acquaintances at the Country Club.

Sir Lucius was a medium-sized, slightly portly gentleman of fifty-eight, though he did not look his age, thanks to the correct life he led. He had a military carriage, a rubicund face, a heavy mustache, keen, twinkling eyes, and a head of iron-gray hair. He was a childless widower, and Victor Nevill, the son of his dead sister Elizabeth, was his nephew, and presumably his heir. He had had another sister—his favorite one—but many years ago he had cast her out of his life. He lived alone at his fine old place in Sussex, Priory Court, near to the sea and the downs. When he was at home he found occupation in shooting and fishing, riding, cultivating hot-house fruits, and breeding horses and cattle. These things he did to perfection, but his knowledge of art was not beyond criticism. He was particularly fond of old masters, but he bought all sorts of pictures, and had a gallery full of them. He made bad bargains sometimes, and was imposed upon by unscrupulous dealers. That, however, was nobody's business, as long as he himself was satisfied.

He cared nothing for London or for society, and seldom came up to town; but he liked to travel, and a portion of each year he invariably spent on the Continent or in more remote places. He smoked Indian cheroots from choice—he had once filled a civil position in Bombay for eighteen months—and his favorite wine was port. He was generous and kind-hearted, and believed that every young man must sow his crop of wild oats, and that he would be the better for it. But there was another and a deeper side to his character. In his sense of honor he was a counterpart of Colonel Newcome, and he had a vast amount of family pride; a sin against that he could neither forget nor forgive, and he was relentless to the offender.

It was twenty minutes to one when Victor Nevill mounted the stairs and opened his door, surprised to see that the gas was lighted in his rooms. If he was unpleasantly startled by the sight of his visitor, he masked his feelings successfully.

"My dear uncle," he cried, "I am delighted to see you!"

"You dog!" exclaimed Sir Lucius, with a beaming countenance. "You night-bird! Do you know that I have been here since ten o'clock?"

"I am awfully sorry, I assure you, sir. If you had only dropped me a line or wired. I have been dining with a friend in the suburbs, and the best train I could catch took me to Portland road."

Possibly Sir Lucius did not believe this explanation. He glanced keenly at his nephew, noting his flushed face and rumpled shirt-bosom, and a shadow of displeasure crossed his features.

"I hoped to spend a few quiet hours with you," he said. "I came to town this evening, and put up at Morley's. I am off to Norway in the morning, by a steamer that sails from the Thames, and from there I shall probably go to the Continent. I have been feeling a little run down—livery—and my physician has advised a complete change of air."

"You are a regular globe-trotter," replied Victor, laughing to hide his sudden look of relief. "I wish I could induce you to spend the season in London."

"That's well enough for an idle young dog like yourself—you can't exist out of London. What are you doing?"

"Nothing in particular. I read a good bit—"

"Yes, trashy novels. Does your income hold out?"

"I manage to get along, with economy."

"Economy? Humph! I have taken the liberty to look about your rooms. The landlady remembered me and let me in. You have a snug nest—more luxurious than the last time I was here. It is fit for a Sybarite. Your brandy is old liquor, and must have cost you a pretty penny. Your cigars are too good for me, sir, and I'll warrant you don't pay less than ten pounds a hundred for them. As for your clothing, you have enough to start a shop."

"I must keep up appearances, my dear uncle."

"Yes, I suppose so. I don't blame you for wanting to stand well with your friends, if you can afford it. Your father and mother spoiled you. You should have gone to the bar, or into the army or the church. However, it is too late to talk about that now. But, to be frank with you, my boy, it has come to my ears that you are leading a fast life."

"It is false!" Victor cried, indignantly.

"I sincerely trust so. I have heard only rumors, and I do not care to attach any credence to them. But a word of warning—of advice—may not be out of place. Young men must have their fling, and I think none the worse of them for it. But you are not young, in your knowledge of the world. It is six or seven years since you were thrown on the Continent with a full purse. You have been able to indulge every whim and fancy. You have had enough of wild oats. Fill your niche in Society and Clubdom, if you like. Be a butterfly and an ornament, if you feel no inclination for anything better. But be a gentleman—be honorable. If you ever forget yourself, and bring a shadow of shame upon the unsullied names of Chesney or Nevill, by gad, sir, you shall never touch a penny of my money. I will leave it all to charities, and turn Priory Court into a hospital. Mark that! If you go wrong, I'll hear of it. I'm good for twenty years yet, if I'm good for a day."

"You seem to have a very bad opinion of me, Uncle Lucius. I never give your fortune a thought. As for the honor of the family, it is as dear to me as it is to you."

"Glad to hear you say it, my boy," replied Sir Lucius, breathlessly. "It shows spirit. Well, I hope you'll overlook my sharp words. I meant them for your good. And if you want a check—"

"Thanks, awfully, but I don't need it," Victor interrupted, with a stroke of inspiration. "My income keeps me going all right. It is only in trifles that I am extravagant. I have inherited a taste, sir, for good cigars and old brandy."

"You dog, of course you have. Your maternal grandfather was noted for his wine cellar, and he bought his Havanas by the thousand from Fribourg and Treyer. That I should prefer cheroots is rank degeneracy. But I must be off, or I shall get no sleep. I won't ask you to come down to the dock in the morning—"

"But I insist upon coming, sir."

"Then breakfast with me at Morley's—nine o'clock sharp."

Uncle and nephew parted on the best of terms, but Sir Lucius was not altogether easy in mind as he walked down Regent street, tapping the now deserted pavement with his stick.

"I hope the boy is trustworthy," he thought. "He has some excuse for recklessness and extravagance, but none for dishonor. I told him the name of Chesney was unsullied—I forgot for a moment. It is strange that Mary should be so much in my mind lately. Poor girl! Perhaps I was too harsh with her. I wonder if she is still alive—if she has a son. But if she came to me this moment, I could not forgive her. Nearly thirty years have not softened me."

He sighed heavily as he entered Trafalgar Square, and to a wretched woman with an infant in her arms, crouching under the shadow of the Nelson Column, he tossed a silver piece.

CHAPTER X.

A LONDON SENSATION.

It had rained most of the afternoon, and then cleared off beautifully just before twilight. Strand-on-the-Green, ever changeful of mood, was this evening as fresh and sweet-smelling as a bit of the upper Thames—as picturesque as any waterside village a hundred miles from London.

By the grassy margin of the river, between Maynard's boat-house and the elm trees, Jack Vernon strolled impatiently up and down. He was in low spirits, and the beauty of the evening was wasted on him. He had been here for fifteen minutes, and he told himself that he had been a fool to come at all, at such an hour. He waited a little longer, and then, as he was on the point of leaving, he heard light footsteps approaching, and recognized them with a lover's keen perception. He hurried to meet the slim, girlish figure, with a light cloak fluttering from her shoulders, and Madge's little cry of pleasure was stifled on her lips as he kissed them again and again.

"My darling!" he whispered eagerly. "I scarcely dared to hope that you would come to-night, but I could not stay away. Do you know that you have treated me cruelly? I have not seen you for two days—since Wednesday afternoon. And I have been here twice."

"I am sorry, Jack, but I could not help it. I missed you ever so much."

"Where is your father?"

"He is not at home—that is why I came. He is dining in town with an old friend, and won't be back until the last train, at the very earliest."

"I am indebted to him. I was hungry for a sight of you, dearest."

"And I longed to see you, Jack. But I am afraid we shall not be able to meet as often as before."

"Madge, what do you mean? Has anything gone wrong?"

The girl linked her arm in his, and drew him to a darker and lonelier spot by the water. In a few words, tremulously spoken, she told him what he had already surmised—that her father had discovered her secret, and had taxed her with it when he came home on the previous evening.

"By Jove, it was my fault," Jack said, contritely. "I should not have tempted you to go on that unlucky trip last Tuesday. So you were seen near Richmond station by some meddlesome individual—probably when you got out of the trap! But it may turn out for the best; your father could not have been kept in ignorance much longer. Was he angry?"

"Yes, Jack; but he seemed more hurt and grieved. Oh, it was such a wretched time!"

"My poor girl! Does—does he want you to give me up?"

"He forbade me to see you again."

"And you are here!"

"Did you expect me to obey him?"

"What did you tell him, dearest?"

"All—everything. I spoke up bravely, Jack. I told him I was a woman now, and that I loved you with all my heart, and intended to marry you!"

"My own plucky Madge! And I suppose that made him the more angry?"

"No; my defiance surprised him—he thought I would yield. He talked about ingratitude, and called me a foolish girl who did not know her own mind. He looked awfully sad and stern, Jack, but when I kissed him and begged him not to be angry, he melted a little."

"And gave in?"

"No, neither of us yielded; we agreed to a sort of a tacit truce. Father did not speak of the matter again, and he went to town very early this morning, before I was up. He left word with Mrs. Sedgewick that he would not be back until late. I was sure he would go to your studio."

"I have not seen him," replied Jack; "but I hope he will come. If he doesn't I shall call on him and ask for your hand, and without delay. It is the only honorable course. Until I set things right with him, and satisfy him of my intentions, I can't blame him for thinking all sorts of evil of me."

"If he knew you as I know you, dear!"

"But he doesn't," Jack said, bitterly. "Is it likely that he will consent to let you marry a poor artist? No. But I can't—I won't—give you up, Madge!"

The girl rested her hands on his shoulders, and looked trustfully into his face.

"Dear Jack, don't worry," she whispered. "It will all come right in the end. We love each other, and we will be true. Nothing shall part us. I am yours always, and some day I will be your wife. Promise that you will believe me—that you will never be afraid of losing me!"

"I do believe you, darling," Jack said, fervently. "You have made me happy again—your words have driven the clouds away. I could not live without you, Madge. Since I have known you the whole world seems brighter and better. For your sake I am going to make a name and a fortune."

He kissed her passionately, and for a few moments they stood watching the incoming tide, and talking in a lighter vein. Then they parted, and Madge slipped away toward the old house with its guardian elm trees. The memory of her last words cheered Jack as he walked to the high-road and thence to his studio. Alphonse had prepared him a tempting little supper, and he did not go to town that night.

The next morning London awoke to a new sensation, which quite eclipsed the week-old theft of the Duchess of Hightower's jewels and the recent mysterious murder at Hoxton. The news was at first meager and unsatisfactory, and contained little more in substance than was found in the big headlines and on the posters of the leading papers:

DARING ROBBERY AT LAMB AND DRUMMOND'S.

THE FAMOUS REMBRANDT CARRIED OFF—WATCHMAN BRUTALLY HANDLED.

The early journals had gone to press before a full report of the affair could reach them, but a detailed account appeared between ten and eleven o'clock in the first edition of the afternoon papers. The Rembrandt was gone—there was no doubt of it—and the story of its disappearance contained many dramatic elements. A curious crowd gathered about the premises of Lamb and Drummond on Pall Mall, to gaze at the now vacant window, and the services of a policeman were required to keep the sidewalk clear. Many persons recalled the similar case, some years before, of the Gainsborough portrait of the Duchess of Devonshire.

Mr. Lamb, it appeared, had been detained at his place of business until long after the closing hour, writing important letters. He left at nine o'clock, and Raper, the night watchman, fastened the street door behind him. During the night the policeman on duty in Pall Mall saw or heard nothing suspicious about the premises. The Rembrandt was on an easel in a large room back of the shop proper, and from it a rear door opened on a narrow paved passage leading to Crown Court; the inmates heard no noise in the night. At four o'clock in the morning a policeman, flashing his lantern in Crown Court, found a window open at the back of Lamb and Drummond's premises. He entered at once. Inside the gas was burning dimly, and the watchman lay bound and gagged in a corner, with a strong odor of drugs mingling with his breath. The Rembrandt had been cut out of its frame and carried away.

"The robbery was evidently well-planned, and is enveloped in mystery," said the St. James' Gazette, "and the thieves left not the slightest clew. It is difficult to conceive their motive. They cannot hope at present to dispose of the picture, which is known by reputation in Europe and America, nor is it certain that they could safely realize on it after the lapse of years. The watchman, who has recovered consciousness, declared that he has no knowledge of how the thieves entered the building. It was about midnight, he states, when he was knocked down from behind. He remembers nothing after that."

The Globe's account was more sensational. "It has come to light," wrote the enterprising reporter, "that Raper, the watchman, was in the habit of slipping out to the Leather Bottle, on Crown Court, for a drink at ten o'clock every evening, and leaving the back door of the shop unlocked. He came into the private bar at the usual time last night, and remained for twenty minutes. He drank a pint of ale, and was seen conversing with a shabbily dressed stranger, whose face was unfamiliar to the publican and the barmaid. This incident suggests two theories. Did the affable stranger drug Raper's beer, and, at a later hour of the night, while the watchman was in a stupor, force the window with one or more companions and carry off the Rembrandt? Or was the watchman in the plot? Did the thieves slip into the building while he was in the Leather Bottle, and subsequently bind, gag and drug him, and force open the window from the outside, in order to screen him from the suspicions of his employers? We learn that Raper has been suspended from his position, pending an investigation. Mr. Lamb informs us that the Rembrandt was insured against fire and burglary for the sum of ten thousand guineas. The company is the Mutual, and they are sure to do all in their power to apprehend the thieves and save themselves from such a heavy loss."

Such was the gist of the newspaper accounts of the puzzling affair. And now to see how they affected certain individuals who are not strangers to the reader.

CHAPTER XI.

A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY.

Stephen Foster sat in his office at No. 320 Wardour street, with half a dozen of the morning and afternoon papers scattered about his desk. It was two o'clock, but he had not gone out to lunch, and it had not occurred to him that the usual hour for it was past. Footsteps came down the length of the shop, and Victor Nevill opened the door. He closed it quickly behind him as he entered the room; his face expressed extreme agitation, and he looked like a man who has spent a sleepless night.

"You have seen them?" he exclaimed, pointing to the papers. "You have read the different accounts?"

"Yes, I have read them—that is all. They tell me nothing. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I bought a Telegraph at Gunnersbury station this morning, and saw the headlines."

"And I first heard of it at breakfast—I got up rather late. I opened the Globe and there it was, staring me in the eyes. It knocked my appetite, I can assure you. What do you make of it?"

"It's a mystery," replied Stephen Foster, "and I am all in the dark about it. Devilish unfortunate, I call it."

"Right you are! And it's more than that. You have seen the Globe?"

"Yes; here it is."

"Did you know that the picture was insured?"

"I judged that it was, but the fact was quite unimportant."

"The Mutual people won't regard it in that light."

"Hardly. Will you have a drink, my dear fellow? You are looking seedy."

A stiff brandy-and-soda pulled Victor Nevill together, and for nearly an hour the two men spoke in low and serious tones, occasionally referring to the heap of papers.

"Not the slightest clew," said Stephen Foster. "It is absurd to suspect Raper of collusion with the thieves—his only fault was carelessness. Leave the affair to the police. I shan't give it another thought."

"That's easier said than done," Nevill replied. He rose and put on his hat. "I must be off now. Oh, about the other matter—have you said anything further to your daughter?"

"Not a word."

"She still defies you?"

"She refuses to give the fellow up." Stephen Foster sighed. "The girl has lots of spirit."

"You won't let her have her own way?"

"Not if I can prevent it."

"Prevent it?" echoed Nevill, sneeringly. "What measures will you take?"

"I shall see the artist."

"Much good that will do," said Nevill. "Better begin by enforcing your authority over your daughter."

"I can't be harsh with her," Stephen Foster answered. "I am more inclined to pity than anger."

Under the circumstances, now that he knew how far matters had gone with the woman he loved and his rival, Victor Nevill was curiously unconcerned and unmoved, at least outwardly. It is true that he did not despair of success, strong as were the odds against him. There was a hard and evil expression on his face, which melted at times into a cunning smile of satisfaction, as he walked down Wardour street.

"I am on the right scent, and the game will soon be in my hands," he reflected. "In another week I ought to be able to put an effectual spoke in Jack Vernon's wheel. It will be a blow for Madge, but she will forget him presently, and then I will commence to play my cards. I won't fail—I'm determined to make her my wife. Shall I let Foster into the scheme? I think not. Better let things take their course, and keep him in ignorance of the fact that I had a hand in the revelation, if it comes off. I'm afraid it won't, though."

We must take the reader now to Ravenscourt Park, to the studio of Jack Vernon. Early in the afternoon, while Victor Nevill was closeted with Stephen Foster, the young artist was sitting at his easel. He had been working since breakfast on a landscape, a commission from one of his wealthy patrons. Things had gone unusually well with him lately. His picture was on the line at the Academy, it had been favorably reviewed, and he had received several offers for it. This indicated increased fame, with a larger income, and a luxurious little home for Madge.

"Will you have your lunch now, sir?" Alphonse called from the doorway of an inner room.

"Yes, you may fetch it," Jack replied. "I'm as hungry as a bear."

He usually took his second meal at an earlier hour, but to-day he had gone on working, deeply interested in his subject. He put aside his brush and palette, and seated himself at the table, on which Alphonse had placed a couple of chops, a bottle of Bass, and half a loaf of French bread. When he had finished, he lighted a cigarette and opened the Telegraph lazily. He had not looked at it before, and he uttered a cry of surprise as his eyes fell on the headlines announcing the theft of the Rembrandt. He perused the brief paragraph, and turned to his servant.

"Go out and buy me an afternoon paper," he said.

Alphonse departed, and, having the luck to encounter a newsboy in the street, he speedily returned with the latest edition of the Globe. It contained nothing more in substance than the earlier issues, but the full account of the mysterious robbery was there, a column long, and with keen interest Jack read every word of it over twice.

"It's a queer case," he said to himself, "and the sort of thing that doesn't often happen. The last sensation of the kind was the Gainsborough, years ago. What will the thieves do with their prize? They can't well dispose of it. It will be a waiting game. I daresay the watchman knows more than he cares to tell. And so the picture was insured—over-insured, too, for I don't believe it would have brought ten thousand pounds. That's rather an interesting fact. Now, if Lamb and Drummond were like some unscrupulous dealers that I know, instead of being beyond reproach, there would be reason to think—"

He did not finish the mental sentence, but tossed the paper aside, and rose suddenly to his feet.

"By Jove, I'll hang up the duplicate!" he muttered. "I was going to send it to Von Whele's executors, but it is worth keeping now, as a curiosity. It will be an attraction to the chaps who come to see me. I hope it won't get me into trouble. It is so deucedly like the original that I might be accused of stealing it from the premises of Lamb and Drummond."

He crossed the studio, knelt down by the couch and pulled the drapery aside, and drew out the half-dozen of bulging portfolios; they had not been disturbed since the visit of his French customer, M. Felix Marchand. He opened the one in which he knew he had seen the Rembrandt on that occasion, but he failed to find it, though he turned over the sketches singly. He examined them again, with increasing wonder, and then went carefully through the other portfolios. The search was fruitless. The copy of Martin Von Whele's Rembrandt was gone!

"What can it mean?" thought Jack. "I distinctly remember putting the canvas back in the biggest portfolio—I could swear to that. I have not touched them since. Yet the picture is gone—missing—stolen. Yes, stolen! What else? By Jove, it's a queer coincidence that both the original and the copy should disappear simultaneously!"

He struck a match and looked beneath the couch; there was nothing there. He ransacked about the studio for a few minutes, and then summoned his servant.

"Was there a stranger here at any time during the last two weeks?" he asked; "any person whom you did not know?"

Alphonse shook his head decidedly.

"There was no one, monsieur. I am certain of that."

"And my friends—"

"On such occasions as monsieur's friends called while he was out, I was in the studio as long as they remained."

"Yes, of course. When did you sweep under this couch?"

"About three weeks ago, monsieur," was the hesitating reply.

"No less than that?"

"No less, monsieur."

Jack was satisfied. There was no room for suspicion, he told himself. The man's word was to be relied upon. But by what agency, then, had the canvas disappeared? How could a thief break into the studio without leaving some trace of his visit, in the shape of a broken window or a forced lock? There had been plenty of opportunities, it is true—nights when Alphonse had been at home and Jack in town.

"Has monsieur lost something?"

"Yes, a large painting has been stolen," Jack replied.

He went to the door and examined the lock from the outside, by the aid of matches, though with no hope of finding anything. But a surprising and ominous discovery rewarded him at once. In and around the key-hole, sticking to it, were some minute fragments of wax.

"By Jove, I have it!" cried Jack. "Here is the clew! Look, Alphonse! The scoundrel, whoever he was, took an impression in wax on his first visit. He had a key made from it, came back later at night, and stole the picture. It was a cunning piece of work."

"Monsieur is right," said Alphonse. "A thief has robbed him. You suspect nobody?"

"Not a soul," replied Jack.

Though the shreds of wax showed how the studio had been entered, he was no nearer the solution of the mystery than before. He excepted the few trustworthy friends—only three or four—who knew that he had the duplicate Rembrandt.

"And even in Paris there were not many who knew that I painted the thing," he thought. "I painted it at the Hotel Netherlands, and when Von Whele went home and left it on my hands, I locked the canvas up in an old chest. No, I can't suspect any of my friends, past or present. But then who—By Jove! I have overlooked one point! The man who stole the picture knew just where it was kept, and he went straight to it. Otherwise he would have rummaged the studio, and disarranged things badly before he found what he wanted."

A light flashed on Jack—a light of inspiration, of certainty and conviction. He remembered the visit of M. Felix Marchand, that he had commented on the painting, and had seen it restored to its place in the portfolio. Beyond doubt the mysterious Frenchman was the thief. Armed with his craftily-won knowledge, provided with a duplicate key to the studio, he had easily and safely accomplished his purpose. At what hour, and on what night, it was impossible to say. Probably a day or two after his first visit in the guise of a buyer.

"Monsieur must not take his loss too much to heart," said Alphonse, with well-meant sympathy. "If he informs the police—"

"I prefer to have nothing to do with the police, thank you. You may go, Alphonse. I shall dine in town, as usual."

When Alphonse had departed, Jack threw a sheet over the canvas on his easel, put on a smoking jacket, lighted his pipe, and stretched himself in an easy chair, to think about the startling discovery he had made.

The mystery presented many difficult points for his consideration. The rogue's sole aim was to get that particular painting, and he had taken nothing else, though he might have walked off with his pockets filled with valuable articles. He probably expected that the robbery would not be discovered for a long time.

But what was his object in stealing the Rembrandt? What did he hope to do with a copy of so well-known a work of art? Was there any connection between this crime and the one committed last night on the premises of the Pall Mall dealers? That was extremely unlikely. It was beyond question that Lamb and Drummond had had the original painting in their possession, and that daring burglars had taken it.

"I could see light in the matter," Jack reflected, "if the fellow had visited my place after hearing of the robbery at Lamb and Drummond's. In that case, his scheme would have been to get the duplicate canvas—granted that he knew of its existence and whereabouts—and trade it off for the original. But he could not have known until early this morning, and he did not come then. I was sleeping here, and would have heard him. No, my picture must have been taken at least a week or ten days ago."

Jack smoked two more pipes, and the dark-brown Latakia tobacco from Oriental shores, stealing insidiously to his brain, brought him an idea.

"It is chimeric and improbable," he concluded, "but it is the most likely theory I have struck yet. Was my Frenchman the same chap who robbed Lamb and Drummond? Did he or his confederates steal both paintings, knowing them to be as like as two peas, with the intention of disposing of each as the original, and thus killing two birds with one stone? By Jove, I believe I've hit it! But, no, it is unlikely. Can I be right? I'll reserve my opinion, anyway, until I have written to Paris to ascertain if there is such a person as M. Felix Marchand, of the Pare Monceaux. If there is not, then I will interview Lamb and Drummond, and confide the whole story to them."

He decided to write the letter at once, but before he could reach his desk there was a sharp rap on the door. He opened it, and saw a tall, well-dressed gentleman, with a tawny beard and mustache, who bowed coldly and silently, and held out a card. Jack took it and read the name. His visitor was Stephen Foster.

CHAPTER XII.

A COWARDLY COMMUNICATION.

"You doubtless know why I have come," said Stephen Foster, as he stepped into the room and closed the door. He looked penetratingly at the young man through a pair of gold-rimmed eye-glasses.

"I think I do, sir," Jack replied, "and I am very glad to see you. I rather expected a visit from you. Take a seat, please."

"Thank you—I prefer to stand. My business is very brief, Mr. Vernon. It is quite unnecessary to enter into discussions or explanations. You are aware, of course, that my daughter has told me everything. Do you consider that you have acted honorably—that your conduct has been what a gentleman's should be?"

"It has, sir. Appearances are a little against me, I admit, but I have a clear conscience, Mr. Foster. I love your daughter with all my heart, and I have no higher aim in life than to make her my wife. I am heartily glad of the opportunity to tell you this to your face. Believe me, it was not from choice that I stooped to clandestine meetings."

Stephen Foster laughed contemptuously.

"You took an unfair advantage of an innocent and trustful girl," he said. "My daughter is young, ignorant of the world, and she does not know her own mind. You have cast a spell over her, as it were. She defies me—she refuses to obey my orders. You have estranged us, Mr. Vernon, and brought a cloud into what was a happy home. I appeal to you, in a father's name, to release the girl from the ill-advised and foolish promises she made you."

"I cannot give her up, sir. I fear you do not understand how much Madge—Miss Foster—is to me. If words could prove my sincerity, my devotion to her—"

"Her marriage to you is out of the question."

"May I ask why?"

"My reasons do not concern you."

"But at least I am entitled to some explanation—it is no more than my due," said Jack. "Why do you object to me as a son-in-law? I am not a rake or an idler—you can easily satisfy yourself of my character, if you like. I am not a rich man, but I can offer your daughter a comfortable, even a luxurious, home. I have succeeded in my profession, and in another year I shall doubtless be making an income of two or three thousand pounds."

"I am ready to admit all that," was Stephen Foster's curt reply. "It does not alter the position, however."

"I suppose you have higher views for your daughter!" Jack cried, bitterly.

"Yes, I have," Stephen Foster admitted, after a moment's hesitation. "I don't mind saying as much. But this interview has already lasted longer than I intended it should, Mr. Vernon. Have I appealed to you in vain?"

"With all proper respect to you, sir, I can answer you in only one way," Jack replied, firmly. "Your daughter returns my affection, and she is a woman in ten thousand—a woman for whose love one might well count the world well lost. I cannot, I will not, give her up."

The young artist's declaration, strange to say, brought no angry response from Stephen Foster. For an instant the hard lines on his face melted away, and there was a gleam of something closely akin to admiration in his eyes; he actually made a half-movement to hold out his hand, but as quickly withdrew it. He turned and opened the door.

"Is this your last word?" he asked from the threshold.

"That rests with you. I cannot retreat from my position. Should I renounce your daughter, after winning her heart, I would deserve to be called—"

"Very well, sir," interrupted Stephen Foster. "I shall know what measures to take in the future. Forewarned is forearmed. And, by the way, to save you the trouble of hanging about Strand-on-the-Green, I may tell you that I have sent my daughter out of town on a visit."

With that parting shot he went down the short flight of steps, and passed into the street. Jack closed the door savagely, and began to walk up and down the studio, as restless as a caged beast.

"Here's a nice mess!" he reflected. "Angry parent, obdurate daughter, and all that sort of thing. But I rather fancy I scored—he gained nothing by his visit, and after he thinks the matter over he will probably take a more sensible view of it. His appeal to me shows clearly that he failed to make Madge yield."

On the whole, after further consideration, Jack concluded that there was no ground for despondency. His spirits rose as he recalled the girl's earnest and loving promises, her assurances of eternal fidelity.

"My darling will be true to me, come what may," he thought. "No amount of persuasion or threats can induce her to give me up, and in the end, when Stephen Foster is convinced of that, he will make the best of it and withdraw his objections. If Madge has been sent out of town, she went against her will. But, of course, she will manage to let me hear from her."

Jack sat down to his desk, intending to write a letter to a friend in Paris, a well-to-do artist who lived in the neighborhood of the Pare Monceaux. He held his pen undecidedly for a moment, and then leaned back in his chair with a puzzled countenance.

"By Jove, it's queer," he muttered; "but Stephen Foster's voice was awfully familiar. We never met before, and I never laid eyes on the man, so far as I can remember. I am mistaken. It is only a fancy. No—I have it! He suggests M. Felix Marchand—there is something in common in their speech, though it is very slight. What an odd coincidence!"

That it could possibly be more than a coincidence did not occur to Jack, and he would have laughed the idea to scorn. He dismissed the matter from his mind, wrote and posted the letter, and then went off to dine by appointment with Victor Nevill.

There was no word from Madge the next day, and it is to be feared that Jack's work suffered in consequence, and that Alphonse found him slightly irritable. But on the following morning a letter came in the well-known handwriting. It was very brief. The girl was not out of town, but was stopping near Regent's Park with an elderly maternal aunt who lived in Portland Terrace, and was addicted to the companionship of cockatoos and cats, not to speak of a brace of overfed, half-blind pugs.

"I am in exile," the letter concluded, "and the dragon is a watchful jailer. But she sleeps in the afternoon, and at three o'clock to-morrow I will be inside the Charles street gate."

"To-morrow" meant to-day, and until lunch time Jack's brush flew energetically over the canvas. He was at the trysting-place at the appointed hour, and Madge was there waiting for him, so ravishingly dressed that he could scarcely resist the temptation to gather her in his arms. As they strolled through the park he rather gloomily described his visit from Stephen Foster, but the girl's half-smiling, half-tearful look of affection reassured him.

"You foolish boy!" she said, chidingly. "As if there were any danger of your losing me. Why, I wouldn't give you up if you wanted me to! I think you got the best of father, dear. He understands now, and by and by he will relent. He is a good sort, really, and you will like him when you know him better."

"We made a bad beginning," Jack said, ruefully.

They had reached the lake by this time, and they went on to a bench in a shady and sequestered spot. Madge's high spirits seemed suddenly to desert her, and she looked pensively across the glimmering water to the tall mansions of Hanover Terrace.

"Madge, something troubles you," her lover said, anxiously.

"Yes, Jack. I—I received an anonymous letter at noon. Mrs. Sedgewick forwarded it to me. Oh, it is shameful to speak of it—"

"An anonymous letter? There is nothing more vile or cowardly! Did it concern me?"

"Yes."

"And spoke badly of me?"

"It didn't say anything good."

"I wish I had the scoundrel by the throat! You have no idea who sent it?"

"None, dear. It was in a strange, scrawly hand, and was postmarked Paddington."

"It is a mystery I am powerless to explain," Jack said dismally. "To the best of my knowledge I have not an enemy in the world. I can recall no one who would wish to do me an ill turn. And the writer lied foully if he gave me a bad character, Madge. Where is the letter?"

"I destroyed it at once. I hated to see it, to touch it."

"I am sorry you did that. It might have contained some clew. Tell me all, Madge. Surely, darling, you don't believe—"

"Jack, how can you think so?" She glanced up at him with a tender, trustful, and yet half-distressed look in her eyes. "Forgive me, dear. It is not that I doubt you, but—but I must ask you one question. You are a free man? There is no tie that could forbid you to marry me?"

"I am a free man," Jack answered her solemnly. "Put such evil thoughts out of your mind, my darling. By the passionate love I feel for you, by my own honor, I swear that I have an honest man's right to make you mine. But, as I told you before, I had a reckless past—"

"I don't want to hear about it," Madge interrupted.

No one was within sight or sound, so she put her arms about his neck and lifted her lips to his.

"Jack, you have made me so happy," she whispered. "I will forget that false, wicked letter. I love you, love you, dear. And I will be your wife whenever you wish—"

Her voice broke, and he kissed a tear from her burning cheek.

"My Madge!" he said, softly. "Do you care so much for me?"

Half an hour later they parted at the Hanover Gate. As he turned his steps homeward, the cowardly anonymous letter lay heavily on his mind. Who could have written it, and what did it contain? He more than suspected that it referred to his youthful marriage with Diane Merode.

When he reached the studio he found on his desk a letter bearing a French stamp. He opened it curiously.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE TEMPTER.

"Just as I suspected!" Jack exclaimed. "I knew I couldn't be mistaken. I have spotted the thief. The queer chap who bought my water-color sketches is the same who carried off the Rembrandt. How cleverly he worked his little game! But there my information stops, and I doubt if the police could make much out of it."

The letter, which he had crumpled excitedly in his hand after reading it, was written in French; freely translated it ran as follows:

"No. 15, BOULEVARD DE COURCELLES, PARIS.

"My Dear Jack—I was rejoiced to hear from you, after so long a silence, and it gave me sincere pleasure to look into the matter of which you spoke. But I fear that my answers must be in the negative. It is certain that no such individual as M. Felix Marchand lives in or near the Pare Monceaux, where I have numerous acquaintances; nor do I find the name in the directory of Paris. Moreover, he is unknown to the dealer, Cambon, on the Quai Voltaire, of whom I made inquiries. So the matter rests. I am pleased to learn of your prosperity. When shall I see you once more in Lutetia?

"With amiable sentiments I inscribe myself,

"Your old friend,

"CHARLES JACQUIN."

"I'll take the earliest opportunity of seeing Lamb and Drummond," Jack resolved. "The affair will interest them, and it may lead to something. But I shan't bother about it—I didn't value the picture very highly, and the thief almost deserves to keep it for his cleverness."

During the next three days, however, Jack was too busy to carry out his plan—at least in the mornings. Not for any consideration would he have sacrificed his afternoons, for then he met Madge in Regent's Park, and spent an hour or more with her, reckless of extortionate cab fares from Ravenscourt Park to the neighborhood of Portland Terrace. On the second night, dining in town, he met Victor Nevill, and had a long chat with him, the two going to a music-hall afterward. Jack was discreetly silent about his love affair, nor did he or Nevill refer to the little incident near Richmond Hill.

At the end of the week Jack's opportunity came. He had finished some work on which he had been employed for several days, and soon after breakfast, putting on a frock coat and a top hat he went off to town. He presented a card at Lamb and Drummond's, and the senior partner of the firm, who knew him well by reputation, invited him into his private office. On learning his visitor's errand, Mr. Lamb evinced a keen interest in the subject. He listened attentively to the story, and asked various questions.

"Here is the letter from my friend in Paris," Jack concluded. "You will understand its import. It shows conclusively that M. Marchand came to my studio under a false name, and leaves no room for doubt that it was he who stole my duplicate Rembrandt."

"I agree with you, Mr. Vernon. It is a puzzling affair, and I confess I don't know what to make of it. But it is exceedingly interesting, and I am very glad that you have confided in me. I think it will be best if we keep our knowledge strictly to ourselves for the present."

"By all means."

"I except the detectives who are working on the case."

"Yes, of course. They are the proper persons to utilize the information," assented Jack. "It should not be made public."

"I never knew that a copy of Von Whele's picture was in existence," said Mr. Lamb. "I need hardly ask if it is a faithful one."

"I am afraid it is," Jack replied, smiling. "I worked slowly and carefully, and though I was a bit of an amateur in those days, I was more than satisfied with the result. The pictures were of the same size; and I really don't think many persons could have distinguished the one from the other."

"Could you do that now, supposing that both were before you, framed alike, and that the duplicate was cunningly toned to look as old as the original?"

"I should not hesitate an instant," Jack replied, "because it happens that I took the precaution of making a slight mark in one corner of my canvas."

"Ah, that was a clever idea—very shrewd of you! It may be of the greatest importance in the future."

"You have not yet given me your opinion of the mysterious Frenchman," Jack went on. "Do you believe that he was concerned in both robberies?"

"Circumstances seem to point that way, Mr. Vernon, do they not? Your picture was certainly taken before mine?"

"It was, without doubt."

"Then, what object could the Frenchman have had in stealing the comparatively worthless duplicate, unless he counted on subsequently getting possession of the original?"

"It sounds plausible," said Jack. "That's just my way of looking at it. The advantage would be—"

"That the thieves would have two pictures, equally valuable to them, to dispose of secretly," put in Mr. Lamb. "We may safely assume, then, that our enterprising burglars are in possession of a brace of Rembrandts. What they will do with them it is difficult to say. They will likely make no move at present, but it is possible that they will try to dispose of them in the Continental market or in America, in which case I have hopes that they will blunder into the hands of the police. Proper precautions have been taken both at home and abroad."

"Is there any clew yet?"

Mr. Lamb shook his head sadly.

"Not a ray of light has been thrown on the mystery," he replied, "though the best Scotland Yard men are at work. You may depend upon it that the insurance people, who stand to lose ten thousand pounds, will leave no stone unturned. As for Raper, our watchman, he has been discharged. Mr. Drummond and I are convinced that his story was true, but it was impossible to overlook his gross carelessness. We never knew that he was in the habit of going nightly to the public house in Crown Court."

"It's a wonder you were not robbed before," said Jack. "You have my address—will you let me know if anything occurs?"

"Certainly, Mr. Vernon. Must you be off? Good morning!"

Jack sauntered along Pall Mall, and turned up Regent street. At Piccadilly Circus he saw two men standing before the cigar shop on the corner. One was young and boyish looking. The other, a few years older, was of medium height and stout beyond proportion; he wore a tweed suit of a rather big check pattern, and the coat was buttoned over a scarlet waistcoat; the straw hat, gaudily beribboned, shaded a fat, jolly, half-comical face, of the type that readily inspires confidence. He was talking to his companion animatedly when he saw Jack approaching. With a boisterous exclamation of delight he rushed up to him and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Clare, old boy!" he cried.

"Jimmie Drexell!" Jack gasped in amazement. "Dear old chap, how awfully glad I am to see you!"

With genuine and heartfelt emotion they shook hands and looked into each other's eyes—these two who had not met for long years, since the rollicksome days of student life in Paris when they had been as intimate as brothers.

"You're fit as a king, my boy—not much changed," spluttered Drexell, with a strong American accent to his kindly, mellow voice. "I was going to look you up to-day—only landed at Southampton yesterday—got beastly tired of New York—yearned for London and Paris—shan't go back for six months or a year, hanged if I do."

"I'm jolly glad to hear it, Jimmie."

"We'll see a lot of each other—eh, old man? So, you've stuck to the name of Vernon? I called you Clare, didn't I? Yes, I forgot. You told me you had taken the other name when you wrote a couple of years ago. I haven't heard from you since, except through the papers. You've made a hit, I understand. Doing well?"

"Rather! I've no cause to complain. And you, Jimmie? What's become of the art?"

"Chucked it, Jack—it was no go. I painted like a blooming Turk—hired a studio—filled it with jimcrackery—got the best-looking models—wore a velvet coat and grew long hair. But it was all useless. I earned twenty-five dollars in three years. I had a picture in a dealer's shop—his place burnt down—I made him fork over. Then a deceased relative left me $150,000—said I deserved it for working so hard in Paris. A good one, eh? I leased the studio to the Salvation Army, and here I am, a poor devil of an artist out of work."

Jack laughed heartily.

"Art never was much in your line," he said, "though I remember how you kept pegging away at it. And no one can be more pleased than myself to learn that you've dropped into a fortune. Stick to it, Jimmie."

"There will be another one some day, Jack—when this is gone. By the way, I met old Nevill last night—dined with him. And that reminds me—"

He turned to his companion, the fresh-faced boy, and introduced him to Jack as the Honorable Bertie Raven. The two shook hands cordially, and exchanged a few commonplace words.

"Come on; we've held up this corner long enough," exclaimed Drexell. "Let's go and lunch together somewhere. I'll leave it to you, Raven. Name your place."

"Prince's, then," was the prompt rejoinder.

As they walked along Piccadilly the Honorable Bertie was forced ahead by the narrowness of the pavement and the jostling crowds, and Drexell whispered at Jack's ear:

"A good sort, that young chap. I met him in New York a year ago. His next eldest brother, the Honorable George, is over there now. I believe he is going to marry a cousin of mine—a girl who will come into a pot of money when her governor dies."

Nine o'clock at night, and a room in Beak street, Regent street; a back apartment looking into a dingy court, furnished with a sort of tawdry, depressing luxury, and lighted by a pair of candles. A richly dressed woman who had once been extremely handsome, and still retained more than a trace of her charms, half reclined on a couch; a fluffy mass of coppery-red hair had escaped from under her hat, and shaded her large eyes; shame and confusion, mingled with angry defiance, deepened the artificial blush on her cheeks.

Victor Nevill stood in the middle of the floor, confronting her with a faint, mocking smile at his lips. He had not taken the trouble to remove his hat. He wore evening dress, with a light cloak over it, and he twirled a stick carelessly between his gloved fingers.

"So it is really you!" he said.

"If you came to sneer at me, go!" the woman answered spitefully. "You have your revenge. How did you find me?"

"It was not easy, but I persevered—"

"Why?"

"For a purpose. I will tell you presently. And do not think that I came to sneer. I am sorry for you—grieved to find you struggling in the vortex of London." He looked about the room, which, indeed, told a plain story. "You were intended for better things," he added. "Where is Count Nordhoff?"

"He left me—three years ago."

"I wouldn't mind betting that you cleaned him out, and then heartlessly turned him adrift."

"You are insolent!"

"And I dare say you have had plenty of others since. What has become of the Jew?"

The woman's eyes flashed like a tiger's.

"I wish I had him here now!" she cried. "He deserted me—broke a hundred promises. I have not seen him for a week."

"You are suffering heavily for the past."

"For the past!" the woman echoed dully. "Victor," she said with a sudden change of voice, "you loved me once—"

"Yes, once. But you crushed that love—killed it forever. No stage sentiment, please. Understand that, plainly."

The brief hope died out of the woman's eyes, and was replaced by a gleam of hatred. She looked at the man furiously.

"There is no need to fly into a passion," said Nevill. "We can at least be friends. I cherish no ill-feeling—I pity you sincerely. And yet you are still beautiful enough to turn some men's heads. How are you off for money?"

The woman opened a purse and dashed a handful of silver to the floor.

"That is my all!" she cried, hoarsely.

"Then you must find a way out of your difficulties. I am going to have a serious talk with you."

Nevill drew a chair up to the couch, and his first words roused the woman's interest. He spoke for ten minutes or more, now in whispers, now with a rising inflection; now persuasively, now with well-feigned indignation and scorn. The effect which his argument had on his companion was shown by the swift changes that passed over her face; she interrupted him frequently, asking questions and making comments. At the end the woman rustled her silken skirts disdainfully, and rose to her feet.

"Why do you suggest this, Victor?" she demanded. "Where do you come in?"

Nevill seemed slightly disconcerted.

"I am foolish enough to feel an interest in a person I once cared for," he replied. "I want to save you from ruin that is inevitable if you continue in your present course."

"It is kind of you, Victor Nevill," the woman answered sneeringly. "He has a personal motive," she thought. "What can it be?"

"The thing is so simple, so natural," said Nevill, "that I wonder you hesitate. Of course you will fall in with it."

"Suppose I refuse?"

"I can't credit you with such madness."

"But what if—" She leaned toward him and whispered a short sentence in his ear. His face turned the color of ashes, and he clutched her wrist so tightly that she winced with pain.

"It is a lie!" he cried, brutally. "By heavens, if I believed—"

The woman laughed—a laugh that was not pleasant to hear.

"Fool! do you think I would tell you if it was true?" she said. "I was only jesting."

"It is not a subject to jest about," Nevill answered stiffly. "I came here to do you a good turn, and—"

"You had better have kept away. You are a fiend—you are a Satan himself! Why do you tempt me? Do you think that I have no conscience, no shame left? I am bad enough, Victor Nevill, but by the memory of the past—of what I threw away—I can't stoop so low as to—"

"Your heroics are out of place," he interrupted. "Go to the devil your own way, if you like."

"You shall have an answer to-morrow—to-morrow! Give me time to think about it."

The woman sank down on the couch again; her over-wrought nerves gave way, and burying her face in the cushions she sobbed hysterically. Nevill looked at her for a moment. Then he put a couple of sovereigns on the table and quietly left the room.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE DINNER AT RICHMOND.

Three days later, at the unusually early hour of nine in the morning, Victor Nevill was enjoying his sponge bath. There appeared to be something of a pleasing nature on his mind, for as he dressed he smiled complacently at his own reflection in the glass. Having finished his toilet, he did not ring immediately for his breakfast. He sat down to his desk, and drew pen, ink and paper before him.

"My Dear Jack" he wrote, "will you dine with me at the Roebuck to-morrow night? Jimmie Drexell is coming, and I am going to drive him down. We will stop and pick you up on the way. An answer will oblige, if not too much trouble."

He put the invitation in an envelope and addressed it. Then he pulled the bell-cord, and a boy shortly entered the room with a tray containing breakfast and a little heap of letters. Nevill glanced over his correspondence carelessly—they were mostly cards for receptions and tradesmen's accounts—until he reached a letter bearing a foreign stamp. It was a long communication, and the reading of it caused him anything but satisfaction, to judge from the frown that gathered on his features.

"I wouldn't have credited Sir Lucius with such weakness," he muttered angrily. "What has possessed him?—and after all these years! He says his conscience troubles him! He fears he was too cruel and hard-hearted! Humph! it's pleasant for me, I must say. Fancy him putting me on the scent—asking me to turn private detective! I suppose I'll have to humor him, or pretend to. It will be the safest course. Can there be any truth in his theory, I wonder? No, I don't think so. And after such a lapse of time the task would be next to impossible. I will be a fool if I let the thing worry me."

Victor Nevill locked the offending letter in his desk, vowing that he would forget it. But that was easier said than done, and his gloomy countenance and preoccupied air showed how greatly he was disturbed. His breakfast was quite spoiled, and he barely tasted his coffee and rolls. With a savage oath he put on his hat, and went down into Jermyn street. He walked slowly in the direction of the Albany, where Jimmie Drexell had been fortunate enough to secure a couple of chambers.

The afternoon post brought Jack the invitation to dinner for the following night, and he answered it at once. He accepted with pleasure, but told Nevill not to stop for him on the way to Richmond. He would not be at home after lunch, he wrote, but would turn up at the Roebuck on time. Having thus disposed of the matter, he went to town, and he and Drexell dined together and spent the evening at the Palace, where the newest attraction was an American dancer with whom the susceptible Jimmie had more than a nodding acquaintance, a fact that possibly had something to do with his hasty visit to London.

Jack worked hard the next day—he had a lot of lucrative commissions on hand, and could not afford to waste much time. It was three o'clock when he left the studio, and half an hour later he was crossing Kew Bridge. He turned up the river, along the towing-path, and near the old palace he joined Madge. She had written to him a couple of days before, announcing her immediate return from Portland Terrace, and arranged for a meeting.

It was a perfect afternoon of early summer, with a cloudless sky and a refreshing breeze. It cast a spell over the lovers, and for a time they were silent as they trod the grassy path, with the rippling Thames, dotted with pleasure-craft, flowing on their right. Jack stole many a glance at the lovely, pensive face by his side. He was supremely happy, in a dreamy mood, and not a shadow of the gathering storm marred his content.

"It was always a beautiful world, Madge," he said, "but since you came into my life it has been a sort of a paradise. Work is a keener pleasure now—work for your sake. Existence is a dreary thing, if men only knew it, without a good, pure woman's love."

The girl's face was rapturous as she looked up at him; she clung caressingly to his arm.

"You regret nothing, dearest?" he asked.

"Nothing, Jack. How could I?"

"You have been very silent."

"You can't read a woman's heart, dear. If I was silent, it was because I was so happy—because the future, our future, seemed so bright. There is only the one little cloud—"

"Your father?" he interrupted. "Is he still relentless, Madge?"

"I think he is softening. He has been much kinder to me since I came home. He does not mention your name, and he has not forbidden me to see you or write to you. I should not have hesitated to tell him that I was going to meet you to-day. He knows that I won't give you up."

"And, knowing that, he will make the best of it," Jack said, gladly. "He will come round all right, I feel sure. And now I want to ask you something, Madge, dear. You won't make me wait long, will you?"

She averted her eyes and blushed. Jack drew her to a lonely bench near the moat, and they sat down.

"I will tell you why I ask," he went on. "I got a letter this morning from a man who wants to buy my Academy pictures. He offers a splendid price—more than I hoped for—and I will put it aside for our honeymoon. Life is short enough, and we ought to make the most of it. Madge, what do you say? Will you marry me early in September? That is a glorious month to be abroad, roaming on the Continent—"

"It is so soon, Jack."

"To me it seems an age. You will consent if your father does?"

"Yes, I will."

"And if he refuses?"

The girl nestled closer to him, and looked into his face with laughing eyes.

"Then, I am afraid I shall have to disobey him, dear. If you wish it I will be your wife in September."

"My own sweet Madge!" he cried.

All his passionate love was poured out in those four little words. He forgot the past, and saw only the rich promise of the future. There was a lump in his throat as he added softly:

"You shall never repent your choice, darling!"

For an hour they sat on the bench, talking as they had never talked before, and many a whispered confidence of the girl's, many a phrase and sentence, burnt into Jack's memory to haunt him afterward. Then they parted, there by the riverside, and Madge tripped homeward.

Happy were Jack's reflections as he picked up a cab that rattled him swiftly into Richmond and up the famous Hill to the Roebuck. Nevill and Jimmie Drexell, who had arrived a short time before, greeted him hilariously.

The table was laid for Nevill and his guests in the coffee-room of the Roebuck, as cheerful and snug a place as can be found anywhere, with its snowy linen and shining silver and cut-glass, its buffet temptingly spread, and on the walls a collection of paintings that any collector might envy.

The Roebuck's chef was one of the best, and the viands served were excellent; the rare old wines gurgled and sparkled from cobwebbed bottles that had lain long in bin. The dinner went merrily, the evening wore on, and the sun dipped beneath the far-off Surrey Hills.

"This is a little bit of all right, my boys," said Jimmie, quoting London slang, as he stirred his creme de menthe frappe with a straw. "I'm jolly glad I crossed the pond. Many's the time I longed for a glimpse of Richmond and the river while I sweltered in the heat on the Casino roof-garden. Here's to 'Dear Old London Town,' in the words of—who did write that song?"

Nevill drained his chartreuse.

"Come, let's go and have a turn on the Terrace," he said. "It's too early to drive back to town."

They lighted their cigars and filed down stairs, laughing gaily, and crossed the road. Jack was the merriest of the three. Little did he dream that he was going to meet his fate.

CHAPTER XV.

FROM THE DEAD.

There were not many people about town. The strollers had gone back to town, or down the hill to their dinners. The Terrace, and the gardens that dropped below it to the Thames, were bathed in the purplish opalescent shades of evening. From the windows of the Roebuck streamed a shaft of light, playing on the trunks of the great trees, and gleaming the breadth of the graveled walk. It shone full on Nevill and his companions, and it revealed a woman coming along the Terrace from the direction of the Star and Garter; she was smartly dressed, and stepped with a graceful, easy carriage.

"Look!" whispered Jimmie. "The Lass of Richmond Hill! There's something nice for you."

"Not for me," Jack laughed.

The woman, coming opposite to the three young men, shot a bold glance at them. She stopped with a little scream, and pressed one hand agitatedly to her heart.

"Jack!" she cried in an eager whisper. "My Jack!"

That once familiar voice woke the chords of his memory, bridged the gulf of years. His blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins. He stared at the handsome face, with its expression of mingled insolence and terror—met the scrutiny of the large, flashing eyes. Then doubt fled. His brain throbbed, and the world grew black.

"Diane! My God!" fell from his lips.

"Fancy her turning up!" Nevill whispered to Drexell.

"It's a bad business," Jimmie replied; he, as well as Nevill, had known Diane Merode while she was Jack's wife.

The woman came closer; she shrugged her shoulders mockingly.

"Jack—my husband," she said. "Have you no welcome for me?"

With a bitter oath he caught her arm. His face indicated intense emotion, which he vainly tried to control.

"Yes, it is you!" he said, hoarsely. "You have come back from the grave to wreck my life. I heard you were dead, and I believed it—"

"You read it in a Paris paper," interrupted Diane, speaking English with a French accent. "It was a lie—a mistake. It was not I who was dragged from the river and taken to the Morgue. It would have been better so, perhaps. Jack, why do you glare at me? Listen, I am not as wicked as you think. There were circumstances—I was not to blame. I can explain all—"

"Hush, or I will kill you!" he said, fiercely. He snatched at a chain that encircled her white throat, and as it broke in his grasp a sparkling jewel fell to the ground. The most stinging name that a man can call a woman hissed from his clenched teeth. She shrank back, terrified, into the shadow, and he followed her. "Are you dead to all shame, that you dare to make yourself known to me?" he cried. "The life you lead is blazoned on your painted cheeks! You are no wife of mine! Begone! Out of my sight! Merciful God, what have I done to deserve this?"

"For Heaven's sake, don't make a scene!" urged Jimmie. "Control yourself, old man." He looked anxiously about, but as yet the altercation had not been observed by the few persons in the vicinity. "Nevill, we must stop this," he added.

"I won't go away," Diane vowed, obstinately. "You are my husband, Jack, and you know it. Let your friends, who knew us in the old days, deny it if they can! I have a wife's claim on you."

"Take her away!" Jack begged.

Nevill drew the woman to one side, and though she made a show of resistance at first, she quickly grew calm and listened quietly to his whispered words. He whistled for a passing hansom, and it stopped at the edge of the street. He helped Diane into it, and rejoined his companions.

"It's all right—she is reasonable now," he said in a low voice. "Brace up, Jack; I'll see you through this. Jimmie, go over and pay the account, will you? Here is the money. And say that I will send for the trap to-morrow."

Nevill entered the cab, and it rattled swiftly down the hill. As the echo of the wheels died away, Jack dropped on a bench and hid his face in his hands.

"I'll be back in a moment, old chap," said Jimmie. "Wait here."

He had scarcely crossed the street when Jack rose. His agony seemed too intense to bear, and even yet he did not realize all that the blow meant. For the moment he was hardly responsible for his actions, and a glimpse of the river, shining far below, lured him on blindly and aimlessly. A little farther along the Terrace, just beyond the upper side of the gardens, was a footway leading down to the lower road and the Thames. He followed this, swaying like a drunken man, and he had reached the iron stile at the bottom when Jimmie, who had sighted him in the distance, overtook him and caught his arm. Jack shook him roughly off.

"What do you want?" he said, hoarsely.

"Don't take it so hard," pleaded Jimmie. "I'm awfully sorry for you, old man. I know it's a knock-down blow, but—"

"You don't know half. It's worse than you think. I am the most miserable wretch on earth! And an hour ago I was the happiest—"

"Come with me," said Jimmie. "That's a good fellow."

Jack did not resist. Linked arm in arm with his friend, he stumbled along the narrow pavement of the lower road. At The Pigeons they found a cab that had just set down a fare. They got into it, and Jimmie gave the driver his orders.

It seemed a short ride to Jack, and while it lasted not a word passed his lips. He sat in a stupor, with dull, burning eyes and a throbbing head. In all his thoughts he recalled the lovely, smiling face of Madge. And now she was lost to him forever—there was a barrier between them that severed their lives. In his heart he bitterly cursed the day when he had yielded to the wiles of Diane Merode, the popular dancer of the Folies Bergere.

The cab stopped, and he reeled up a dark flight of steps. He was sitting in a big chair in his studio, with the gas burning overhead, and Jimmie staring at him with an expression of heartfelt sympathy on his honest face.

"This was the best place to bring you," he said.

Jack rose, and paced to and fro. He looked haggard and dazed; his hair and clothing were disheveled.

"Tell me, Jimmie," he cried, "is it all a dream, or is it true?"

"I wish it wasn't true, old man. But you're taking it too hard—you're as white as a ghost. It can be kept out of the papers, you know. And you won't have to live with her—you can pension her off and send her abroad. I dare say she's after money. Women are the very devil, Jack, ain't they? I could tell you about a little scrape of my own, with Totsy Footlights, of the Casino—"

"You don't understand," said Jack, in a dull, hard voice. "I believed that Diane was dead."

"Of course you did—you showed me the paragraph in the Petit Journal."

"I considered myself a free man—free to marry again."

"Whew! Go on!"

Jack was strangely calm as he took out his keys and unlocked a cabinet over his desk. He silently handed his friend a photograph.

"By Jove, what a lovely face!" muttered Jimmie.

"That is the best and dearest girl in the world," said Jack. "I thought I was done with women until I met her, a short time ago. We love each other, and we were to be married in September. And now—My God, this will break her heart! It has broken mine already, Jimmie! Curse the day I first put foot in Paris!"

"My poor old chap, this is—"

That was all Jimmie could say. He vaguely realized that he was in the presence of a grief beyond the power of words to comfort. There was a suspicious moisture in his eyes as he turned abruptly to the table and mixed himself a mild stimulant. He drank it slowly to give himself time to think.

Jack thrust the photograph into the breast pocket of his coat. He rubbed one hand through his hair, and kicked an easel over. He burst into a harsh, unnatural laugh.

"This is a rotten world!" he cried. "A rotten world! It's a stage full of actors, and they play d—— little but tragedy! I've found my long-lost wife again, Jimmie! Rejoice with me!"

He poured three fingers of neat brandy into a glass and drank it at a gulp. Then the mocking laughter died on his lips, and he threw himself into a chair. He buried his face in his hands, and his body shook with the violence of the sobs he was powerless to stifle.

"It will do him good," thought Jimmie.

The clock ticked on, and at intervals there was the rumble of trains passing to and from Ravenscourt Park station, and the clang of distant tram-bells. The voice of mighty London mocked at Jack's misery, and he conquered his emotions. He lifted a defiant face, much flushed.

"I've made a beastly fool of myself, Jimmie."

"Not a bit of it, old chap. Brace up; some one is coming." He had heard a cab stop in the street.

There were rapid steps on the stairs, and Nevill entered the studio. His face was eloquent with sympathy, and he silently held out a hand. Jack gripped it tightly.

"Thanks, Vic," he said, gratefully. "Where did—did you take her?"

"To her lodgings, off Regent street. And then I came straight on here. I thought she was dead, Jack. I don't wonder you're upset."

"Upset? It's worse than that. If I were the only one to suffer—"

"Then there's another woman?"

"Yes!"

"That's bad! I didn't dream of such a thing. I can't tell you how sorry I feel."

Nevill sat down and lighted a cigar; he thoughtfully watched the smoke curl up.

"I suppose I could get a divorce?" Jack asked, savagely.

"No doubt of it, but—"

"But you wouldn't advise me to do it. No, you're right. I couldn't stand the publicity and disgrace."

"I would like to choke her," muttered Jimmie.

"I had a talk with her on the way to town," said Nevill. "She has been in London for a month, and knew your address all the time, but did not wish to see you. Now she is hard up, and that is why she made herself known to you to-night."

"What became of the scoundrel she ran away with? Did he desert her?"

"Yes," Nevill answered, after a brief hesitation.

"Do you know who he was?"

"She intimated that he was a French Count. I believe she has had several others since, and the last one left her stranded."

"She wants money, then?"

"Rather. That's her game. She knows she has no legal claim on you, and for a fixed sum I think she will agree to return to Paris and not molest you in future."

"I don't care what becomes of her," Jack replied, bitterly, "but I am determined not to see her again. Let her understand that, and tell her that I will give her three hundred pounds on condition that she goes abroad and never shows her face in England again. And another thing, there must be no further appeals to me."

"Bind her tight, in writing," suggested Jimmie.

"It's asking a lot of you, Nevill," said Jack, "but if you don't mind—"

"My dear fellow, it is a mere trifle. I will gladly help you in the matter to my utmost power, and I only wish I could do more."

"That's the way to talk," put in Jimmie. "Can I be of any assistance, Nevill? I've a persuasive sort of way with women—"

"Thanks, but I can manage much better alone, I think." Nevill took a memorandum book from his pocket, and turned over the pages. "Trust all to me, Jack," he added. "I am free to-morrow after four o'clock. I will see Diane—your wife—fix the terms with her, and come down in the evening to report to you."

"What time?"

"That is uncertain. But you will be here?"

"Yes; I shall expect you," said Jack. "I can't thank you enough. It's a blessing for a chap to have a couple of friends like you and Jimmie."

"You would do as much for me," replied Nevill. "I'm going to see you through your trouble."

Jack walked abruptly to the open window, and looked out into the starry night.

"What does it matter," he thought, "whether I am rid of Diane or not? I have lost my darling. Madge is dead to me. I can't grasp it yet. How can I tell her?—how can I live without her?"

"Are you going up to town, Jimmie?" Nevill asked. "My cab is waiting, and you can share it."

"No; I shall stop with poor old Jack," Jimmie replied. "I don't like to leave him alone."

"That's good of you. It's a terrible blow, isn't it?"

Nevill went away, and Jimmie remained to comfort his friend. But there was no consolation for Jack, whose bitter mood had turned to dull despair and grief that would be more poignant in the morning, when he would be better able to comprehend the fell blow that had shattered his happiness and crushed his ambitions and dreams. He refused pipe and cigars. Until three o'clock he sat staring vacantly at the floor, seemingly oblivious of Jimmie's presence, and occasionally helping himself to brandy. At last he fell asleep in the chair, and Jimmie, who had with difficulty kept his eyes open, dozed away on the couch.

Meanwhile, Victor Nevill had driven straight to his rooms in Jermyn street and had gone to bed. He rose about ten o'clock, and after a light breakfast he sat down and wrote a short letter, cleverly disguising his own hand, and imitating the scrawly penmanship and bad spelling of an illiterate woman.

"The last card in the game," he reflected, as he addressed and stamped the envelope. "It may be superfluous, in case he sees or writes to her to-day. But he won't do that—he will put off the ordeal as long as possible. My beautiful Madge, for your sake I am steeping myself in infamy! It is not the first time a man has sold himself to the devil for a woman. Yet why should I feel any scruples? It would have been far worse to let them go on living in their fool's paradise."

An hour later, as he walked down Regent street, he posted the letter he had written in the morning.

"It will be delivered at just about the right time," he thought.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE LAST CARD.

It was nine o'clock in the evening, and darkness had fallen rather earlier than usual, owing to a black, cloudy sky that threatened rain. Jimmie Drexell had gone during the afternoon, and Jack was alone in the big studio—alone with his misery and his anguish. He had scarcely tasted food since morning, much to the distress of Alphonse. He looked a mere wreck of his former self—haggard and unshaven, with hard lines around his weary eyes. He had not changed his clothes, and they were wrinkled and untidy. Across the polished floor was a perceptible track, worn by hours of restless striding to and fro. Now, after waiting impatiently for Victor Nevill, and wondering why he did not come, Jack had tried to nerve himself to the task that he dreaded, that preyed incessantly on his mind. He knew that the sooner it was over the better. He must write to Madge and tell her the truth—deal her the terrible blow that might break her innocent, loving heart.

"It's no use—I can't do it," he said hoarsely, when he had been sitting at his desk for five minutes. "The words won't come. My brain is dry. Would it be better to try to see her, and tell her all face to face? No—anything but that!"

Thrusting pen and paper from him, he rose and went to the liquor-stand. The cut-glass bottle containing brandy dropped from his shaking hand and was shattered to fragments. The crash drowned the opening of the studio door, and as he surveyed the wreck he heard footsteps, and turned sharply around, expecting to see Nevill. Diane stood before him, in a costume that would have better suited a court presentation; the shaded gas-lamps softened the rouge and pearl-powder on her cheeks, and lent her a beauty that could never have survived the test of daylight. Her expression was one of half defiance, half mute entreaty.

The audacity of the woman staggered Jack, and for an instant he was speechless with indignation. His dull, bloodshot eyes woke to a fiery wrath.

"You!" he cried. "How dare you come here? Go at once!"

"Not until I am ready," she replied, looking at him unflinchingly. "One would think that my presence was pollution."

"It is—you know that. Did Nevill permit you to come? Have you seen him?"

"No; I kept out of his way. He is searching for me in town now, I suppose. It was you I wanted to see."

"You are dead to all shame, or you would never have come to London. I don't know what you want, and I don't care. I won't listen to you, and unless you leave, by heavens, I will call the police and have you dragged out!"

"I hardly think you will do that," said Diane. "I am going presently, if you will be a little patient. I am your wife, Jack—"

He laughed bitterly.

"You were once—you are not now. If I thought it would be any punishment to you, that disgrace could soil you, I would take advantage of the law and procure a divorce."

"I am your wife," she repeated, "but I do not intend to claim my rights. We were both to blame in the past—"

"That is false!" he cried. "You only were to blame—I have nothing to reproach myself with, except that I was a mad fool when I married you for your pretty face. You tried to pull me down to your own level—the level of the Parisian kennels. You squandered my money, tempted me to reckless extravagances, and when the shower of gold drew near its end, you ran off with some scoundrel who no doubt proved as simple a victim as myself. I trusted you, and my honor was betrayed. But you did me a greater wrong when you allowed me to believe that you were dead. By heavens, when I think of it all—"

"You forget that we drifted apart toward the last," Diane interrupted. "Was that entirely my fault? I believed that you no longer cared for me, and it made me reckless." There was a sudden ring of sincerity in her voice, and the insolent look in her eyes was replaced by a softer expression. "I did wrong," she added. "I am all that you say I am. I have sinned and suffered. But is there no pity or mercy in your heart? Remember the past—that first year when we loved each other and were happy. Wait; I have nearly finished. I am going out of your life forever—it is the only atonement I can make. But will you let me go without a sign of forgiveness?—without a soft word?"

For a moment there was silence. Diane waited with rigid face. She had forgotten the purpose that brought her to the studio—a womanly impulse, started to life by the memories of the past, had softened her heart. But Jack, blinded by passion and his great wrongs, little dreamed of the chance that he was throwing away.

"You talk of forgiveness!" he cried. "Why, I only wonder that I can keep my hands off your throat. I hate the sight of you—I curse the day I first saw your face! Do you know what you have done, by letting me believe that you were dead? You have probably broken the heart of one who is as good and pure as you are vile and treacherous—the woman whom I love and would have married."

Diane's features hardened, and a sudden rage flashed in her half-veiled eyes; her repentant impulse died as quickly.

"So that is your answer!" she exclaimed, harshly. "And there is another woman! You shall never marry her—never!"

"You fiend!"

The threat goaded Jack to fury, and he might have lost his self-control. But just then quick footsteps fell timely on his ear.

"Get behind that screen, or go into the next room," he muttered. "No; it won't matter—it must be Nevill."

Diane held her ground.

"I don't care who it is," she said, shrilly. "I will tell the world that I am your wife."

The next instant the door was thrown open, and a woman entered the studio and came hesitatingly forward under the glare of the gas-jets. With a rapid movement she partly tore off her long, hooded cloak, which was dripping with rain. Jack quivered as though he had been struck a blow.

"Madge!" he gasped, recognizing the lovely, agitated face.

The girl caught her breath, and looked from one to the other—from the painted and powdered woman to the man who had won her love. Her bosom heaved, and her flushed cheeks turned to the whiteness of marble.

"Jack, tell me—is it true?" she pleaded, struggling with each word. "I should not have come, but—but I received this an hour ago." She flung a crumpled letter at his feet, and he picked it up mechanically. "It said that I would find you here with your—your—" She could not utter the word. "I had to come," she added. "I could not rest. And now—who is that woman? Speak!"

No answer. Jack's lips and throat were dry, and a red mist was before his eyes.

"Is she your wife?"

"God help me, yes!" Jack cried, hoarsely. "I can explain. Believe me, Madge, I was not false—I told you only the truth. If you will listen to me for a moment—"

She shrank from him with horror, and the color surged back to her cheeks.

"Don't touch me!" she cried. "Let me go—this is no place for me! I pray heaven to forgive you, Jack!"

The look that she gave him, so full of unspeakable agony and reproach, cut him like a knife. She pressed one hand to her heart, and with the other tried to draw her cloak around her. She swayed weakly, but recovered herself in time. Jack, watching her as a man might watch the gates of paradise close upon him, had failed to hear a cab stop in the street. He suddenly saw Stephen Foster in the room.

"Is my daughter here?" he excitedly demanded.

Madge turned at the sound of her father's voice, and sank, half-fainting, into his arms. Tears came to her relief, and she shook with the violence of her sobs.

Stephen Foster looked from Diane to Jack. Madge had shown him the anonymous letter, and he needed not to ask if the charge was true.

"You blackguard!" he cried, furiously. "You dastardly scoundrel!"

"I do not deserve those words!" Jack said, hoarsely, "but I cannot resent them. From any other man, under other circumstances—"

"Coward and liar!"

With that Stephen Foster turned to the door, with Madge leaning heavily on him. They passed down the stairs, and the rattle of wheels told that they had gone. Jack was left alone with Diane.

"Are you satisfied with your devil's work?" he demanded, glaring at her with burning, bloodshot eyes.

"It was not my fault."

"Not your fault? By heavens—"

He looked at the crumpled letter he held, and saw that it was apparently written by a woman. A suspicion that as quickly became a certainty flashed into his mind.

"You sent this, and the other one as well," he exclaimed. "Don't deny it! You planned the meeting here—"

"It is false, Jack! I swear to you that I know nothing of it—"

"Perjurer!" he snarled.

His face was like a madman's as he caught her arm in a cruel grip. She cowered before him, dropping to her knees. She was pale with fear.

"Go, or I will kill you!" he cried, disregarding her protestations of innocence. "I can't trust myself! Out of my sight—let me never see you or hear of you again. I will give you money to leave London—to return to Paris. Nevill will arrange it. Do you understand?"

He lifted her to her feet and pushed her from him. She staggered against an easel on which was a completed picture in oils, and it fell with a crash. Jack trampled over it ruthlessly, driving his feet through the canvas.

"Go!" he cried.

And Diane, trembling with terror, went swiftly out into the black and rainy night.

An hour later, when Victor Nevill came to say that his search had been fruitless, he found Jack stretched full length on the couch, with his face buried in a soft cushion.

CHAPTER XVII.

TWO PASSENGERS FROM CALAIS.

It was the 9th of November, Lord Mayor's Day, and in London the usual clammy compound of fog and mist—was there ever a Lord Mayor's Day without it?—hung like a shroud in the city streets, though it was powerless to chill the ardor of the vast crowds who waited for the procession to come by in all its pomp and pageantry.

At Dover the weather was as bad, but in a different way. Leaden clouds went scudding from horizon to horizon, accentuating the chalky whiteness of the cliffs, and reflecting their sombre hue on the gray waters. A cold, raw wind swept through the old town, lashing the sea to milk-crested waves. It was an ugly day for cross-Channel passages, but the expectant onlookers sighted the black smoke of the Calais-Douvres fully twenty minutes before she was due. The steamer's outline grew more distinct. On she came, pitching and rolling, until knots of people could be seen on the fore-deck.

The majority of the passengers, excepting a few Frenchmen and other foreigners, were heartily glad to be at home again, after sojourns of various lengths on the Continent. Two, in particular, could scarcely restrain their impatience as they looked eagerly landward, though the social gulf that separated them was as wide as the Channel itself. On the upper deck, exposed to the buffeting of the wind, stood a short, portly gentleman in a dark-blue suit and cape-coat; he had a soldierly carriage, a ruddy complexion, and an iron-gray mustache. Sir Lucius Chesney was in robust health again, and his liver had ceased to trouble him. Norway had pulled him together, and a few months of aimless roaming on the Continent had done the rest. He was anxious to get back to Priory Court, among his pictures and hot-houses, his horses and cattle, and he intended to go there after a brief stop in London.

Down below, among the second-class passengers, Mr. Noah Hawker paced to and fro, gazing meditatively toward the Shakespeare Cliff. Mr. Hawker, to give him the name by which he was known in Scotland Yard circles, was a man of fifty, five feet nine in height, and rather stockily built. He was lantern-jawed and dark-haired, with a coarse, black mustache curled up at the ends like a pair of buffalo horns, and so strong a beard that his cheeks were the color of blue ink, though he had shaved only three hours before. His long frieze overcoat, swinging open, disclosed beneath a German-made suit of a bad cut and very loud pattern. His soft hat, crushed in, was perched to one side; a big horseshoe pin and a scarlet cravat reposed on a limited space of pink shirt-front.

There was about one chance in ten of guessing his calling. He looked equally like a successful sporting man, an ex-prize fighter, a barman, a racing tout, a book-maker, or a public house thrower-out. But the most unprejudiced observer would never have taken him for a gentleman.

It was a thrilling moment when the Calais-Douvres, slipping between the waves, ran close in to the granite pier. She accomplished the feat safely, and was quickly made fast. The gangway was thrown across, and there was a mad rush of passengers hurrying to get ashore. A babel of shouting voices broke loose: "London train ready!" "Here you are, sir!" "Luggage, sir?" "Extry! extry!"

Sir Lucius Chesney, who was rarely disturbed by anything, showed on this occasion a fussy solicitude about his trunks and boxes; nor was he appeased until he had seen them all on a truck, waiting for the inspection of the customs officers. Mr. Hawker, slouching along the pier with his ulster collar turned up and his hat well down over his eyes, observed the military-looking gentleman and then the prominent white-lettered name on the luggage. He passed on after an instant's hesitation.

"Sir Lucius Chesney!" he muttered. "It's queer, but I'll swear I've heard that name before. Now, where could it have been? The bloke's face ain't familiar—I never ran across him. But the name? Ah, hang me if I don't think I've got it!"

Mr. Hawker did not get into the London train, though his goal was the metropolis. He left the pier, and as he walked with apparent carelessness through the town—he had no luggage—he took an occasional crafty survey over his shoulder, as a man might do who feared that he was being shadowed. When the train rattled out of Dover he was in the public bar of a tavern not far from the Lord Warden Hotel, fortifying himself with a brandy-and-soda after the rough passage across the Channel. Meanwhile, Sir Lucius Chesney, seated in a first-class carriage, was regarding with an ecstatic expression the one piece of luggage that he had refused to trust to the van. This was a flat leather case, and it contained something of much greater importance than the dress-suit for which it was intended.

Dover was honored by Mr. Hawker's presence until three o'clock in the afternoon, and he took advantage of the intervening couple of hours to eat a hearty meal and to count his scanty store of money, after which he dozed on a bench in the restaurant until roused by a waiter. There are two railway stations in the town, and he chose the inner one. He found an empty third-class compartment, and his relief was manifest when the train pulled out. He produced a short briar-root pipe, and stuffed it with the last shreds of French Caporal tobacco that remained in his pouch.

"Give me the shag of old England," he said to himself, as he puffed away with a poor relish and watched the flying sides of the deep railway cutting. "This is no class—it's cabbage leaf soaked in juice. I wonder if I ain't a fool to come back! But it can't be helped—there was nothing to be picked up abroad, after that double stroke of hard luck. And there's no place like London! I'll be all right if I dodge the ferrets at Victoria. For the last ten years they've only known me clean-shaven or with a heavy beard, and this mustache and the rig will puzzle them a bit. Yes, I ought to pass for a foreign gent come across to back horses."

The truth about Mr. Noah Hawkins, though it may shock the reader, must be told in plain words. He was a professional burglar; none of your petty, clumsy craftsmen that get lagged for smashing a shopkeeper's till, but a follower to some extent in the footsteps of the masterful Charles Peace. During the previous February he had come out of Dartmoor—it was his third term of penal servitude—with a period of police supervision to undergo. For the space of four months he regularly reported himself, and then, in company with a pal of even higher professional standing than himself, he suddenly disappeared from London.

A well-planned piece of work, cleverly performed, made it advantageous to the couple to go abroad. It was a question of money, not dread of discovery and arrest; they had covered their tracks well, and they believed that no suspicion could fall upon them. They were not prepared for the ill-luck that awaited them on the Continent. Their fruit of hope turned to ashes of despair, or very nearly so. They realized but a fraction of the sum they had expected, and Hawker lost his share of even that through the treachery of his pal, who departed by night from the German town where they were stopping. So Hawker started for home, and he had landed at Dover with, two sovereigns and a few silver coins. He still believed that the police were ignorant of the business that had taken him abroad; the worst that he feared was getting into trouble for failing to report himself.

"There isn't much danger if I'm sharp," he thought, as the Kentish landscape, the Garden of England, sped by him in the gathering dusk; "and I won't touch a crib of any sort till I've tried those other two lays. It's more than doubtful about the papers—I forget what was in them. And they may be gone by this time. But, leaving that out, I've got a pretty sure thing up my sleeve. What happened in Germany put me on the track—but for that I wouldn't have suspected. I'll make somebody fork over to a stiff tune, and serve him d—— right. It's the first time I was caught napping."

The endless chimney-pots and glowing lights of the great city gladdened Hawker's heart, and a whiff from the murky Thames bade him welcome home. He gave up his ticket at Grosvenor road, and when the train pulled into Victoria he walked boldly through the immense station. He loved London with a thoroughbred cockney's passion, and he exulted in the sights and sounds around him.

Hawker spent his last coppers for a packet of tobacco, and broke one of his sovereigns to get a drink. He speedily lost himself in the crowds of Victoria street, satisfied that he had not been recognized or followed. He went on foot to Charing Cross, and climbed to the top of a brown and yellow bus. Three-quarters of an hour later he got off in Kentish Town and made his way to a squalid and narrow thoroughfare in the vicinity of Peckwater street. He stopped before a house in the middle of a dirty and monotonous row, and looked at it reminiscently. He had lodged there five years back, previous to his third conviction, and here he had been arrested. He had not returned since, for on his release from Dartmoor he went to live near his pal, who was then planning the lay that had ended so disastrously.

He pulled the bell and waited anxiously. A stout, slatternly woman appeared, and uttered a sharp exclamation at sight of her visitor. She would have closed the door in his face, but Hawker quickly thrust a leg inside.

"None o' that," he growled. "Don't you know me, missus?"

"It ain't likely I'd furgit you, Noah Hawker! What d'ye want?"

"A lodging, Mrs. Miggs," he replied. "Is my old room to let?" he added eagerly.

"It's been empty a week, but what's that to you? I won't 'ave no jail-bird in my 'ouse. I'm a respectable woman, an' I won't be disgraced again by the likes of you."

"Come, stow that! Can't you see I'm a foreign gent from abroad? The police ain't after me—take my word for it. I've come back here because you always made me snug and comfortable. I'll have the room, and if you want to see the color of my money—"

He produced a half-sovereign, and a relenting effect was immediately visible. A brief parley ensued, which ended in Mrs. Miggs pocketing the money and inviting Mr. Hawker to enter. A moment after the door had closed a rather shabby man strolled by the house and made a mental note of the number.

Presently a light gleamed from the window of the first floor back, which overlooked, at a distance of six feet, a high, blank wall. Noah Hawker put the candle on a shelf, locked the door noiselessly, and glanced about the well-remembered room, with its dirty paper, frayed carpet and scanty furniture. A little later, after listening to make sure that he was not being spied upon, he blew out the candle and opened the window. He fumbled for a minute, then closed the window and drew down the blind. When he relighted the candle he held in one hand a packet wrapped in a piece of mildewed leather.

Seating himself in a rickety chair he lighted his pipe and opened the packet, which contained several papers in a good state of preservation. He read them carefully and thoughtfully, and the task occupied him for half an hour or more.

"Whew! It's a heap better than I counted on—I didn't have the time to examine them right before," he muttered. "There may be a tidy little fortune in it. I'll make something out of this, or my name ain't Noah Hawker. The old chap is out of the running, to start with, so I must hunt up the others. And that won't be easy, perhaps."

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOME AGAIN.

By an odd coincidence, on the same day that Sir Lucius Chesney and Noah Hawker crossed over from Calais, a P. and O. steamship, Calcutta for London, landed Jack Vernon at the Royal Albert Docks. He had expected to be met there by Mr. Hunston, the editor of the Illustrated Universe, or by one of the staff; yet he seemed rather relieved than otherwise when he failed to pick out a single familiar face in the crowd. He was fortunate in having his luggage attended to quickly, and, that formality done with, he walked to the dock station.

The four or five intervening months, commencing with that tragic night in the Ravenscourt Park studio, had wrought a great change in Jack; though it was more internal, perhaps, than external. His old friends would promptly have recognized the returned war-artist, laden with honors that he did not care a jot for. He looked fit, and his step was firm and elastic. His cheeks were deeply bronzed and well filled out. A severe bullet wound and a sharp attack of fever had led to his being peremptorily ordered home as soon as he was convalescent, and the sea voyage had worked wonders and built up his weakened constitution. But he was altered, none the less. There were hard lines about his mouth and forehead, and in his eyes was a listless, weary, cynical look—the look of a man who finds life a care and a burden almost beyond endurance.

The train was waiting, and Jack settled himself in a second-class compartment. He tossed his traveling-bag on the opposite seat, lighted a cigar, and let his thoughts wander at will. At the beginning of his great grief, when nothing could console him for the loss of Madge, the Illustrated Universe, a weekly journal, had asked him to go out to India and represent them pictorially in the Afridi campaign on the Northwest frontier. He accepted readily, with a desperate hope in his heart that he did not confide to his friends. He wasted no time in leaving London, which had become intensely hateful to him. He joined the British forces, and performed his duty faithfully, sending home sketches that immensely increased the circulation of the Universe. And he did more. At every opportunity he was in the thick of the fighting. Time and again, when he found himself with some little detachment that was cut off from the main column and harassed by the enemy, he distinguished himself for valor. He risked his life recklessly, with an unconcern that surprised his soldier comrades. But the Afridis could not kill him. He recovered from a bullet wound in the shoulder and from fever, and now he was back in England again.

It was a dreary home-coming, without pleasure or anticipation. The sense of his loss—the hopeless yearning for Madge—was but little dulled. He felt that he could never take up the threads of his old life again; he wished to avoid all who knew him. He had no plans for the future. His studio was let, and the new tenant had engaged Alphonse—Nevill had arranged this for him. He had received several letters from Jimmie, and had answered them; but neither referred to Madge in the correspondence. She was dead to him forever, he reflected with savage resentment of his cruel fate. As for Diane, she had taken his three hundred pounds—it was arranged through Nevill—and returned to the Continent. She had vowed solemnly that he should never see or hear of her again.

The train rolled into Fenchurch street. Jack took his bag and got out, a little dazed by the unaccustomed hubbub and din, by the jostling throng on the platform. Here, again, there was no one to meet him. He passed out of the station—it was just four o'clock—into the clammy November mist. He shivered, and pulled up his coat collar. He was standing on the pavement, undecided where to go, when a cab drew alongside the curb. A corpulent young gentleman jumped out, and immediately uttered an eager shout.

"Jack!" he cried. "So glad to see you! Welcome home!"

"Dear old Jimmie! This is like you!" Jack exclaimed. As he spoke he gripped his friend's hand, and for a brief instant his face lighted up with something of its old winning expression, then lost all animation. "How did you know I was coming?" he added.

"Heard it at the office of the Universe. Did you miss Hunston?"

"I didn't see him."

"Then he got there too late—he said he was going to drive to the docks. I'm not surprised. It's Lord Mayor's Day, you know, and the streets are still badly blocked. I had a jolly close shave of it myself. How does it feel to be back in dear old London?"