He entered the Castle while he was speaking, and the servants hastened to learn his commands; for, next to the sun, there is nothing better than the moon—next to the Hon. Adrien came his friend and agent, Mr. Jasper Vermont. But Jasper waved them amiably aside, as he entered the dining-room.

"You would like some luncheon, sir?" inquired the butler, coming forward respectfully.

Jasper nodded.

"Just a snack, Judson. Don't put yourselves out for me, I'm off again directly."

While the estimable Judson went off to get this snack—which resolved itself into an exquisitely-laid lunch—Mr. Vermont dropped into a chair, and surveyed the scene through the open window. Strange to say, his thoughts seemed to run similarly to those of Lady Constance, earlier in the day; for he exclaimed under his breath:

"It's a large stake, worth playing for. Awkward my missing him." He smoothed out a pile of deeds and documents and replaced them in his leather bag. "He would have signed these without a word here; at his chambers, he'll amuse himself by reading them, confound it!"

A rustle of silken skirts attracted his attention; the scowl vanished, and he readjusted his smiling mask as the door opened and Lady Constance entered the room.

She had been informed of his sudden arrival; and, though heartily disliking him, she was yet bound to play the part of hostess while her aunt was resting.

Mr. Vermont bowed low over her extended hand, as over that of an empress.

"I hope your ladyship is well?" he asked.

"Quite, thank you, Mr. Vermont," she said with cold indifference. "I suppose you have come down to see Adrien? He started for London before breakfast this very morning."

"So I have just heard," he returned sweetly.

"I am not greatly surprised, as Lady Merivale was asking after him last night. I expect she summoned him."

The girl's face paled ever so slightly, though she strove to give no sign that his shaft had hit home. Adrien had received a letter that morning, as she knew, one having been brought up to her by mistake.

"Very likely," she said imperturbably. "I daresay he had to attend to some business too."

"Adrien is very changeable," Vermont said reflectively, "one can never count on his movements; following him is like wild duck shooting, down the river on Monday, and up the Fens on Tuesday. I'm sorry I missed him, though, for I have several papers which he must see."

Lady Constance tried to appear sympathetic.

"It is a pity you weren't earlier," she said with a smile. "Still, I daresay you know where to find him."

"Oh, yes," returned Mr. Vermont, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, as he aimed his second shaft. "He will be either with Miss Lester or her ladyship; he fluctuates between these two points of happiness as a rule."

Lady Constance did not appear perturbed in any way by this news.

"Lady Merivale is a charming woman," she said briefly. "But who is Miss Lester?"

"She is also a charming woman," was the smooth reply; "but with the difference that she is unattached—save to the theatre."

"Oh! an actress!" exclaimed his companion with patrician contempt. "That reminds me," she continued. "What is your last success at the Casket?"

"My success," echoed Mr. Vermont, with an air of pained astonishment.

"Yes, are you not the manager of that building?" she asked simply.

He bowed and smiled.

"No, Lady Constance," he said. "I fear the world gives me too much credit. I have nothing to do with this whim of Adrien's save to pay out the salaries for the company. The management is his—or rather, perhaps, I should say, Miss Lester's; and I am not answerable for its failure or its successes. I believe, too, he is about to give the whole place to Miss Lester."

Lady Constance started almost unconsciously, and Jasper knew that his words had hit home at last.

"I am sure you do your best to help him," she said, after a moment's pause.

"You are most kind," he returned with a bow and an ironic smile. "I trust you will let me prove my friendship both to Adrien and yourself."



CHAPTER XV

It was the night on which Adrien had returned to town. Jessica, ignorant that he had ever left it, had found her way to his chambers, and waited there patiently and hungrily in the hope of once more seeing him. As the clock struck eight she decided that it was useless to remain any longer, and accordingly retraced her steps through the crowded thoroughfares.

Anything would be better than waiting like this, she thought despairingly.

After the silence of the deserted street, the crowds, pushing and jostling her, brought her almost a feeling of satisfaction. Even if she were alone, at least she could not be solitary while the world rushed past her, in its eager search for pleasure.

At one point near Charing Cross a few curious loafers had collected on either side of the brilliantly-lit facade of a theatre, over which, in coloured lights, was the name, "The Casket."

As Jessica stood watching listlessly, indeed almost unconsciously, a handsome motor rolled up before the imposing entrance. The little group surged back before the white-gloved commissionaire, who hurried forward, but the door of the car had already been thrown open by the chauffeur, and a gentleman and lady stepped out.

At the sight of one of them, Jessica's indifference became changed to a feverish eagerness. The colour left her face, her eyes dilated, her lips parted. She swayed back, half fearful, half desirous that he should see her; for it was he, the man for whom she had waited so long, the man she had enshrined within her heart.

Adrien, all his doubts as to the possibility of winning Constance's love returning to him in full force once he had left her presence, had come down to the theatre with two objects. One to distract his thoughts from his hopes and fears, the other to arrange with Jasper for the entire transfer of the theatre to Ada. He meant this to be the last night as far as the Casket and Ada Lester were concerned.

Absorbed in his own reflections, he hardly saw the group of humble spectators, and did not appear to hear their murmurs of recognition, but turned and held out his hand to assist the lady who accompanied him.

Jessica's eyes flashed fiercely as they wandered from his face to that of the woman beside him.

"She is beautiful," she murmured beneath her breath. "She is beautiful, and with him!"

All the love which had been aroused in her passionate heart surged up, and, for the minute, almost turned to jealous hate. "Beautiful, and with him." It was agony to her to see him as he bent down to catch some light words of his companion, whose perfumed satin cloak swept by the crouching girl, as the pair passed into the theatre.

Full well she knew that she herself could never hope to hear his voice, or feel the pressure of his hand; yet it was with the bitterness of death that she saw him pass her by in the company of this beautiful woman. Mingled also with her jealousy was another feeling, that of partial recognition. For the moment—she could not remember where—but at some time in the past, she fancied she had seen that dark, highly-coloured face, and heard the harsh vulgar voice.

As Leroy turned from the motor, she heard him say to the chauffeur:

"Be here at eleven."

"At eleven," she thought, "then I will be here too, and see him once more."

She hung on the outskirts of the group and listened with greedy ears for any chance word that might arise about her idol.

"A reg'lar beauty, I should just think so," said a man, addressing another who had passed a remark on the lady in question. "She's the biggest star on the stage, you bet! Ada Lester knows her value, and ain't likely to forget it neither."

The other man ventured a remark concerning the lady's escort.

"Him? That's Leroy—son of Lord Barminster—the richest of 'em all. She belongs to him, she does; so does the whole theatre. Costs him a pretty penny, you bet. But lor' bless yer, he don't mind! Can't spend his money fast enough. My brother's one of the shifters; and the things he cud tell yer about 'er, and 'er temper, 'ud make yer 'air stand on end."

Jessica moved away, while members of the group aired their knowledge of the rapidly entering, smartly-dressed audience.

"That's Mr. Leroy's friend, Mr. Vermont," commenced the first speaker again. "I've 'eard tell 'e does all the work and pays out all the other one's money; but he ain't no class himself—he's not a real tip-top swell like them others." He pointed to a little group of white-waistcoated, immaculately-dressed men, now standing on the steps of the vestibule. "Lord! this 'ere Casket'll be crammed with all the swells to-night—'cos it's the fashion."

"So Ada Lester is the fashion now, eh?" commented his companion, who had probably known her in her poorer days, and therefore was inclined to be interested in her.

"Not 'arf, she ain't," agreed the man, with the Londoner's pride in laying down the law on the subject. "She's got a house like a duchess, and can eat off gold or silver if she chooses; an' all for her face, for she can't act for nuts. I've seen 'er so I know!" With which lordly criticism, he closed the subject.

As for Jessica, sick at heart with jealousy, she turned up one of the side streets to commence her long wait for Adrien Leroy; while the group dispersed, laughing and chattering.

The Casket was filled now to its utmost capacity. It was the first night of a new piece. The unfortunate comedy which Ada had so strongly condemned had been withdrawn, and a so-called musical farce—consisting of very bad music, and still worse comedy—hastily put on in its stead. As usual, no expense had been spared in the mounting, and Adrien's money had been poured out like water on extraordinary costumes, gorgeous, highly-coloured scenery, and a hundred embellishments for this new piece of elaborate and senseless burlesque, Prince Bon-Bon. But with all its deficiencies as regarded culture, the piece appeared to be a success.

Ada Lester could dance, if she could not act; and she could shout a vulgar patter song, if she could not sing; therefore after a tumultuous first act, during which she had been "Hongkored"—as she expressed it—to her heart's content, she was standing in the wings, with a cigarette between her painted lips, radiant with content and gratified vanity.

"Well, Shelton," said Leroy, as his friend approached him, where he leaned against a stack of scenery. "What do you think of the show this time?"

"As beautiful as it is senseless," was that gentleman's sarcastic reply. "Heaven alone knows what it cost you," he added.

"I certainly don't know myself," admitted Adrien, knocking the ash from his cigarette. "Ask Paxhorn—he wrote the lyrics, and had the management; or better still Vermont, whom I'm going to see myself presently. But this will be a success, Mortimer, and I shall make a fortune."

"Yes," said Shelton quietly, "for Paxhorn and Vermont. Well, it's no business of mine, of course."

He turned to Ada, who had been tapping her foot angrily during this little conversation. "Well, Miss Lester," he said, "haven't you a word for me to-night?"

She glared at him viciously, for Mortimer was not a favourite of hers.

"Yes," she snapped. "I hate the sight of you!"

Both men laughed as though amused.

"That was a fair hit," said Shelton, with mock grief in his voice. "Don't kill me right out, Miss Lester. Let me open a bottle of champagne for you."

"I don't want it," said the popular dancer, her eyes flashing angrily. Then, turning her back on him, she said to Adrien, "Ain't you going to the front to see me dance?"

"I can see you from here," was his answer. "You look charming, my dear Ada; doesn't she, Mortimer?"

"Yes, and as good as she is beautiful," declared that gentleman, making her a low bow.

With a furious glance at him, and a furtive look at Adrien, she passed them, and, accompanied by a burst of music from the orchestra and a storm of clapping from the audience, she commenced her dance.

Shelton watched her with a sneer.

"Hark! how they applaud," he said, glancing up at the crowded and delighted house. "They seem to admire her, anyway. Long live Miss Ada, Queen of dancers. Adrien, why do you put up with that painted vixen?"

Leroy smiled at his sudden change of tone.

"Don't let her hear you," he said. "And don't worry yourself about me, old fellow."

"You're afraid of her," continued his friend. "Oh, yes, you may think it an impertinence if you like, but I know you are. You'd face a cannon's mouth sooner than that woman's angry abuse. You dread a scene as a musician does a false note. For me, I'm sick of the whole world."

"Why do you remain in it, then?" asked Adrien, laughing.

"For the same reason as yourself," replied the cynic. "Neither of us know what the next will be like."

Adrien laughed, but before he could explain to his friend his plan with regard to Ada, a crowd of pretty dancers in silver gauze surrounded him, begging for real bon-bons, instead of the painted property sweets given out to them.

"Do you girls think I am made of bon-bons, like the piece?" he said, waving them back. "Why, you'll make yourselves ill."

"Oh, Mr. Leroy," pouted one, "we've danced so hard, too!"

"Go to Mr. Vermont, then," was the indolent reply; "he'll give you what you want," and with a rush they swept back on to the stage.

"Always Jasper," murmured Shelton sadly, as his friend, with a genial wave of the hand, picked his way past cardboard castles and paper trees, till he disappeared through the door that would lead him to his stage-box.

At eleven o'clock the play was over; the superbly-dressed women, with their escorts, were descending the wide staircase, laughing and discussing the piece, which seemed likely to become the success of the season. Outside, the pavement was filled with the gay, excited crowds. Whistles resounded for taxis hovering in the immediate vicinity, like steel-plated birds of prey. Carriages were being shouted for, and throughout all the bustle and excitement, a slight girlish form doggedly kept its vigil near the main entrance.

The crowd of pleasure-seekers and onlookers had melted away, and the attendants were busy turning out the lights, when the glass doors swung open again, and three or four gentlemen came out, laughing and talking.

"Quite a success," said one of them.

"Yes, indeed," from another. "Paxhorn, I congratulate you again, old man."

"Thank you," replied the author, his face beaming with satisfaction. "Thanks to Leroy, it will run for a hundred nights, and my name will be made."

"On Bon-bons," sneered Shelton; "what a thing it is to be a popular playwright."

"Better to be a popular dancer," whispered Paxhorn, as the door swung open again, and Adrien came out, with Ada Lester on his arm, Mr. Jasper Vermont following behind them.

"All here?" asked Leroy in his clear voice, as they descended the steps to where the motors stood waiting. "Come along"—turning to the rest of the party—"we are all going to supper to celebrate Ada's triumph. Paxhorn, dismiss your car, old man, and come with us; we want to hear the rustle of your laurels."

Laughingly, they entered the vehicles, while, above all the others, rang the harsh voice of the woman, and Jessica, hearing it, shuddered involuntarily. Then they were gone.

Suddenly, while the girl's eyes were straining after them, the last motor stopped, and Jasper Vermont jumped out and hastened back into the theatre. More out of idle curiosity than anything else, or perhaps again prompted by the guardian angel of Leroy's honour, she waited to see him come out again. In a few minutes he re-emerged, bearing in his hand a small roll of papers, one of which he was reading, with a malicious smile on his face.

Jessica unwittingly stood in his path, and he crashed into her with such force as to knock his hat to the ground. With an oath he struggled to regain it, pushing her roughly aside.

"Out of my way, girl," he exclaimed, thinking she was about to beg from him. "I have nothing for you."

At the sound of his voice Jessica's face whitened, and she turned away, frightened, and trembling; as she did so, her foot struck against something light lying on the kerb. She stooped and found it was a small roll of papers, part of those which had been in the gentleman's hand, and which he had been studying so attentively.

She did not trouble to open it, but slipped it into the bosom of her dress and walked dreamily away.



CHAPTER XVI

"Is it a Rubens, or is it not? That is the question," drawled Frank Parselle, as he dropped his eyeglass.

On an easel in Lady Merivale's drawing-room, stood a picture, before which were grouped a small assembly of her friends, including one or two artists and connoisseurs.

Lord Merivale was also present, having been dragged away from his beloved farm, and worried into the purchase of this picture—the usual "Portrait of a gentleman"—by his beautiful wife. He himself knew nothing whatsoever about it, either as to its value or its genuineness; it was worn and dirty-looking, and, in his opinion, would have been dear at a five-pound note.

"Yes, that is the question," echoed Lord Standon. "It's not a bad face though. I should vote it genuine right enough."

"It's extremely dirty," yawned Lord Merivale, casting a longing look at the green grass of the park opposite and thinking of his new shorthorns in Somersetshire.

"Philistine!" exclaimed his wife, tapping him playfully on the arm. "You are incorrigible. Dirty! why, that is tone."

"Ah," returned her husband, turning away and gazing admiringly at a bull by Potter. He was as wise as he had been before; for the jargon of Art and fashionable society was not one of his accomplishments.

"I tell you who would be a good judge," put in Mr. Paxhorn.

The rest turned inquiring eyes on him.

"Who?" asked Lord Standon.

"Adrien Leroy. He is an artist, though he keeps his talents as secret as if they were crimes. It was he who did the designs for my last book."

A murmur of astonishment ran through the room. Nearly every one knew that it was to the illustrations the book owed the greater portion of its success.

"A modesty quite unfashionable," exclaimed Lady Merivale, whose beautiful face had flushed ever so slightly at the mention of Adrien's name.

"Yes," admitted Paxhorn. "Men have to proclaim their gifts very loudly in the market-place, before they sell their wares nowadays."

"Oh, Adrien is a veritable Crichton," put in Lord Standon. "There is very little he does not know, and even that is made up by the estimable Jasper."

"Yes, I saw them together got half an hour ago," said Paxhorn. "If I had known of this picture, I would have got them to come with me; for Vermont is a genius at settling any question under the sun."

"He's not always right, though," put in Lord Merivale, quietly. "What about that horse of Leroy's? Wasn't it Vermont who was so sure of his winning the race? Yet his Majesty did not win, did he?"

"No, I know that," said Standon, with a rueful smile, as he thought of his added debts.

"That was not Vermont's lack of judgment," put in Paxhorn, who, for private reasons of his own, always stood up for that gentleman. "I am sure the horse would have won had it not been for Adrien's ill-timed generosity."

"What was that?" inquired Lady Merivale, looking keenly over at him.

"He gave the jockey a ten-pound note the night before the race; and, of course, the fellow got drunk and pulled the 'King' up at the last fence."

"And lost his life, did he not?" asked one of the artists.

Lord Standon nodded, thoughtfully. He was attached to his friend Leroy, and did not see why he should be blamed unnecessarily.

"Yes," he replied; "the strangest part of it all was the way the poor fellow raved at Vermont."

"What do you mean?" asked Lady Merivale, sharply.

"We were all standing round him," explained Lord Standon, "and when Vermont came up the man seemed to go off his head, and practically said he had sold the race. Of course, it was all nonsense, though I believe Lord Barminster is having some inquiries made."

"But why should Vermont have sold the race? Really, it's too absurd," put in Paxhorn scornfully. "Especially as he'd backed him for five hundred pounds himself. It's hardly likely he'd do such a thing for his own sake, apart from his sense of honour, and his friendship for Leroy."

Lady Merivale glanced sceptically at the speaker. Her faith in Jasper's sense of honour was not very strong. Then she gave a deep sigh.

"Why, Eveline," said her husband, looking up, "you seem quite grieved. Not on your own account, I hope?" The idea of his wife betting was very repugnant to him, and Lady Merivale always endeavoured to keep her little flutters, whether on 'Change or on the turf, entirely to herself. She laughed lightly, therefore, as she answered:

"Oh, no, indeed; I lost a dozen of gloves, that was all." A vision of the cheque for five hundred pounds, which she had drawn, arose before her as she spoke.

"I'm afraid it will take a little more than that to settle Leroy's book," said Lord Merivale carelessly.

At this moment the door opened and Adrien Leroy himself was announced. There was the usual buzz of welcome, and her ladyship's eyes flashed just one second, as he bent over her hand.

"I am so glad you have come, Mr. Leroy," she said. "You can settle a knotty question for us. This is my latest acquisition. Now have I been deceived, or have I not? Is it a Rubens?"

Adrien smiled at the two artists, who were slight acquaintances of his.

"You ask me while such judges are near? Cannot you decide, Alford—nor you, Colman?"

"Well, I say it is," said the first.

"While I think it is forgery," laughed the second; and thereupon ensued a lengthy and detailed criticism.

Adrien bent nearer to the picture under examination; then he said quietly:

"Where two such lights cannot discover the truth, who may? I agree with you, Alford, and so I do with you, Colman. Both your arguments are so convincing that if Rubens had painted it, and were present, to hear you, Colman, he'd be persuaded he hadn't; and if he had not painted it, you, Alford, could almost convince him that he had."

There was a general smile at the artists' expense; and Adrien continued:

"Rubens' touch"—examining the face—"but—what is this?" He pointed to a small weapon thrust into the girdle of the figure.

"That is a dagger," said Alford. "Here, where are the glasses?"

"Thanks," said Adrien, "but I don't require them. It is a dagger, and a Florentine one at that. Ah! Lady Merivale, I'm afraid your picture is more a specimen of what a modern impostor can rise to than that of an old master. That dagger is of comparatively modern fashion, certainly not earlier than the eighteenth century, while Rubens died in 1640."

The two artists stared, as well they might, but were neither sufficiently acquainted with Leroy to express their surprise at his knowledge, nor had knowledge enough themselves to challenge his dates.

It was Lord Standon who spoke first.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Adrien going in for history! Who would have thought it? My dear fellow, why not give a lecture?"

"On the vanity of human hopes and the folly of friendship?" inquired Adrien, so coldly as to startle both the company and Lord Standon himself, who not being in Lady Constance's confidence, was naturally at a loss for the reason of this sudden anger on the part of Leroy. He drew back in surprise, but any further reference to the matter was stopped by the entry of Jasper Vermont. As a matter of fact, he had arrived just in time to overhear Adrien's last words.

"What's that?" he cried, after he had greeted Lady Merivale. "Was that Leroy declaiming against the world? It's for those in his position to bewail its vanities, while poor dev—I beg your pardon, Lady Merivale—poor men like myself can only cry for them."

Adrien smiled.

"Quite right, Jasper. I'm wrong, as usual.

"Mr. Vermont," said Lord Merivale, "you remind me of the clown in the beloved pantomime of my youth."

"An innocent memory that, at least, my lord," returned Vermont, who never stayed his tongue in the matter of a repartee for lord or commoner. "May I ask why?"

"You always enter the room with a joke or an epigram," was the answer.

Mr. Vermont smiled.

"'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,'" he quoted lightly, as he turned his attention to the unfortunate "Portrait of a gentleman." "Ah, what have we here—another picture? An old master, I presume?"

The artists looked pleased; it would seem as if even the great connoisseur himself was liable to make mistakes.

"It is ugly enough, in all conscience," he continued bluntly. "For my part, I am an utter philistine, and like my art to be the same as my furniture—new, pretty to look at, and comfortable, and, for the life of me, I can't fall in love with a snub-nosed Catherine de Medici, or a muscular apostle. What is this?" He bent down to read the title. "Ah! 'Portrait of a gentleman of the sixteenth century.' Very valuable, I daresay, Lady Merivale?"

Lady Merivale, who looked upon Mr. Vermont as one of her ancestors would have regarded the Court jester, smiled indifferently.

"It all depends on the point of view," she said. "I have paid three hundred pounds for it."

Mr. Vermont looked up with an air of innocent surprise; but a keen observer might have been tempted to regard it as one of satirical enjoyment.

"Three hundred pounds! I daresay these gentlemen, good judges all, have declared it a bargain?" He motioned to the little group on the other side of Lord Merivale.

"Not at all," returned his hostess. "On the contrary, Mr. Leroy declares it an imposture."

Vermont raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed," he said. "How did he detect the fraud?"

"By the one weak point," said Colman. "That dagger; Rubens never lived to see such a dagger as that, so could not possibly have painted it!"

Mr. Vermont smiled, an approving smile that seemed to mock the picture as if it were a living thing.

"Capital," he said. "The rogue who palmed this forgery on you was evidently not a student of the antique. Poor fellow, how was he to guess who was to be his judge? You will, of course, institute proceedings against him, or send the picture back?"

"Impossible," said Lord Merivale, with a rueful smile; "I wrote the cheque last night; by this time it will have been cashed, and so the swindle is complete."

"Dear! dear!" ejaculated Mr. Vermont, in tones of the deepest commiseration, though he smiled as he added: "There's only one thing to be said, my lord. If that picture is clever enough to deceive such great experts, surely it has achieved its object. It certainly looks old enough to satisfy the most exacting of second-hand furniture shops."

He turned to Lady Merivale.

"Before I forget," he said, "let me discharge the object of my visit. Melba sings to-morrow at the Duke of Southville's party."

Her ladyship's face lighted up with real gratitude. Music was her one sincere passion; and, as she had been unable to hear that divine songstress during the season owing to various engagements, this news was welcome.

"Thank you," she said warmly. "How good of you to find out for me. It was kept such a secret. How did you discover it?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Vermont, raising his eyebrows. "If I tell you that, it would be bad policy. I may have discovered it so easily that my services as a solver of mysteries would sink to insignificance, or again I may have had to commit a crime; in either case, it is best to 'draw a veil of silence,' shall we say; sufficient be it that Melba sings, and Lady Merivale deigns to listen."

"Flatterer," she said lightly, as he rose, hat in hand. He glanced across at Adrien, who was talking to Lord Merivale. "I am off on another mission," he said, lowering his voice. "I fancy my friend must be thinking of his honeymoon."

Lady Merivale started violently. "What do you mean?" she asked, striving to maintain her usual cool, indifferent tones.

He looked down at her in innocent surprise.

"I am commissioned to buy a residence in the Swiss Lakes district for Leroy; and as I happen to know Lady Constance Tremaine is devoted to mountaineering—most exhausting work, I consider—well, there is only one construction to be laid. But, of course, this is in strictest confidence; you will not betray me, I know."

"Of course not," said her ladyship mechanically; her mind was working rapidly, so that she hardly heard the rest of Jasper's purring speech; and that gentleman, highly pleased at the pain he had so evidently inflicted, made a parting epigram and left his poison to do its work in Lady Merivale's mind.

One by one, the others followed; and Lord Merivale, with an apology to Leroy, returned to his study and the Agricultural Gazette, having his wife and Adrien alone.

With flushed face and outstretched hands, she turned to him reproachfully.

"I thought you had forgotten me."

"Impossible," he murmured, as he raised her hand to his lips. "I have been so bothered with various business matters, and have had so many engagements——"

"But yet had the time to go to the theatre with that awful creature," she retorted. "Then you have been spending a day or two at Barminster." She bit her lip savagely in her jealous pain and wounded vanity. "Adrien," she entreated, "tell me it isn't true."

"To what do you refer?" he asked steadily.

He knew that the struggle had commenced, and he was determined to bring this mock phantasy of love to an end. If he could not marry the one woman who had shown him what love really meant, he would at least have done with this foolish dalliance.

"Your engagement to that pink-and-white cousin—Lady——"

"Be silent," he commanded, more sternly than he had ever spoken to any man, woman or child in his life. His face had paled; his eyes were like steel. The very thought of hearing her name reviled by the jealous woman before him filled him with wrath.

She stood silent, but with flashing eyes, her breast heaving with excitement.

"It is true, then?" she panted. "You are going to marry her—tell me the truth——"

"I did not say so," he returned, slowly and painfully.

"Then you don't love her. Ah, I knew it!" she cried triumphantly.

He did not reply; and she read in his silence the confirmation of her fears.

"Adrien, is it possible—you love her, and she——"

"Eveline," he said, "for the sake of our past friendship"—she started at the words—"do not say any more. You know we have only played with the divine passion. It has beguiled many a pleasant hour, but I do not think it has been anything more than a pastime."

"Not to you," she said almost sullenly. "But how dare you doubt my feelings? How dare you insult me?"

"I did not mean to hurt you," he said gently, and her voice softened at his tone.

"Ah, Adrien," she cried beseechingly, "you do hurt me when you treat me like this. Try and forget her, unless"—she broke off abruptly—"unless you are really going to marry her. Is that so?"

"I told you," he answered wearily. "I shall never marry Constance. She is engaged to another."

"Thank Heaven!" was her, ladyship's mental ejaculation, but she said nothing aloud.

Leroy roused himself. "I must go," he said.

"So soon?" she asked tremulously. "Where are you going?"

"To the theatre."

She frowned, and, seeing it, he stopped to explain.

"It is no longer mine," he said with a faint smile.

"Not yours!" she cried in surprise.

"No, it belongs to Miss Lester."

Her quick intellect grasped his meaning at once.

"Henceforth, you mean to retire from the gay world, then?" she said, with a faint sneer, adding quickly, as his face darkened, "Ah, forgive me, if am bitter! I hate to see you unhappy. Try and forgive my ill-humour."

"You are, as ever, my queen," he said, "and can, therefore, do no wrong."

Lifting her hand to his lips, he turned and strode hastily from the room.



CHAPTER XVII

Adrien Leroy dined alone that night—a most unusual occurrence; but the scene with Lady Merivale moved him, and still troubled his mind. He had hitherto only regarded his love-making with her as part in the comedy of life, wherein he played the lover, to her lead; doffing and donning the character at will. That she had taken either him or herself seriously had never entered into his mind. Believing also in the hopelessness of his love for Lady Constance, he regretted bitterly having allowed his secret to escape him; yet so unaccustomed was he to the conventional and inevitable lying of the world in which he moved so serenely, that it had never occurred to him to deny the charge, and swear everlasting devotion to the countess alone.

Norgate, who waited on him as usual, noticed his abstraction.

"We're getting tired of London again," said that astute servant to himself, as he changed the dishes. "We're thinking of going East again or my name ain't what it is." For Adrien had spent the preceding year in Persia.

After dinner Leroy lingered in the comfortable, luxurious room, as if loth to start out again on the weary round of amusement. To youth and the uninitiated, pleasure, as represented by balls, theatres or feasting, seems to be an everlasting joy; but to those born in the midst of it, trained and educated only to amuse or to be amused, it becomes work, and work of a most fatiguing nature. To dance when one wishes to rest; to stand, hour after hour, receiving guests with smile and bows, when one would gladly be in bed; to eat, when one has no appetite for food; all this, continued day in day out, is no longer a pleasure—it becomes a painful duty.

Unlike the majority of his set, Adrien Leroy was never lonely; indeed, solitude to him was a pleasure, and one—the only one—which was difficult to obtain. Endued with a fine intellect and highly cultivated mind, even at college he had succeeded in studying when his companions had spent their time in "ragging," and other senseless occupations of a like nature. Thrown on his own resources, therefore, Leroy could have become a power in almost any of the artistic professions. Instead, his time, his youth and his faculties were being wasted in the ordinary pursuits of the people amongst whom he lived. Had he been a poorer man, he might have risen to any height by virtue of his own talents; but, lapped in luxury, lulled by the homage of society, he remained dissatisfied, discontented, and apathetic.

The clock, striking eight, aroused him. Throwing aside the cigar which had burnt itself out, he rose. He had promised Jasper to come down to the Casket Theatre; and, however weary he might be of the tinsel and glitter, yet he never thought of making an excuse, or of breaking his word.

He was about to set forth, when Norgate announced "Lord Standon," and though Adrien's greeting was as courteous as usual, the old genial warmth was gone. Lord Standon perceived this, and knew that he had not been mistaken in his belief that he had somehow angered Adrien.

Directly Norgate had closed the door behind him, therefore, he dashed, as was his wont, straight to the heart of things.

"Leroy," he said abruptly, "what's wrong with you?"

Adrien stared at him.

"Wrong!" he echoed. "What on earth do you mean? What should be wrong?"

"I don't know," returned the other bluntly; "but I seem to have rubbed you up the wrong way somehow——"

"Nonsense," said Leroy, trying hard to resume his usual warmth of manner. "What a ridiculous idea! Have you dined, or shall I ring?" He crossed the room almost hurriedly.

"No, no, thanks," interrupted Lord Standon. "I'm just off again; it was only a passing idea. Sorry to have mentioned it."

He turned, as if to go; and Leroy made no attempt to restrain him.

"I have to congratulate you, I suppose, on your engagement?" he said coldly, when the young man had almost reached the door.

Lord Standon turned sharply, and stared at him. He grasped the situation at once, but was still greatly puzzled, for he knew Leroy was but slightly acquainted with Lady Muriel Branton.

"Thanks, old man," he returned, rather awkwardly. "But it's a dead secret, really; I suppose Lady Constance told you?"

Leroy frowned.

"Yes," he said simply, "Why not?"

"Oh, no reason at all," said Lord Standon, flushing like a boy; "only it's got to be kept quiet, you know—my affairs are in such a beastly state."

"I wonder you——" commenced Leroy.

"Dared to ask her," put in Standon, laughing a little confusedly. "Yes, it was a bit of cheek on my part, but 'faint heart never won fair lady,' you know, and by Jove! if I hadn't, some other lucky devil might have slipped in and carried her off by sheer force!"

Leroy winced; for he himself would have endeavoured to "slip in and carry her off" had it not been for his friend.

"I don't see the need of secrecy," he said coldly. "Have you spoken to her guardian?" meaning, of course, Lord Barminster.

Unfortunately, to Lord Standon, being in love, there was only one woman in the world, and therefore only one guardian, and that one, her father, the Earl of Croywood.

"Good gracious, no!" he exclaimed. "He's such an old curmudgeon—that until I get over that beastly race——" He broke off, scarlet with confusion. Absorbed in his own affairs, he had completely forgotten that he was speaking to the owner of the unlucky horse.

Leroy was pale with anger; the reference to the race annoyed him, but still more the expression of "curmudgeon" as applied to his father. Naturally, if he had stopped to consider, he would have realised that there must be some mistake; for Standon would hardly have spoken thus of Lord Barminster in his son's presence. But what lover ever does use his common sense? He drew himself up sternly, and Standon could have kicked himself for his unfortunate speech.

"I don't mean—that is—it's not your fault——" he stammered.

"Thank you," said Leroy ironically.

"Oh, you know what I mean. Don't pull me up like that, Adrien. I wasn't thinking of its being you—and you know what it is when a fellow's in love with the sweetest, dearest——"

Leroy turned sharply. It was more than any one could be expected to bear; insult to his father, blame to his horse, and now praise of the woman he himself loved.

"Excuse me, Standon," he interrupted curtly, "I'm afraid I must ask you to spare me your rhapsodies—I am due at the theatre."

It was Standon's turn to be offended, and his good-tempered face hardened.

"Certainly. Pray accept my apologies for having detained you. Good-night," he said coldly, and before Leroy could even answer, he was gone.

Adrien strode restlessly up and down. For the first time in all his easy-going life trouble had touched him. He determined to forget it at whatever cost; so telling Norgate not to wait up for him, he set out for the Casket. It was such a lovely night that he dismissed the motor which was awaiting him, deciding to walk across the park to Victoria Street, and call in on Shelton, who had a flat there.

The park was beautifully silent, and still stood open to the public. Absorbed in his reflections, therefore, he left the main track and wandered down one of the by-paths, in which stood several wooden benches. Big Ben struck the half-hour. There was just time for another cigar, and Leroy sat down. He was in no humour yet to endure the heat of the theatre, or the chaff and vulgarity of Ada Lester.

He lost count of time, in the pleasant quietude of the spot; and his cigar was burnt down to an inch when, with a half-sigh, he arose to exchange the hard seat amidst the cool trees for a lounge and a crowd of ballet girls at the theatre.

As he picked up his stick, he heard a footstep behind him, and turning, saw an ill-dressed, sullen-looking man. The light from one of the lamps near by shone full on him; and something about the stout, shambling figure, or the dirty evil-browed face, seemed dimly familiar.

To his surprise, the man nodded at him with a sulky frown, and said, in a thick voice:

"Good-evening! Don't remember me, I s'pose?"

"No, I do not," admitted Leroy, as he scanned the bleared, swollen countenance before him.

"Ah! you swells 'as bad memories; I ain't forgotten you, so don't you think it!"

Leroy gazed at him calmly; he thought the man was intoxicated.

"Do you want anything of me?" he asked, as he pulled on his glove.

"That depends," responded the man, moving forward so that he stood right in Adrien's path. "You're Mr. Leroy, ain't you?"

"I am," said Leroy. "What is it you want?"

"I wants to ask you a question," returned the other, bringing his face closer to Adrien, who recoiled involuntarily—the very smell of the fustian clothes offending his delicate nostrils.

The man noticed this, and frowned even more heavily.

"You're a gentleman," he said, "leastways I s'pose you calls yourself such—p'raps you'll act like one."

"Kindly make haste and tell me what you want, my good fellow," said Adrien impatiently. He did not know but that this was a preliminary to an attempt to rob him, and he was in no mood for a brawl.

"Oh, I'll be quick enough for you," was the sullen reply. "You don't remember me, you say; p'raps you'll remember my name—Wilfer—Johann Wilfer."

"Johann Wilfer," repeated Adrien, thoughtfully and slowly, wondering where he had heard the name before.

"Yes, Johann Wilfer, Picture Restorer, Cracknell Court, Soho."

"Oh!" said Adrien, as a burst of memory dawned on him. "I remember you now. What is it you want? But tell me first, has the girl Jessica returned yet?"

"That's just like you swells," growled the man. "Nothing like getting your word in first. Has she returned to me? You know jolly well she ain't. She won't come back to me till you've done with 'er, I'll be bound."

Adrien started, as the significance of the accusation dawned on him. He had thought more than once of the girl, with her dark eyes and silken hair. What had become of her? What, alas! could have been her fate, if she had not returned to this man, her guardian?

"What do you mean?" he said now, sternly.

"What I say," retorted Mr. Wilfer. "She ain't returned to me, an' that's my question to you. Where is she, an' what 'ave you done with her?"

"How should know what has become of her?" answered Leroy, genuinely startled. "Do you dare to insinuate that I know where she is? I have neither seen her nor heard of her."

"That's a lie," said the man shortly.

Leroy surveyed him for a moment.

"You are impertinent," he said, in his clear tones. "Stand aside, and let me pass."

Mr. Wilfer thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood his ground.

"That won't go down with me," he said insolently. "I want to know where my niece is; and by Heaven, I'll know too!"

Leroy stopped short.

"She was your niece, you say?"

"She was," said the man, "though it's no business of yours; she belonged to me."

"So I presume, or you would not have ill-treated her," retorted Adrien dryly. "When did you see her last?"

"Over a month ago—as well you know," returned Wilfer coarsely. "She ran off the morning you came gallivanting after her."

Adrien could have knocked the man down, but he restrained the longing, and said instead:

"I thought you told me she'd robbed you, and had run away? That was a lie, I suppose?"

"'Course it was. Who wouldn't lie to save his gal from such as you fine gentlemen? I know yer, so it's no use coming this talky-talky surprise with me. You just tell me where she is."

"I tell you," reiterated Adrien, "I have never seen the child since the night I took her from the cold. Stand out of my path, or I shall hand you over to the police."

Mr. Wilfer laughed.

"So that's your answer, is it? Call away, my fine gentleman, call away."

He glanced round the deserted path from the corner of his shifty eyes; then, with a snarl of a savage beast, he sprang upon Leroy, and strove to bring him to the ground.

But he was no match for Adrien, who beneath all his listless mannerism possessed a grasp of steel and the strength of a gladiator. Almost shuddering at the touch of the man's greasy clothes, Leroy seized his arms, and lifting him off the ground as though he were a terrier, gave him a good shake; then he dropped him, lightly and easily, over the park railings, which edged the by-path, where they stood.

Johann Wilfer was too astonished for a moment to do anything but recover his breath, and Leroy, settling his disarranged cuffs, walked calmly away.

With a furious oath Wilfer sprang up, jumped back over the railings, and was about to pursue Leroy, when from behind him a hand was put on his collar, and he was borne rapidly and silently to the ground.

Meanwhile, Adrien, all unconscious of his deliverance from further disturbance, pursued his way to the theatre.



CHAPTER XVIII

Mr. Johann Wilfer glared vengefully at the smooth face of his assailant, and, struggling still, breathed out, with a choice assortment of oaths, the question:

"Who are you? What do you want?"

"Questions we will leave for the present, my friend," was the reply. "Are you going to struggle much longer? because if so, I shall be under the painful necessity of using still greater force."

Mr. Wilfer lessened his movements.

"Ah!" continued the suave voice. "So you decide to take things quietly. Wise man! Now have the goodness to rise and let me see to whom I have the pleasure of speaking."

Whereupon our friend, Mr. Jasper Vermont, released Johann's throat from the pressure of his knee—for it was by this means he had controlled the other's movements—and allowed him to rise to his feet. It was a very sullen and altogether puzzled individual that stood waiting, uncertain whether to listen to his captor's next words or to make his escape.

Jasper eyed him as a cat does a mouse, on the watch for the slightest attempt to move.

"So!" he said, as he took out his cigar-case, and drew forth one of Leroy's choice Regalias. "So! Now we are on our feet again, we look—well, I must say, none the less a ruffian."

The man turned savagely as if about to run away, but Jasper was too quick for him; with a grip of steel he caught hold of the other's arm.

"Not so fast," he said quietly. "What is your name, my friend?"

"What's that to you?" queried Mr. Wilfer naturally enough, as he settled his ragged scarf, which, during the struggle, had become uncomfortably tightened.

"That is my affair," replied his opponent politely; "perhaps it is merely curiosity. But as a matter of fact, I think I have had the pleasure of meeting you before, and I never like to forget old friends."

Mr. Wilfer grunted.

"Come, let me think," Vermont continued, "were you ever at Canterbury?"

Mr. Wilfer started violently.

"Ah! I am on the right track. Yes, I remember now; it was a little inn in the summer time, a beautiful moonlight night."

"Wasn't me," snarled Wilfer, though his face was pale.

"I thought you were there," said his tormentor as cheerfully and triumphantly as if the other had admitted it. "You're not a good liar," he continued. "If a man can't do that sort of thing well, he'd better stick to the truth. At a little inn in Canterbury. Yes, I remember it all now. I'm glad my memory does not play me tricks." His grasp tightened on Wilfer's sleeve. "I don't like tricks," he purred. "How strange that we should meet again. I think at that time you were an artist; yes, that is what you called yourself, and there was a pretty little girl with you, and you called her your wife. Oh, yes, my friend, you were good at 'calling' things."

"Look here," growled Wilfer, getting his word in at last. "You just stow it, I don't know you——"

"No, I know you don't," said his companion imperturbably, "But you will; oh, yes, you will! Let us go back to Canterbury, where you manufactured such beautiful pictures."

Wilfer moved uneasily.

"Beautiful pictures," continued the mocking voice, "all by Rubens and Raphael and Titian. I shouldn't be surprised if that was one of yours I saw at the Countess of Merivale's to-day, the 'Portrait of a gentleman,' sold for 300 pounds. There was a warranty with it, signed, sealed and delivered by a Mr. Johann Wilfer."

"I didn't, it wasn't," the man stuttered, his face almost green in hue, his voice trembling with anger and fear.

Mr. Vermont smiled. He had his man safe and sound.

"Who the fiend are you?" commenced Wilfer, recovering himself; but Vermont's smooth voice interrupted him.

"I was right, I see! What a strange coincidence, Mr. Wilfer, that I should see your really admirable Rubens in the afternoon, and run against—or perhaps I should say, knock you down—in the evening."

Mr. Wilfer was goaded to desperation.

"Look here," he almost shouted, "I don't care if you're the old 'un himself; but that's enough of your jaw. What's your game anyhow? S'pose you did see me in a pub at Canterbury along of a young party, s'pose I am an artist, an' I did sell an old master, that ain't no business of yours; that don't give you the right to knock me down or interfere with me, so now then!"

"Finished?" inquired Vermont, pleasantly. "I quite agree with you, Mr. Wilfer—on some points; but it is greatly my business, as you will see. Had I not come up at that moment, I wonder if my friend would be as safe as he is now."

"Your friend," echoed the other. "Is Mr. Adrien Leroy your friend?"

"He is indeed," replied Jasper with a grin. "Now suppose you tell me what you two gentleman were discussing."

"Suppose I don't?" retorted Wilfer insolently. "You find out for yourself, if you're so clever, Mr. Know-all; I'm off." He tried to push past Vermont and thus effect his escape; but he was not to get off so lightly.

Jasper removed his cigar, which he had been puffing, and dropping his soft, mocking tone, said sternly:

"Stand back; go and sit on that bench. I haven't done with you yet, Johann Wilfer."

"I shan't," was that worthy's prompt answer.

"Then I shall call the police," returned Vermont, pulling out his silver cab-whistle.

Wilfer started back.

"Call 'em," he said defiantly. "I don't care. What's the police to me, as I should be scared of 'em?"

"A great deal," was the calm answer. "If you are mad enough to disobey me, I shall whistle for the police; they will find me struggling with a most villainous-looking ruffian, whom I instantly give in charge for assault and robbery of my dear friend, Mr. Leroy, who has gone in search of assistance."

"It's all a lie," shouted Wilfer furiously.

"Appearances would be too strongly against you, my friend. The law is 'a hass,' as doubtless you have heard before; and when it comes in the shape of a blue-coated, helmeted and thick-headed policeman, whose word do you think would be believed, yours or mine?—to say nothing of this evidence." Stooping, he picked up Leroy's gold watch and chain, which had fallen from his pocket during his struggle with Wilfer. "I found this is your hand. A clear case of assault and robbery, with penal servitude to follow."

Mr. Wilfer, dazed by the thickly-meshed net drawn round him, eyed the watch and yielded.

"Curse you!" he said. "You're a knowing one an' no mistake."

Jasper smiled.

"Thank you," he said; "a genuine compliment, and a candid one. Now then, to business. What did you want with Mr. Leroy?"

The man looked up at the smooth, masterful face, and inwardly acknowledged his opponent's power.

"I'm thinking, guv'nor," he answered slowly, "you heard all there was to hear, and saw all there was to see; an' a bit more besides," he added, as he thought of that precious gold watch he had so stupidly failed to see. "Any'ow, if you're so anxious for me to go over it all again, I wanted to know the whereabouts of a niece of mine—a young girl he took to 'is 'ome, some weeks ago."

Mr. Vermont's eyes gleamed and his hand shook slightly with excitement, as he lit another cigar; for evidently this was the girl at whom, he remembered, Norgate had grumbled. If she could only be kept out of sight, Jasper thought he saw a way to getting his beloved friend into even deeper trouble than he had ever dreamed possible.

"You can prove it, I suppose?" he asked.

"I can," said Mr. Wilfer; though, as a matter of fact, he would have found this rather a difficulty.

Mr. Jasper put his hand into his pocket; as we have said before, he was not very generous when it came to spending his own money, but there were occasions when it was necessary to buy fresh tools, and this was one of them. He drew out some gold, which Mr. Wilfer eyed as greedily as a dog would a bone.

"Now," said Vermont, "your address?"

"Cracknell Court, Soho, guv'nor," returned the man, his manner visibly altering at the sight of money.

"Well, don't you alter it without my permission," Jasper said sternly. "I may want you to do something for me; and, if so, you can get your revenge. Meanwhile, here's something to keep you out of mischief, that's to say, in drink; you'll be safer like that." He handed over the money—about three pounds. "Mind! don't go selling any more forged pictures, like the one the bond of which I hold, or you'll get caught. They make the sentences for fraud pretty heavy nowadays."

Mr. Wilfer shivered. Up to now, he himself had never been imprisoned; but other members of the gang had served various sentences, and their reminiscences were not comforting.

"I understand, guv'nor," he said; "but what of the gal?"

"All you've got to do is wait till she comes back; or if you find her about, let me know," replied Jasper. "Now, be off, and remember I can lay my hands on you—and so can the police—any minute I like, so don't play me any tricks. Good-night."

With that, Mr. Vermont turned on his heel and strode swiftly and silently away.

Wilfer looked after him with a scowl.

"He's a clever devil," he said, as he, too, went on his way.

Clever, Mr. Vermont most undoubtedly was. His worst enemies would not have denied him that virtue; but in this case his cleverness had over-reached itself. It had so amused him to torment his victim, that he had never questioned Wilfer's statement that the girl, Jessica, was his niece. Had he known her identity, subsequent events might have proved far different; but man, with all his gifts, is blind as to the future; he sees as in a glass darkly, trusting and believing in his own feeble powers, as if he were omnipotent.

Meanwhile, Jasper trudged gaily along.

"Strange," he murmured, "how things work round for me. That princely idiot plays into my hands at every turn. What luck that I should just have followed him to-night—I'll live to see him humbled and disgraced yet!" With which pleasant thought he hummed Miss Lester's latest song and pursued his way to the theatre.

Some few hours later, he stood beside Adrien before the latter's motor.

"Are you coming with me, Jasper?" said Leroy heartily. "I'm afraid I've taken up a lot of your time to-night."

"My dear Adrien, does not my whole life belong to you?" replied the arch-hypocrite.

Adrien waved the suggestion aside.

"By the way, what is the time?" he said, feeling for his watch.

"I don't know," answered his friend, "mine has stopped."

"Well, mine has gone," said Leroy quietly. "I remember now; it was in that affair in the park."

"What?" exclaimed Jasper, in tones of the deepest sympathy. "Not that valuable repeater, surely?"

"Yes," said Adrien. "I must get another one."

Jasper smiled, as his fingers touched furtively the watch and chain in question.

"Did you find your papers?" inquired Adrien, as they rolled through the streets. "Jackson told me you lost them coming out of the theatre one night."

"No," answered Vermont, a flush of annoyance crossing his brow. "I have not. But it's of no consequence; Jackson need not have bothered you about such a trifle. Merely accounts. I dropped them somewhere between the stage and Ada's motor, and I suppose I must look upon them as gone for ever."

"I hope not," said Adrien sympathetically.

"They are of no consequence," said Vermont again, as they reached Jermyn Court.

Nevertheless, Mr. Vermont would have given many pounds of his dearly-beloved money to have had those papers safely clutched in his hand. But at present they were lying on the bosom of a wandering, homeless girl, and it was well for Jasper that he could not foresee when she was to cross his path again.



CHAPTER XIX

On the following morning, as Adrien stood before a mirror, putting the finishing touches to his toilet, carefully supervised by Norgate, his thoughts went back to Jessica. The idea of the child wandering about the streets, homeless and penniless, filled him with a supreme pity. He had meant to have spoken to Jasper about it, but he felt half ashamed; besides, he rather dreaded to see Vermont's cynical smile at the idea of his turning philanthropist to street-waifs.

He had just finished his breakfast when a servant appeared, with a dainty little note marked "Immediate."

The envelope bore no crest; for Lady Merivale used none in her correspondence with Adrien Leroy, from prudential motives. But he recognised the handwriting, and the faint Oriental scent her ladyship invariably used, and hastened to open it, fearing a lengthy epistle full of hysterical reproaches. To his intense relief he found that it contained but two lines.

"DEAR ADRIEN,—I shall spend the day with Aunt Rose at Hampton. Do you care to accompany me as you promised?"

"Indeed I do," murmured Adrien.

He recollected that on the day of the race he had promised Lady Merivale that, when next she visited her aunt, Lady Rose Challoner, at Hampton Court, he would meet her there, and row her to some of the pretty islands further up the stream, and there spend the day in delicious idleness.

So far, engagements on both sides had prevented this plan being carried out; but now Lady Merivale was evidently free, and he decided to cancel any existing arrangements, and fulfil his promise. Accordingly, sitting down at his desk, he dashed off a note:

"DEAR LADY MERIVALE,—I am motoring down to Hampton, and will gladly meet you there. I shall wire for the skiff and lunch. Au revoir."

Having despatched this, he gave instructions to Norgate with regard to all his engagements, and ordered the car.

It was a splendid spring morning, just bright and hot enough to make the vision of the cool, broad river particularly tempting; and Adrien determined to put aside all cares, and take the day as it came. Lady Merivale had evidently decided to set at rest her jealous fears; and, he told himself, as Constance was not to be his, there was nothing else to do but to pass the time as best he might.

Whatever happened, he was glad to be done with Ada Lester. He had tired of her almost before the first month of their so-called friendship; but he had not had the courage—or rather the energy—necessary to relieve himself of her.

At any rate, Eveline's day should not be spoiled. It should be one to be marked with a white stone. He little thought with what danger the trip was to be fraught, or that it would prove the most momentous one of his pleasure-filled life.

Directly the motor appeared, Leroy dismissed the chauffeur, preferring to drive himself, as procuring greater safety against a breath of scandal touching her ladyship's name.

Through the crowded streets Leroy went steadily enough; but once clear of them, he put on speed, exhilarated by the rush through the pure morning air. So fast was the run that, on reaching Hampton Court, he found it would be a good half-hour before Lady Merivale was even due to arrive; and as punctuality was not one of her ladyship's strong points, he knew he had almost an hour to spare.

Having put up the motor at a local garage, he strolled down to the river, where he found his dainty little skiff, Sea Foam, ready and waiting for him. It was just big enough to contain two, and its upholstery of cream leather gave it the light effect which rendered its name so appropriate.

In order to while away the time, he rowed gently down to Richmond and back, and on his return found Lady Merivale awaiting him on the steps that led to the Court. She was exquisitely gowned, as usual, and in her favourite colour, pale blue, which suited her delicate colouring to perfection. She greeted him brightly and unrestrainedly. Evidently she had put all thoughts of Lady Constance from her mind, and, like Adrien himself, was determined to have the memory of at least one happy day.

"How is Lady Rose?" asked Leroy, when he had assisted his fair companion into the boat.

She smiled at him. As a matter of fact, she had barely spent five minutes with that invalid lady.

"Oh, just the same as usual," she replied. "It is quite safe; I told her I was going further up the river to visit some friends; so we'll enjoy our day—such a beautiful one, too. I am so happy! It was good of you to come, Adrien."

Leroy's face lightened at her words, for he had expected sulks, tears, and remonstrances, and here were only smiles and thanks. He did not appreciate Lady Merivale's ability. Had she been a general, never a battle would have been lost through wrong tactics. She knew Adrien too well to attempt to hold his allegiance by force; hers were silken strings with which to chain him to her side. She recognised well enough that any abuse or jealousy of Lady Constance Tremaine would only send him further from her.

Responding to these tactics, Leroy took up the sculls, and with the long swinging strokes which had gone so far towards helping the crew of his college to win their contests, sent the little boat quickly up the river.

Few men of his temperament and training could yet boast of such proficiency as this man seemed to possess. Rowing, skating, dancing, riding, and just lately motoring; at all he excelled, yet no living being had ever heard him pride himself on what he could do.

About an hour after Adrien had started, Jasper Vermont ascended the staircase to his chambers, to be informed by Norgate that his master was out for the day, and all arrangements were to be cancelled.

"Oh!" said Jasper quietly, inwardly irritated that his dupe should be absent, even for a day, without telling him of his intention and plans. "Oh! Where has he gone? He did mention it last night, but I have forgotten." He put his hand to his forehead as if trying to recall it to his mind.

But Norgate was too sharp to be caught by this time-honoured manoeuvre. He knew very well that the whole outing had been too hurriedly decided upon for Jasper to have been told on the preceding night; and he had no intention of allowing his master, to whom he was sincerely attached, to be worried by Mr. Vermont.

"I don't know, sir," he replied stolidly. "He did not leave word."

As the letter had been brought round quite openly by one of the Merivale servants, needless to say, he could have given Jasper a very fair idea of where he had gone; but he preferred to keep his own counsel.

"Oh, very well. I'll just go up and write a few letters, Norgate," said Jasper, making a pretence of indifference; and he passed into the study, Norgate returning to his own quarters.

Mr. Vermont waited until his retreating footsteps had died away, then with a quick hand and a keen eye he turned over the letters which lay where Adrien had carelessly thrown them. Amongst them was one which had been evidently overlooked, for it was unopened. It bore the Barminster postmark, and Jasper's eyes shone. Could he but learn its contents? He picked it up; turning it over and over in his hand. To his intense delight it was but lightly sealed, and by dint of a little care the letter was safely opened, uninjured and unsoiled.

It was from Lady Constance, stating that she and Miss Penelope were to spend the day shopping in London, and would be at Barminster House at eleven o'clock.

It was quite a short note, and Jasper, smiling wickedly, sealed it up. He knew there was no fear of discovery, for there was not a more unsuspicious man living than Leroy. His mind was working rapidly, seeking to mature a plan by which he could separate Leroy and Lady Constance still further.

First of all, he continued to search through the letters, pocketing those which were obviously bills. He looked at the last one with a sigh.

"Not here," he mused. "I should know her handwriting in a moment. Yet I am positive he has gone with her. She must have let him know by letter this morning. Can he have taken it with him?"

His eye caught a scrap of torn paper in the fireplace. Like a bird of prey, he pounced on it, and untwisting it, his small eyes glittered as he read.

"Ah!" he muttered. "Lit his cigar with it, and burned all save one corner—Hampton. Yes, that's it; under cover of Lady Rose they've betaken themselves to the river. Now what shall I do? Follow them, or see Lady Constance, or do both?"

Placing the scrap of paper carefully in his pocketbook he left the flat, and made his way to Barminster House. He had called presumably in order to see after some slight alterations then being made, and his surprise on finding Miss Penelope and Lady Constance established there was beautiful to witness.

On his entry into the drawing room, Lady Constance sprang up eagerly, regarding him as the forerunner of the man she loved; and Jasper smiled as he greeted them respectfully.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Lady Constance," he exclaimed. "I had no idea you were coming to town."

"It's only for the day, Mr. Vermont," she returned as calmly as possible. "But I wrote to Adrien, for auntie, telling him all about it."

"Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mr. Vermont sympathetically. "I have just come from his chambers. I learned that he had gone out for the day."

"For the day," said Miss Penelope, "after reading our letter!"

"Perhaps he didn't get it in time," suggested Lady Constance.

"Poor Adrien," said Jasper with apparent reluctance. "I'm afraid I cannot even allow him that excuse; he had evidently taken away all his correspondence this morning."

"Oh, it's of no consequence," said the girl lightly, though her face was pale, and her eyes shone, as if through a mist of tears. "We are only going shopping for the ball, and that is dull work for a man."

"Can I be of any assistance, Miss Penelope?" enquired Mr. Vermont. "Do let me help; I love shopping!" But this neither of the ladies would allow; and with a parting shot on the subject of Adrien's whereabouts, Vermont took his leave.

His next move was to Waterloo Station, where he took a train to Hampton; and a little after noon, Jasper Vermont was strolling along the side of the river, smoking his cigar.

Very amiable he looked, and exceedingly interested in the boats, and therefore it was not surprising that the man who let them out on hire readily answered his questions as to the best season of the year, the approximate number of customers, etc., all leading up to the main question, had a boat with a lady and gentleman gone out that day?

"No," the man said. "Curiously enough, sir, no boat has gone out to-day with a lady and a gentleman in it, like what you describe."

"Oh," said Mr. Vermont. "It was my mistake. I thought I saw a gentleman rowing a lady down the river—rowing very well, too, in a light skiff."

"Ah!" said the man, puffing a cloud of smoke from his rough clay pipe, "I know who you mean, now; a gentleman—regular swell, and a lady in blue. Lor' bless yer, that ain't one of mine, that's a private boat that's kept up at the Court, I think. Oh, yes, he's all right; gone up stream, they have, and a nice day they've got."

This was what Jasper needed; and after strolling about among the boats for a few minutes more he started off along the bank, keeping at such a distance from the stream that, though he could see all who passed in the boats, no one on the river could see him.

The beauty of the day, the shimmer and sparkle of the river, with the soft lap of its waters, the singing of the birds over his head, all had no effect on him. His dark, beady eyes noted nothing but the boats that passed, none of which, as yet—though the afternoon was waning fast—contained Adrien and Lady Merivale.

Yet he knew that he had not missed them, for he had taken his lunch on the balcony of an inn commanding a view of the river, which he had kept under survey from the time he had reached Hampton earlier in the day.

Steadily, with the persistence of a bloodhound tracking its prey, he walked on and on, until he came to a village, or rather a collection of homesteads. Very small it was, consisting only of an inn, a house, half cottage and half shop, and a few red-tiled cottages wherein the bargemen lived, when they were at home, which was seldom. In the bright sunlight, the blue sky overhead and the shining river in the foreground, it formed a pretty enough picture.

In the little shop parlour now sat a woman and her husband, at their five-o'clock tea.

"John Ashford, Grocer," was the inscription over the shop door; and these were John Ashford and his wife Lucy. They had two children, now playing by the river side; and were, as the bargemen's wives expressed it, "doing comfortable."

The man's face was a good-humoured one, round, honest in expression, and commonplace. His wife was not so ordinary; a fair-haired, small-figured little woman, she showed traces of having been a "village beauty" in her young days, of the pink-and-white, shallow type. But in her eyes, and along the corners of her somewhat weak-looking mouth, there were signs of an ever-present fear.

Even now, as she sat pouring out her husband's tea, her habitual nervousness showed itself in the restless movements of her unoccupied hand, and the sudden start with which she would greet the slightest unexpected sound, or the knocking of a customer on the little counter. From where she sat she could see her children, and once or twice she smiled gently as she waved her hand to them, where they were playing with an elder girl who was in charge of them.

"I say, Lucy," said John, as he drank his tea noisily, "how's the girl going on? Getting over her shyness a bit, ain't she?"

His wife started; but he was evidently too accustomed to this to notice her.

"Yes," she said, reaching out for his cup. "Poor girl, she's seen some trouble, I'll be bound; and for one so young, too, and innocent. The world's a hard place!"

"Yes, indeed," agreed John Ashford, with a glance through the window, where the little group of three were playing. "Let me see, she's been here a matter of four weeks, hasn't she—since I went over to Walton. Rum thing me finding her at all. If I hadn't come across the moor instead of along the road, she'd 'ave been in that furze bush still."

Mrs. Ashford shuddered at the suggestions of his words.

"She hasn't given us no account of herself now," he continued in his hearty, good-tempered voice. "Not even her name, 'cept—what d'ye call it?"

"Jessica," put in his wife. "I call her Jessie, sounds more homelike."

"And hasn't she told you anything more as to why she tramped out of London?"

"No, nothing more," said his wife, "except that she couldn't bear the crowds. I haven't asked her either, John. She's a good girl, you can see that; and penniless as well as homeless. I should hate to send her to the workhouse, or perhaps worse," she half whispered. "If she's got a secret in her heart, we'll let her keep it, dear. Perhaps we all have a little corner in our hearts marked 'Private,'" she added in a low voice.

"Excepting you and me, my dear!" said John, wiping his mouth as he rose from the table, and coming round to kiss her.

She started again and paled a little.

"Of course, dear," she said; "I wasn't thinking of us."

"We've no secrets," said the good-natured grocer, as he took down his hat and coat from behind the door. "Our hearts are open like them clocks, with all the works outside, eh, Lucy, my dear?" Laughing at his own simile, he kissed her again.

"If you'll take care of the shop," he went on, as he opened the door, "I'll just run over to Richmond for those jams and things. Old Tucker's cart is going over, and he'll lend me a hand."

"Get along, then," replied his wife, "and don't forget we want some more spices."

"Right you are," said the husband, and with a wave of his hand to her he went down the path, the two children running to meet him.

Lucy Ashford stood at the door and looked after him wistfully.

"Poor John," she murmured, as she went back to clear away the tea-things. "What would he do to me, if he knew?"

Her thoughts went back to the great secret of her life. It was that which caused her strange nervousness. She had repented of the past truly enough, and no better wife could have been found throughout the kingdom; but the secret had eaten into her life. She strove now to put it away from her; for she knew she was in reality safe enough. Only her father and Mr. Vermont knew—and the latter she had not seen for years.

Now, therefore, she put away her cups and saucers and called gaily to the children, as they came running back. The girl who had been playing with them came too; and as she approached the cottage she raised her head and smiled. Lucy Ashford stooped to kiss the children, then said kindly to Jessica—for it was indeed she:

"I expect you are tired with them now, my dear. Come and sit down with me for a little while."

Jessica raised her dark eyes gratefully.

"No, ma'am, thank you. I'm not tired. I love the children; they are so good to me."

Lucy's eyes shone. What mother does not believe that her children are the best in the world? She had been like an angel of mercy to the tired girl when her husband had brought her into the little home. She had put her to bed, fed her, and clothed her in old things of her own; and she had neither questioned nor worried her since.

Jessica, only too thankful to find a home for the present, and realising the hopelessness of her strange passion for Adrien Leroy, had done what she could to repay her benefactress by helping her in the little shop, and playing with and taking care of the children. Now, at their request, she took them back to the river side again, while Lucy sat down at the table before a pile of sewing.



CHAPTER XX

Meanwhile, Adrien's skiff was moored at the landing-place of an old inn, some distance further up the river. Under a rustic porch Lady Merivale was finishing her tea, while her companion enjoyed a cigarette.

Alas! for the irony of fate! This day, during which he had strenuously endeavoured to forget Constance, had only shown him more plainly the utter impossibility of doing so. If he had but known the opportunity he had missed with that letter, his mortification and despair would have been even greater.

Constance had regretted her policy in sending Adrien from her almost before the day was over, and had purposely planned this way of seeing him. Deeming his outing—thanks to Jasper's clever insinuations—to have been undertaken on purpose to avoid her, the girl's heart was heavy within her, and filled with something very like resentment too.

Adrien, on the other hand, all unwitting of the harm this excursion had done his cause, had talked long and quietly with Lady Merivale. He had made up his mind to break away even from these silken strings.

"So you have determined to leave me?" she said sadly.

He nodded.

"You know I must," he replied. "For your sake, as well as mine, it is best."

"Perhaps you are right," she said in a low voice. "So this is the last happy day we shall spend together?"

"Yes," he answered with a sigh. "Now, standing here, I see only too well that we ought never to have spent any at all. I dread lest I have spoilt your happiness, Eveline, lest a breath of slander should touch your name. I will not deny that I had of late hoped to marry and settle down as my father wishes, but it is not to be. Don't laugh at me when I tell you I am going to turn over a new leaf. After this ball at Barminster, I shall go abroad for awhile. That will give the world time to forget we have ever had more than a passing acquaintance."

Tears rolled down Eveline's face as she listened to his words. She had played her last card, and she knew the game was lost; though it was her vanity that suffered more than her heart. She was too clever and too proud to resist any further, however, or sue for his favour. Presently she rose, and said, as steadily as usual:

"Come, Adrien, let us turn down stream and retrace our way while we can see. It is dusk already—I had no idea it had grown so late."

He helped her into the little skiff in silence; and as the Sea Foam glided over the rippling waters a profound stillness seemed to descend over the darkening landscape.

Presently Lady Merivale peered forward.

"This half-light is so deceptive," she said, in a rather nervous voice; "I nearly steered you into the bank then."

"Can you see?" he asked. "Put down the lines and let me guide the boat."

"No, no," she replied. "I can see well enough."

"Just as you like," he said gently. "I will row quicker. It's time we were in Hampton. For what hour did you order the car?"

"I came by train," she answered.

"I have my motor," said Leroy; "I suppose you would not return in that?"

"Good Heavens, no!" she exclaimed. "Whatever would people think? No, I'll return by train, and take a taxi from Waterloo. I shall even then be in time to dress for Lady Martindale's 'At Home.'"

He did not seek to alter her decision, but sent the boat along with rapid strokes, which broke up the placid water into ripples at each plunge of the oars.

Lady Merivale leaned forward and gave a sudden start.

"Look, look!" she cried in terror-stricken tones. "What is that?" She pointed to a sheet of spray rising and falling a few yards from them, or rather below them. Adrien turned his head to see the cause of her alarm, and his very heart seemed to stop beating.

"Sit still," he cried, "for Heaven's sake. You have steered us near the weir!"

With all his strength he started to row back. The strain was tremendous. That line of silver spray marked their fall to instant and certain death. No aid was possible; the solitude of the woods and lands was as absolute as if they had been in an unknown country. All he could do was to keep the woman in whose safety he was concerned quiet, if not reassured, while he exerted every nerve in his body to withdraw the little craft from the danger line.

"Cling to the boat," he shouted loudly, for the falling water rang in his ears with a deafening roar.

As he spoke, the frail craft capsized, and its occupants were plunged into the foaming, churning water. Leroy made a frantic grasp at his companion's dress, but missed it. A second later, he saw, in the midst of the foam, her slight form being carried down to the weir. With a cry of horror he struck out, in an attempt to rescue her.

In those few awful seconds he prayed that the punishment of their light-hearted folly might not fall on the woman, but on him; that his life might be lost, sooner than her good name.

Luckily, he was an expert swimmer; and aided by the stream, which was as swift as a mill-race, he soon managed to get within reach of Lady Merivale. With a great effort he grasped her firmly, and, turning slowly and painfully, swung aslant the stream to the opposite bank.

Her face was white, as if life were already extinct. Her eyes were closed.

"Heaven grant me her life!" he groaned, as, panting and nearly exhausted, he dragged himself and his precious burden up on the bank.

He laid her down and felt for some signs of life; to his intense gratitude, she still breathed; and with a silent prayer of thankfulness, he turned to look for assistance.

At a little distance a light burned in a window. Without pausing an instant, he took the still form in his arms and hastened towards it.

All unconscious of the struggle for life going on so close to her, Lucy Ashford sat working busily, her pretty face lifted to the clock every minute or so, as she waited for her husband to return.

The children were in bed, and Jessica was just coming down the tiny staircase when a sharp knock sounded at the outer door, causing Lucy to drop her work in her usual terror at any unexpected sound.

The shop had been closed, it was too late for rural customers, and wondering who it could be, she took up her candle and went to the door.

Timidly she pulled back the latch and peered out. A gentleman stood on the threshold with his face towards the river. At the sound of the opening door, he turned. Down went the candle with a crash and splutter; up went the two hands to her face.

Mr. Jasper Vermont stood looking down at her with a cruel, amused smile for a moment; then in his soft, purring voice he said:

"I'm afraid I've startled you, Miss—Mrs. Ashford. Pray let me recover the candle. There that's better." As he spoke he pushed past her into the dimly lighted shop.

"Quite startled, eh?" he continued blandly. "Unwelcome visitor, I suppose?"

"No, no!" breathed the poor little woman, who at the moment resembled a sparrow in the clutches of a hawk, or a mouse beneath the paw of its enemy, the cat. "No, no, I—I am very glad to see you, sir. Will you come in?"

At this faint welcome Mr. Vermont smiled still more.

"Thank you, Mrs. Lucy," he said, "I think I will," and he followed her into the spotless sitting-room.

Meanwhile, Jessica, at the first sound of a strange voice, and afraid of being sought for by Wilfer, had concealed herself at the back of the house.

Jasper looked round the room in mock admiration.

"What a delightful little place you have here," he continued. "Most charming! Commerce and romance mingled together, I declare. And now," sinking into a seat and fixing his eyes upon the white, frightened face of his victim, "how is your husband, Mr. John Ashford?"

"Very well, sir," faltered the miserable woman, praying with all her heart that John might not come home.

"And the children," continued her persecutor; "two, are there not? Pretty little dears! I'm so fond of children, you know, Mrs. Lucy. Quite a happy woman you must be. A most comfortable little house, I never saw anything like it, excepting once, and that was at Canterbury."

The poor woman, her worst fears realised, fell down on her knees, and turned up her white face piteously to the cruel, mocking one above her.

"Oh, sir, kind, good sir," she implored, "spare me! You will not, say you will not ruin me? We are so happy; it will break his heart if he learns my secret. He is so good. The children! Have pity on them at least, sir, and do not betray me."

Jasper smiled, and Lucy became even more incoherent.

"Oh, sir," she cried, the tears streaming down her white face unheeded. "I was so young, so giddy and thoughtless, and that man was so wicked. He tempted me. Oh, Mr. Vermont, sir, I will pray every night for you as I pray for John and my little ones, if you will but spare me and keep my secret."

She might just as well have prayed to the wooden table, as expect any mercy or pity from this man, to whom such abject misery was better than meat and drink.

With a contemptuous gesture, as if to spurn her from his sight, he said:

"Get up, my good woman. I shall keep your secret as long as it pleases me. Perhaps for ever, who can tell? Good John, simple John," he laughed maliciously. "He little thinks his wife was given to taking trips to Canterbury with handsome young men. There! There!" he added, as a moan of anguish burst from the dry lips of the tortured woman. "That will do. I shan't enlighten good kind John, as long as you do what I want. I need a bed. I'm going to sleep here to-night. Hullo! who's that?" He broke off suddenly, as Jessica, tired of waiting outside for his departure, entered the room, her dark eyes dilated with anxiety.

She paused at the sound of his voice, and stared at him. She recognised him as the man she had seen with Leroy, and some subtle instinct seemed to tell her that he was evil. Jasper, too, stared at her uneasily. A memory of another person, strangely like her, crossed his mind, but he was too full of his knowledge concerning Leroy to consider any fresh train of thought.

Mrs. Ashford hastily composed her features.

"Only a girl stopping here," she said hurriedly; then, turning to the silent spectator, she said, "Go, my dear, I shall not want you at present," and Jessica gladly left the room, while Jasper, taking her to be a servant, gave no more thought to her.

"Now what about a room?" he said imperiously, as he took off his light overcoat.

"You shall have the best, sir," replied Lucy, only too eager to conciliate him. "Anything—everything we have is yours."

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," yawned Jasper. "Set about it then."

He was tired, for he had done a great deal of walking for him, who was accustomed to use his own or his friend's motor for every journey, great or small. Besides, he had somehow missed Adrien despite his care, and was greatly puzzled and irritated.

He was turning to follow Lucy, when there came a sound of footsteps, followed by another loud knock at the door, and a man's commanding voice:

"Help! Quick here with a light!"

Lucy screamed, and Jasper Vermont turned rather pale, for he instantly recognised the voice as that of the man he had sought so diligently all that day. But he had no desire to be discovered just then, so, taking the frightened woman almost savagely by the arm, he whispered fiercely:

"You may let him in—I know him. But if he finds out that I am here, I will tell John all to-night; remember that. Hide me somewhere where I can see—do you understand? Quick!"

The knocking commenced again, and under its cover, Lucy, trembling like a leaf, opened a door, the upper part of which was glazed, and which led from the small room to the kitchen. Into this ambush Mr. Vermont hurried, while Lucy ran to the other door and threw it open to admit Adrien Leroy, who staggered into the room with his dripping burden in his arms.

"I'm sorry to knock you up," he said, trying to reassure her, "but this lady is nearly dead; our boat upset."

"Bring her in here, sir," said the good little woman, her courage and self-possession returning under the emergency. "She had better come up to the bedroom, poor lady."

Adrien carried Eveline up the narrow staircase, followed by Lucy, who had hastily produced some spirits with which to restore consciousness.

"You had better fetch a doctor, sir," she called after Adrien, as he came down again.

Leroy hesitated. He knew that Lady Merivale valued her reputation more than her life. To fetch a doctor might save the latter, but would most certainly ruin the former; for no medical man would permit her to return to London that night, and, in that case, discovery would be inevitable.

Troubled and worn with anxiety, he paced to and fro in the room behind the shop, regardless of his own dripping clothes, while Jasper, behind the little window curtain, watched him sardonically, his lips wreathed in a smile. He was well content with this finish of his day's holiday—if such it might be called; for he knew that he held Lady Merivale in the hollow of his hand. She, who had sneered at his position, while yet making every use of his services, would in the future be but another of his puppets; and he foresaw a goodly profit from the outlay of this day's time and money.

Presently Lucy ran down.

"Where's the doctor, sir?" she asked. "Oh, didn't you go after all? Well, it doesn't matter, for the lady is alive and better."

"Thank Heaven!" ejaculated Leroy fervently.

"She says she doesn't need one."

"I understand," replied Adrien. "Is she well enough to sit up, or move?"

"Yes, sir—at least, she says so," answered Lucy. "She is changing her clothes for some of mine, sir; and she says that if you get a carriage—"

Adrien nodded.

"I understand," he said again. "Is there an inn near here where I can hire one?"

"Oh, yes, sir," replied Lucy. She quickly directed him to the tiny river hostel not far off, and Adrien disappeared.

Had it not been for that grim presence behind the door, whom, in her excitement, she had nearly forgotten, Lucy would have wished John to come home quickly; as it was, she trembled at every fresh sound as she went upstairs again to her patient.

By means of that most potent magic—gold, Leroy quickly procured a carriage, old and dusty; but a veritable thing of beauty in such a strait as this. He meant to get to Hampton, and from there use his own motor. He hastened back to the little shop, and, summoning Lucy, sent her up with a message.

"Tell the lady," he said quickly, "I have a carriage waiting, and if she is strong enough, we can start at once."

The news acted like a tonic; for in a marvellously short time Lady Merivale, pale but resolute, came downstairs into the little sitting-room.

She was wrapped up in shawls, and a long cloak covered her from head to foot. Too upset to speak, she motioned with her hand to Adrien to open the door; and, laying a ten-pound note on the table, he said a few words of thanks to Lucy, then led the unhappy countess to the carriage.

No sooner had the horse started than her calmness gave way. She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

"Adrien," she sobbed, "I am ruined."

"No," said Leroy reassuringly, "you are safe, now. This man is promised ten pounds if he reaches Hampton in half an hour. My motor is waiting there. I myself will drive you to Waterloo Station; there you can get a taxi, without attracting any attention, and you will reach home before ten. Your husband will think you stayed to dine with Lady Rose."

"But you—you!" she wailed, "Will you promise——"

"I," he said, with a laugh of scorn at her doubt of him. "This day of my life is yours; none will ever hear from me how it was spent, and you know it."

"You swear?"

"I give you my word," he said simply. "I can give no stronger oath than that."

Lady Merivale sank back with a sigh of relief.

Alas! Leroy did not pause to reflect that, let happen what might, there was one day of his life he could not account for—one whole day of which he had sworn to keep silent.

Faster and faster went the great car, at a pace that would have shocked chauffeur and policeman alike, but Leroy was reckless; a woman's honour and his own were in imminent peril. Death were sweeter than his failure to save it.

It was not much after nine when the car rolled into Waterloo Station, and Leroy assisted his trembling companion to alight. Wrapped up in Lucy's big coat, she stood quietly by while Leroy left his car in the care of an outside porter, then led her apparently towards the booking office. Passing through this, they manoeuvred to reach the outside, where a taxi was hailed, and the address given.

Thankful at their escape, Leroy stood bareheaded till it disappeared in the throng of vehicles; then he returned to his own motor, as he thought, unseen and unnoticed.

Alas for his vain hopes! Miss Penelope and Constance, after a long day's shopping, had come to Waterloo on their way back to Barminster. The sharp eyes of Lady Constance, quickened by love, recognised the figure of Adrien from afar; and, making some excuse to Miss Penelope, she followed and watched the departure.

She did not recognise the lady, it is true; but she saw sufficient to realise that her worst fears were fulfilled. Adrien had neglected her letter for the sake of another woman.

Jasper waited patiently until the sound of the carriage wheels had died away into the distance, then he came out of his hiding-place, his face pale, his eyes shining.

"Lucy Ashford," he said, sinking into a chair, and holding up one finger in solemn warning, "you may be asked some day to give an account of what has taken place to-night. Remember this; you know nothing, you recognised no one—till I give you leave. Disobey me, and the story of your Canterbury trip becomes the property of the whole world. I'll proclaim it through every newspaper in the world."

Trembling and crying, and too ignorant to realise the absurdity of this threat, Lucy swore to be silent; and then, to her intense relief, Mr. Vermont changed his mind as to staying the night, and announced his decision of returning to London.



CHAPTER XXI

On the night of that fateful trip, when Leroy returned to his chambers, he found Lady Constance's letter. Already tired with the events of the day, and the struggle in the water, this proved an overwhelming blow. The thought that he had spent the day in idle dalliance, when he might have been with the woman he truly loved—might have basked in the warmth of her presence, even though she would never be his, drove him almost to madness.

Jasper Vermont, who had followed him back to town by the first train obtainable, called in at Jermyn Court, and found him pacing up and down the room, more troubled and unhappy than he had ever been in the whole course of his pampered, shielded life. Vermont listened and sympathised, and stabbed afresh, with his artful accounts of Lady Constance's anger at the fancied slight. He was altogether delighted at the way in which things had turned out, though he did not know how Fortune had aided him still more at Waterloo Station.

On the following morning Leroy received a cypher note from Lady Merivale, saying that she had arrived home safely, and unnoticed; and, with a sigh of relief, he turned his attention to his own affairs. To Jasper's supreme annoyance, he insisted on going through a pile of papers which Vermont had only meant him to sign; and to that gentleman's chagrin he actually dared to interfere in the matter of rents and leases; which proceeding, naturally, did not tend to make Jasper feel the more kindly disposed to the world in general, and Adrien Leroy in particular.

When he had taken his departure, Adrien ordered the motor, and drove down to Barminster with the intention of offering an apology for his seeming discourtesy. He found all in confusion and excitement in view of the coming ball; and, whether by accident or design, he found it impossible to get a single word with Constance alone.