The whistle blew shrilly, the last goodbyes were spoken, the guard shouted 'All aboard for Melbourne,' and shut all the doors, then, with another shriek and puff of white steam, the train, like a long, lithe serpent, glided into the rain and darkness with its human freight.

'At last I have rid myself of this dead weight,' said Vandeloup, as he drove along the wet streets to Craig's Hotel, where he intended to stay for the night, 'and can now shape my own fortune. Pierre is gone, Bebe will follow, and now I must look after myself.'



CHAPTER XVIII

M. VANDELOUP IS UNJUSTLY SUSPECTED

'It never rains but it pours' is an excellent proverb, and a very true one, for it is remarkable how events of a similar nature follow closely on one another's heels when the first that happened has set the ball a-rolling. Madame Midas believed to a certain extent in this, and she half expected that when Pierre went he would be followed by M. Vandeloup, but she certainly did not think that the disappearance of her husband would be followed by that of Kitty Marchurst. Yet such was the case, for Mr Marchurst, not seeing Kitty at family prayers, had sent in the servant to seek for her, and the scared domestic had returned with a startled face and a letter for her master. Marchurst read the tear-blotted little note, in which Kitty said she was going down to Melbourne to appear on the stage. Crushing it up in his hand, he went on with family prayers in his usual manner, and after dismissing his servants for the night, he went up to his daughter's room, and found that she had left nearly everything behind, only taking a few needful things with her. Seeing her portrait on the wall he took it down and placed it in his pocket. Then, searching through her room, he found some ribbons and lace, a yellow-backed novel, which he handled with the utmost loathing, and a pair of gloves. Regarding these things as the instruments of Satan, by which his daughter had been led to destruction, he carried them downstairs to his dismal study and piled them in the empty fireplace. Placing his daughter's portrait on top he put a light to the little pile of frivolities, and saw them slowly burn away. The novel curled and cracked in the scorching flame, but the filmy lace vanished like cobwebs, and the gloves crackled and shrank into mere wisps of black leather. And over all, through the flames, her face, bright and charming, looked out with laughing lips and merry eyes—so like her mother's, and yet so unlike in its piquant grace—until that too fell into the hollow heart of the flames, and burned slowly away into a small pile of white ashes.

Marchurst, leaving the dead ashes cold and grey in the dark fireplace, went to his writing table, and falling on his knees he passed the rest of the night in prayer.

Meanwhile, the man who was the primary cause of all this trouble was working in the office of the Pactolus claim with a light heart and cool head. Gaston had really managed to get Kitty away in a very clever manner, inasmuch as he never appeared publicly to be concerned in it, but directed the whole business secretly. He had given Kitty sufficient money to keep her for some months in Melbourne, as he was in doubt when he could leave the Pactolus without being suspected of being concerned in her disappearance. He also told her what day to leave, and all that day stayed at the mine working at his accounts, and afterwards spent the evening very pleasantly with Madame Midas. Next day McIntosh went into Ballarat on business, and on returning from the city, where he had heard all about it—rumour, of course, magnifying the whole affair greatly—he saw Vandeloup come out of the office, and drew up in the trap beside the young man.

'Aha, Monsieur,' said Vandeloup, gaily, rolling a cigarette in his slender fingers, and shooting a keen glance at Archie; 'you have had a pleasant day.'

'Maybe yes, maybe no,' returned McIntosh, cautiously, fumbling in the bag; 'there's naething muckle in the toun, but—deil tack the bag,' he continued, tetchily shaking it. 'I've gotten a letter or so fra' France.'

'For me?' cried Vandeloup, eagerly, holding out his hands.

'An' for who else would it be?' grumbled Archie, giving the letter to him—a thin, foreign looking envelope with the Parisian post mark on it; 'did ye think it was for that black-avised freend o' yours?'

'Hardly!' returned Vandeloup, glancing at the letter with satisfaction, and putting it in his pocket. 'Pierre couldn't write himself, and I doubt very much if he had any friends who could—not that I knew his friends,' he said, hastily catching sight of McIntosh's severe face bent inquiringly on him, 'but like always draws to like.'

Archie's only answer to this was a grunt.

'Are ye no gangin' tae read yon?' he asked sourly.

'Not at present,' replied Vandeloup, blowing a thin wreath of blue smoke, 'by-and-bye will do. Scandal and oysters should both be fresh to be enjoyable, but letters—ah, bah,' with a shrug, 'they can wait. Come, tell me the news; anything going on?'

'Weel,' said McIntosh, with great gusto, deliberately flicking a fly off the horse's back with a whip, 'she's ta'en the bit intil her mouth and gane wrang, as I said she would.'

'To what special "she" are you alluding to?' asked Vandeloup, lazily smoothing his moustache; 'so many of them go wrong, you see, one likes to be particular. The lady's name is—?'

'Katherine Marchurst, no less,' burst forth Archie, in triumph; 'she's rin awa' to be a play-actor.'

'What? that child?' said Vandeloup, with an admirable expression of surprise; 'nonsense! It cannot be true.'

'D'ye think I would tell a lee?' said Archie, wrathfully, glowering down on the tall figure pacing leisurely along. 'God forbid that my lips should fa' tae sic iniquity. It's true, I tell ye; the lass has rin awa' an' left her faither—a godly mon, tho' I'm no of his way of thinkin—to curse the day he had sic a bairn born until him. Ah, 'tis sorrow and dule she hath brought tae his roof tree, an' sorrow and dule wull be her portion at the hands o' strangers,' and with this scriptural ending Mr McIntosh sharply whipped up Rory, and went on towards the stable, leaving Vandeloup standing in the road.

'I don't think he suspects, at all events,' thought that young man, complacently. 'As to Madame Midas—pouf! I can settle her suspicions easily; a little virtuous indignation is most effective as a blind;' and M. Vandeloup, with a gay laugh, strolled on towards the house in the gathering twilight.

Suddenly he recollected the letter, which had escaped his thoughts, in his desire to see how McIntosh would take the disappearance of Kitty, so as there was still light to see, he leaned up against a fence, and, having lighted another cigarette, read it through carefully. It appeared to afford him considerable satisfaction, and he smiled as he put it in his pocket again.

'It seems pretty well forgotten, this trouble about Adele,' he said, musingly, as he resumed his saunter; 'I might be able to go back again in a few years, if not to Paris at least to Europe—one can be very happy in Monaco or Vienna, and run no risk of being found out; and, after all,' he muttered, thoughtfully, fingering his moustache, 'why not to Paris? The Republic has lasted too long already. Sooner or later there will be a change of Government, and then I can go back a free man, with a fortune of Australian gold. Emperor, King, or President, it's all the same to me, as long as I am left alone.'

He walked on slowly, thinking deeply all the time, and when he arrived at the door of Mrs Villiers' house, this clever young man, with his accustomed promptitude and decision, had settled what he was going to do.

'Up to a certain point, of course,' he said aloud, following his thoughts, 'after that, chance must decide.'

Madame Midas was very much grieved at the news of Kitty's Escapade, particularly as she could not see what motive she had for running away, and, moreover, trembled to think of the temptations the innocent girl would be exposed to in the metropolis. After tea, when Archie had gone outside to smoke his pipe, and Selina was busy in the kitchen washing the dishes, she spoke to Vandeloup on the subject. The young Frenchman was seated at the piano in the darkness, striking a few random chords, while Madame was by the fire in the arm-chair. It was quite dark, with only the rosy glow of the fire shining through the room. Mrs Villiers felt uneasy; was it likely that Vandeloup could have any connection with Kitty's disappearance? Impossible! he had given her his word of honour, and yet—it was very strange. Mrs Villiers was not, by any means, a timid woman, so she determined to ask Gaston right out, and get a decided answer from him, so as to set her mind at rest.

'M. Vandeloup,' she said, in her clear voice, 'will you kindly come here a moment?

'Certainly, Madame,' said Gaston, rising with alacrity from the piano, and coming to the fireside; 'is there anything I can do?'

'You have heard of Miss Marchurst's disappearance?' she asked, looking up at him.

Vandeloup leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece, and looked down into the fire, so that the full blaze of it could strike his face. He knew Madame Midas prided herself on being a reader of character, and knowing he could command his features admirably, he thought it would be politic to let her see his face, and satisfy herself as to his innocence.

'Yes, Madame,' he answered, in his calm, even tones, looking down inquiringly at the statuesque face of the woman addressing him; 'Monsieur,' nodding towards the door, 'told me, but I did not think it true.'

'I'm afraid it is,' sighed Madame, shaking her head. 'She is going on the stage, and her father will never forgive her.'

'Surely, Madame—' began Vandeloup, eagerly.

'No,' she replied, decisively, 'he is not a hard man, but his way of looking at things through his peculiar religious ideas has warped his judgment—he will make no attempt to save her, and God knows what she will come to.'

'There are good women on the stage,' said Vandeloup, at a loss for a reply.

'Certainly,' returned Madame, calmly, 'there are black and white sheep in every flock, but Kitty is so young and inexperienced, that she may become the prey of the first handsome scoundrel she meets.'

Madame had intuitively guessed the whole situation, and Vandeloup could not help admiring her cleverness. Still his face remained the same, and his voice was as steady as ever as he answered—

'It is much to be regretted; but still we must hope for the best.'

Was he guilty? Madame could not make up her mind, so determined to speak boldly.

'Do you remember that day I introduced her to you?'

Vandeloup bowed.

'And you gave me your word of honour you would not try to turn her head,' pursued Madame, looking at him; 'have you kept your word?'

'Madame,' said Vandeloup, gravely, 'I give you my word of honour that I have always treated Mlle Kitty as a child and your friend. I did not know that she had gone until I was told, and whatever happens to her, I can safely say that it was not Gaston Vandeloup's fault.'

An admirable actor this man, not a feature of his face moved, not a single deviation from the calmness of his speech—not a quickening of the pulse, nor the rush of betraying blood to his fair face—no! Madame withdrew her eyes quite satisfied, M. Vandeloup was the soul of honour and was innocent of Kitty's disgrace.

'Thank God!' she said, reverently, as she looked away, for she would have been bitterly disappointed to have found her kindness to this man repaid by base treachery towards her friend; 'I cannot tell you how relieved I feel.'

M. Vandeloup withdrew his face into the darkness, and smiled in a devilish manner to himself. How these women believed—was there any lie too big for the sex to swallow? Evidently not—at least, so he thought. But now that Kitty was disposed of, he had to attend to his own private affairs, and put his hand in his pocket for the letter.

'I wanted to speak to you on business, Madame,' he said, taking out the letter; 'the long-expected has come at last.'

'You have heard from Paris?' asked Madame, in an eager voice.

'I have,' answered the Frenchman, calmly; 'I have now the letter in my hand, and as soon as Mlle Selina brings in the lights I will show it to you.'

At this moment, as if in answer to his request, Selina appeared with the lamp, which she had lighted in the kitchen and now brought in to place on the table. When she did so, and had retired again, Vandeloup placed his letter in Madame's hand, and asked her to read it.

'Oh, no, Monsieur,' said Mrs Villiers, offering it back, 'I do not wish to read your private correspondence.'

Vandeloup had calculated on this, for, as a matter of fact, there was a good deal of private matter in the letter, particularly referring to his trip to New Caledonia, which he would not have allowed her to see. But he knew it would inspire her with confidence in him if he placed it wholly in her hands, and resolved to boldly venture to do so. The result was as he guessed; so, with a smile, he took it back again.

'There is nothing private in it, Madame,' he said, opening the letter; 'I wanted you to see that I had not misrepresented myself— it is from my family lawyer, and he has sent me out a remittance of money, also some letters of introduction to my consul in Melbourne and others; in fact,' said M. Vandeloup, with a charming smile, putting the letter in his pocket, 'it places me in my rightful position, and I shall assume it as soon as I have your permission.'

'But why my permission ?' asked Madame, with a faint smile, already regretting bitterly that she was going to lose her pleasant companion.

'Madame,' said Vandeloup, impressively, bending forward, 'in the words of the Bible—when I was hungry you gave me food; when I was naked you gave me raiment. You took me on, Madame, an unknown waif, without money, friends, or a character; you believed in me when no one else did; you have been my guardian angel: and do you think that I can forget your goodness to me for the last six months? No! Madame,' rising, 'I have a heart, and while I live that heart will ever remember you with gratitude and love;' and bending forward he took her hand and kissed it gallantly.

'You think too much of what I have done,' said Madame, who was, nevertheless, pleased at this display of emotion, albeit, according to her English ideas, it seemed to savour too much of the footlights. 'I only did to you what I would do to all men. I am glad, in this instance, to find my confidence has not been misplaced; when do you think of leaving us?'

'In about two or three weeks,' answered Vandeloup, carelessly, 'but not till you find another clerk; besides, Madame, do not think you have lost sight of me for ever; I will go down to Melbourne, settle all my affairs, and come up and see you again.'

'So you say,' replied Mrs Villiers, sceptically smiling.

'Well,' replied M. Vandeloup, with a shrug, 'we will see—at all events, gratitude is such a rare virtue that there is decided novelty in possessing it.'

'M. Vandeloup,' said Madame, suddenly, after they had been chatting for a few moments, 'one thing you must do for me in Melbourne.'

'I will do anything you wish,' said Vandeloup, gravely.

'Then,' said Madame, earnestly, rising and looking him in the face, 'you must find Kitty, and send her back to me.'

'Madame,' said Vandeloup, solemnly, 'it will be the purpose of my life to restore her to your arms.'



CHAPTER XIX

THE DEVIL'S LEAD

There was great dismay at the Pactolus Mine when it became known that Vandeloup was going to leave. During his short stay he had made himself extremely popular with the men, as he always had a bright smile and a kind word for everyone, so they all felt like losing a personal friend. The only two who were unfeigningly glad at Vandeloup's departure were Selina and McIntosh, for these two faithful hearts had seen with dismay the influence the Frenchman was gradually gaining over Madame Midas. As long as Villiers lived they felt safe, but now that he had so mysteriously disappeared, and was to all appearances dead, they dreaded lest their mistress, in a moment of infatuation, should marry her clerk. They need not, however, have been afraid, for much as Mrs Villiers liked the young Frenchman, such an idea had never entered her head, and she was far too clever a woman ever to tempt matrimony a second time, seeing how dearly it had cost her.

Madame Midas had made great efforts to find Kitty, but without success; and, in spite of all inquiries and advertisements in the papers, nothing could be discovered regarding the missing girl.

At last the time drew near for Vandeloup's departure, when all the sensation of Kitty's escapade and Villiers' disappearance was swallowed up in a new event, which filled Ballarat with wonder. It began in a whisper, and grew into such a roar of astonishment that not only Ballarat, but all Victoria, knew that the far-famed Devil's Lead had been discovered in the Pactolus claim. Yes, after years of weary waiting, after money had been swallowed up in apparently useless work, after sceptics had sneered and friends laughed, Madame Midas obtained her reward. The Devil's Lead was discovered, and she was now a millionaire.

For some time past McIntosh had not been satisfied with the character of the ground in which he had been working, so abandoning the shaft he was then in, he had opened up another gallery to the west, at right angles from the place where the famous nugget had been found. The wash was poor at first, but McIntosh persevered, having an instinct that he was on the right track. A few weeks' work proved that he was right, for the wash soon became richer; and as they went farther on towards the west, following the gutter, there was no doubt that the long-lost Devil's Lead had been struck. The regular return had formerly been five ounces to the machine, but now the washing up invariably gave twenty ounces, and small nuggets of water-worn gold were continually found in the three machines. The main drive following the lead still continued dipping westward, and McIntosh now commenced blocking and putting in side galleries, expecting when this was done he would thoroughly prove the Devil's Lead, for he was quite satisfied he was on it. Even now the yield was three hundred and sixty ounces a week, and after deducting working expenses, this gave Madame Midas a weekly income of one thousand one hundred pounds, so she now began to see what a wealthy woman she was likely to be. Everyone unfeigningly rejoiced at her good fortune, and said that she deserved it. Many thought that now she was so rich Villiers would come back again, but he did not put in an appearance, and it was generally concluded he had left the colony.

Vandeloup congratulated Madame Midas on her luck when he was going away, and privately determined that he would not lose sight of her, as, being a wealthy woman, and having a liking for him, she would be of great use. He took his farewell gracefully, and went away, carrying the good wishes of all the miners; but McIntosh and Selina, still holding to their former opinion, were secretly pleased at his departure. Madame Midas made him a present of a hundred pounds, and, though he refused it, saying that he had money from France, she asked him as a personal favour to take it; so M. Vandeloup, always gallant to ladies, could not refuse. He went in to Ballarat, and put up at the Wattle Tree Hotel, intending to start for the metropolis next morning; but on his way, in order to prepare Kitty for his coming, sent a telegram for her, telling her the train he would arrive by, in order that she might be at the station to meet him.

After his dinner he suddenly recollected that he still had the volume which Dr Gollipeck had lent him, so, calling a cab, he drove to the residence of that eccentric individual to return it.

When the servant announced M. Vandeloup, she pushed him in and suddenly closed the door after her, as though she was afraid of some of the doctor's ideas getting away.

'Good evening, doctor,' said Vandeloup, laying the book down on the table at which Gollipeck was seated; 'I've come to return you this and say good-bye.'

'Aha, going away?' asked Gollipeck, leaning back in his chair, and looked sharply at the young man through his spectacles, 'right—see the world—you're clever—won't go far wrong—no!'

'It doesn't matter much if I do,' replied Vandeloup, shrugging his shoulders, and taking a chair, 'nobody will bother much about me.'

'Eh!' queried the doctor, sharply, sitting up. 'Paris—friends— relations.'

'My only relation is an aunt with a large family; she's got quite enough to do looking after them, without bothering about me,' retorted M. Vandeloup; 'as to friends—I haven't got one.'

'Oh!' from Gollipeck, with a cynical smile, 'I see; let us say— acquaintances.'

'Won't make any difference,' replied Vandeloup, airily; 'I turned my acquaintances into friends long ago, and then borrowed money off them; result: my social circle is nil. Friends,' went on M. Vandeloup, reflectively, 'are excellent as friends, but damnable as bankers.'

Gollipeck chuckled, and rubbed his hands, for this cynicism pleased him. Suddenly his eye caught the book which the young man had returned.

'You read this?' he said, laying his hand on it; 'good, eh?'

'Very good, indeed,' returned M. Vandeloup, smoothly; 'so kind of you to have lent it to me—all those cases quoted were known to me.'

'The case of Adele Blondet, for instance, eh?' asked the old man sharply.

'Yes, I was present at the trial,' replied Vandeloup, quietly; 'the prisoner Octave Braulard was convicted, condemned to death, reprieved, and sent to New Caledonia.'

'Where he now is,' said Gollipeck, quickly, looking at him.

'I presume so,' replied Vandeloup, lazily. 'After the trial I never bothered my head about him.'

'He poisoned his mistress, Adele Blondet,' said the doctor.

'Yes,' answered Vandeloup, leaning forward and looking at Gollipeck, 'he found she was in love with an Englishman, and poisoned her—you will find it all in the book.'

'It does not mention the Englishman,' said the doctor, thoughtfully tapping the table with his hand.

'Nevertheless he was implicated in it, but went away from Paris the day Braulard was arrested,' answered Vandeloup. 'The police tried to find him, but could not; if they had, it might have made some difference to the prisoner.'

'And the name of this Englishman?'

'Let me see,' said Vandeloup, looking up reflectively; 'I almost forget it—Kestroke or Kestrike, some name like that. He must have been a very clever man to have escaped the French police.'

'Ah, hum!' said the doctor, rubbing his nose, 'very interesting indeed; strange case!'

'Very,' assented M. Vandeloup, as he arose to go, 'I must say good- bye now, doctor; but I am coming up to Ballarat on a visit shortly.'

'Ah, hum! of course,' replied Gollipeck, also rising, 'and we can have another talk over this book.'

'That or any book you like,' said Vandeloup, with a glance of surprise; 'but I don't see why you are so much taken up with that volume; it is not a work of genius.'

'Well, no,' answered Gollipeck, looking at him; 'still, it contains some excellent cases of modern poisoning.'

'So I saw when I read it,' returned Vandeloup, indifferently. 'Good- bye,' holding out his hand, 'or rather I should say au revoir.'

'Wine?' queried the Doctor, hospitably.

Vandeloup shook his head, and walked out of the room with a gay smile, humming a tune. He strolled slowly down Lydiard Street, turning over in his mind what the doctor had said to him.

'He is suspicious,' muttered the young man to himself, thoughtfully, 'although he has nothing to go on in connecting me with the case. Should I use the poison here I must be careful, for that man will be my worst enemy.'

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning round saw Barty Jarper before him. That fashionable young man was in evening dress, and represented such an extent of shirt front and white waistcoat,—not to mention a tall collar, on the top of which his little head was perched like a cocoanut on a stick,—that he was positively resplendent.

'Where are you going to?' asked the gorgeous Barty, smoothing his incipient moustache.

'Well, I really don't know,' answered Vandeloup, lighting a cigarette. 'I am leaving for Melbourne to-morrow morning, but to- night I have nothing to do. You, I see, are engaged,' with a glance at the evening dress.

'Yes,' returned Barty, in a bored voice; 'musical party on,—they want me to sing.'

Vandeloup had heard Barty's vocal performance, and could not forbear a smile as he thought of the young man's three songs with the same accompaniment to each. Suppressing, however, his inclination to laugh, he asked Barty to have a drink, which invitation was promptly accepted, and they walked in search of a hotel. On the way, they passed Slivers' house, and here Vandeloup paused.

'This was the first house I entered here,' he said to Barty, 'and I must go in and say good-bye to my one-armed friend with the cockatoo.'

Mr Jarper, however, drew back.

'I don't like him,' he said bluntly, 'he's an old devil.'

'Oh, it's always as well to accustom oneself to the society of devils,' retorted Vandeloup, coolly, 'we may have to live with them constantly some day.'

Barty laughed at this, and putting his arm in that of Vandeloup's, they went in.

Slivers' door stood ajar in its usual hospitable manner, but all within was dark.

'He must be out,' said Barty, as they stood in the dark passage.

'No,' replied Vandeloup, feeling for a match, 'someone is talking in the office.'

'It's that parrot,' said Barty, with a laugh, as they heard Billy rapidly running over his vocabulary; 'let's go in.'

He pushed open the door, and was about to step into the room, when catching sight of something on the floor, he recoiled with a cry, and caught Vandeloup by the arm.

'What's the matter?' asked the Frenchman, hastily.

'He's dead,' returned Barty, with a sort of gasp; 'see, he's lying on the floor dead!'

And so he was! The oldest inhabitant of Ballarat had joined the great majority, and, as it was afterwards discovered, his death was caused by the breaking of a blood-vessel. The cause of it was not clear, but the fact was, that hearing of the discovery of the Devil's Lead, and knowing that it was lost to him for ever, Slivers had fallen into such a fit of rage, that he burst a blood-vessel and died in his office with no one by him.

The light of the street lamp shone through the dusty windows into the dark room, and in the centre of the yellow splash lay the dead man, with his one eye wide open, staring at the ceiling, while perched on his wooden leg, which was sticking straight out, sat the parrot, swearing. It was a most repulsive sight, and Barty, with a shudder of disgust, tried to drag his companion away, but M. Vandeloup refused to go, and searched his pockets for a match to see more clearly what the body was like.

'Pickles,' cried Billy, from his perch on the dead man's wooden leg; 'oh, my precious mother,—devil take him.'

'My faith,' said M. Vandeloup, striking a match, 'the devil has taken him,' and leaving Barty shivering and trembling at the door, he advanced into the room and stood looking at the body. Billy at his approach hopped off the leg and waddled up to the dead man's shoulder, where he sat cursing volubly, and every now and then going into shrieks of demoniacal laughter. Barty closed his ears to the devilish mirth, and saw M. Vandeloup standing over the corpse, with the faint light of the match flickering in his hand.

'Do you know what this is?' he asked, turning to Barty.

The other looked at him inquiringly.

'It is the comedy of death,' said the Frenchman, throwing down the match and going to the door.

They both went out to seek assistance, and left the dark room with the dead man lying in the pool of yellow light, and the parrot perched on the body, muttering to itself. It was a strange mingling of the horrible and grotesque, and the whole scene was hit off in the phrase applied to it by Vandeloup. It was, indeed, 'The Comedy of Death'!



PART II

CHAPTER I

TEMPUS FUGIT

A whole year had elapsed since the arrival of Vandeloup in Melbourne, and during that time many things had happened. Unfortunately, in spite of his knowledge of human nature, and the fact that he started with a good sum of money, Gaston had not made his fortune. This was due to the fact that he was indisposed to work when his banking account was at all decent; so he had lived like a prince on his capital, and trusted to his luck furnishing him with more when it was done.

Kitty had joined him in Melbourne as arranged, and Gaston had established her in a place in Richmond. It was not a regular boarding-house, but the lady who owned it, Mrs Pulchop by name, was in the habit of letting apartments on reasonable terms; so Vandeloup had taken up his abode there with Kitty, who passed as his wife.

But though he paid her all the deference and respect due to a wife, and though she wore a marriage ring, yet, as a matter of fact, they were not married. Kitty had implored her lover to have the ceremony performed as soon as he joined her; but as the idea was not to M. Vandeloup's taste, he had put her off, laughingly at first, then afterwards, when he began to weary of her, he said he could not marry her for at least a year. The reason he assigned for this was the convenient one of family affairs; but, in reality, he foresaw he would get tired of her in that time, and did not want to tie himself so that he could not leave her when he wished. At first, the girl had rebelled against this delay, for she was strongly biased by her religious training, and looked with horror on the state of wickedness in which she was living. But Gaston laughed at her scruples, and as time went on, her finer feelings became blunted, and she accepted the position to which she was reduced in an apathetic manner.

Sometimes she had wild thoughts of running away, but she still loved him too well to do so; and besides, there was no one to whom she could go, as she well knew her father would refuse to receive her. The anomalous position which she occupied, however, had an effect on her spirits, and from being a bright and happy girl, she became irritable and fretful. She refused to go out anywhere, and when she went into town, either avoided the principal streets, or wore a heavy veil, so afraid was she of being recognised by anyone from Ballarat and questioned as to how she lived. All this was very disagreeable to M. Vandeloup, who had a horror of being bored, and not finding Kitty's society pleasant enough, he gradually ceased to care for her, and was now only watching for an opportunity to get rid of her without any trouble. He was a member of the Bachelor's Club, a society of young men which had a bad reputation in Melbourne, and finding Kitty was so lachrymose, he took a room at the Club, and began to stay away four or five days at a time. So Kitty was left to herself, and grew sad and tearful, as she reflected on the consequence of her fatal passion for this man. Mrs Pulchop was vastly indignant at Vandeloup neglecting his wife, for, of course, she never thought she was anything else to the young man, and did all in her power to cheer the girl up, which, however, was not much, as Mrs Pulchop herself was decidedly of a funereal disposition.

Meanwhile, Gaston was leading a very gay life in Melbourne. His good looks and clever tongue had made him a lot of friends, and he was very popular both in drawing-room and club. The men voted him a jolly sort of fellow and a regular swagger man, while the ladies said that he was heavenly; for, true to his former tactics, Vandeloup always made particular friends of women, selecting, of course, those whom he thought would be likely to be of use to him. Being such a favourite entailed going out a great deal, and as no one can pose as a man of fashion without money, M. Vandeloup soon found that his capital was rapidly melting away. He then went in for gambling, and the members of The Bachelors, being nearly all rich young men, Gaston's dexterity at ecarte and baccarat was very useful to him, and considerably augmented his income.

Still, card-playing is a somewhat precarious source from which to derive an income, so Vandeloup soon found himself pretty hard up, and was at his wit's end how to raise money. His gay life cost him a good deal, and Kitty, of course, was a source of expense, although, poor girl, she never went anywhere; but there was a secret drain on his purse of which no one ever dreamed. This was none other than Pierre Lemaire, who, having spent all the money he got at the Pactolus, came and worried Vandeloup for more. That astute young man would willingly have refused him, but, unfortunately, Pierre knew too much of his past life for him to do so, therefore he had to submit to the dumb man's extortions with the best grace he could. So what with Kitty's changed manner, Pierre wanting money, and his own lack of coin, M. Vandeloup was in anything but an enviable position, and began to think it was time his luck—if he ever had any—should step in. He thought of running up to Ballarat and seeing Madame Midas, whom he knew would lend him some money, but he had a certain idea in his head with regard to that lady, so wished to retain her good opinion, and determined not to apply to her until all other plans for obtaining money failed. Meanwhile, he went everywhere, was universally admired and petted, and no one who saw him in society with his bright smile and nonchalant manner, would have imagined what crafty schemes there were in that handsome head.

Madame Midas was still up at Ballarat and occupying the same cottage, although she was now so wealthy she could have inhabited a palace, had she been so minded. But prosperity had not spoiled Mrs Villiers. She still managed her own affairs, and did a great deal of good with her money,—expending large sums for charitable purposes, because she really wished to do good, and not, like so many rich people, for the purpose of advertising herself.

The Pactolus was now a perfect fortune, and Madame Midas being the sole owner, her wealth was thought to be enormous, as every month a fresh deluge of gold rolled into her coffers from the inexhaustible Devil's Lead. McIntosh, of course, still managed the mine, and took great pride in his success, especially after so many people had scoffed at it.

Various other mines had started in the vicinity, and had been floated on the Melbourne market, where they kept rising and falling in unison with the monthly yield of the Pactolus. The Devil's Lead was rather unequal, as sometimes the ground would be rich, while another time it would turn out comparatively poor. People said it was patchy, and some day would run out altogether, but it did not show any signs of exhaustion, and even if it had, Madame Midas was now so wealthy that it mattered comparatively little. When the monthly yield was small, the mines round about would fall in the share market to a few shillings, but if it was large, they would rush up again to as many pounds, so that the brokers managed to do pretty well out of the fluctuations of the stock.

One thing astonished Madame Midas very much, and that was the continuous absence of her husband. She did not believe he was dead, and fully expected to see him turn up some time; but as the months passed on, and he did not appear, she became uneasy. The idea of his lurking round was a constant nightmare to her, and at last she placed the matter in the hands of the police, with instructions to try to ascertain what became of him.

The police did everything in their power to discover Villiers' whereabouts, but without success. Unfortunately, Slivers, who might have helped them, being so well acquainted with the missing man's habits, was dead; and, after trying for about three months to find some traces of Villiers, the police gave up the search in despair. Madame Midas, therefore, came to the conclusion that he was either dead or had left the colony, and though half doubtful, yet hoped that she had now seen the last of him.

She had invested her money largely in land, and thus being above the reach of poverty for the rest of her life, she determined to take up her abode in Melbourne for a few months, prior to going to England on a visit. With this resolution, she gave up her cottage to Archie, who was to live in it, and still manage the mine, and made preparations to come down to Melbourne with Selina Sprotts.

Vandeloup heard of this resolution, and secretly rejoiced at it, for he thought that seeing she liked him so much, now that her husband was to all appearances dead, she might marry him, and it was to this end he had kept up his acquaintance with her. He never thought of the girl he had betrayed, pining away in a dull lodging. No, M. Vandeloup, untroubled by the voice of conscience, serenely waited the coming of Madame Midas, and determined, if he could possibly arrange it, to marry her. He was the spider, and Madame Midas the fly; but as the spider knew the fly he had to inveigle into his web was a very crafty one, he determined to act with great caution; so, having ascertained when Madame Midas would be in Melbourne, he awaited her arrival before doing anything, and trusted in some way to get rid of Kitty before she came. It was a difficult game, for M. Vandeloup knew that should Kitty find out his intention she would at once go to Mrs Villiers, and then Madame would discover his baseness in ruining the girl. M. Vandeloup, however, surveyed the whole situation calmly, and was not ill-pleased at the position of affairs. Life was beginning to bore him in Melbourne, and he wanted to be amused. Here was a comedy worthy of Moliere—a jealous woman, a rich lady, and a handsome man.

'My faith,' said M. Vandeloup, smiling to himself as he thought of the situation, 'it's a capital comedy, certainly; but I must take care it doesn't end as a tragedy.'



CHAPTER II

DISENCHANTMENT

It is said that 'creaking doors hang the longest,' and Mrs Pulchop, of Carthage Cottage, Richmond, was an excellent illustration of the truth of this saying. Thin, pale, with light bleached-looking hair, and eyebrows and eyelashes to match, she looked so shadowy and unsubstantial, than an impression was conveyed to the onlooker that a breath might blow her away. She was often heard to declare, when anything extra-ordinary happened, that one might 'knock her down with a feather', which, as a matter of fact, was by no means a stretch of fancy, provided the feather was a strong one and Mrs Pulchop was taken unawares. She was continually alluding to her 'constitootion', as if she had an interest in politics, but in reality she was referring to her state of health, which was invariably bad. According to her own showing, there was not a single disease under the sun with which she had not been afflicted, and she could have written a whole book on the subject of medicine, and put herself in, in every instance, as an illustrative case.

Mr Pulchop had long since departed this life, being considerably assisted in his exit from this wicked world by the quantity of patent medicines his wife compelled him to take to cure him, which unfortunately, however, had the opposite effect.

Mrs Pulchop said he had been a handsome man, but according to the portrait she had of him he resembled a bull-dog more than anything else in nature. The young Pulchops, of which there were two, both of the female sex, took after their father in appearance and their mother in temperament, and from the time they could talk and crawl knew as much about drops, poultices, bandages, and draughts as many a hospital nurse of mature age.

One day Vandeloup sent a telegram to Kitty saying he would be home to dinner, and as he always required something extra in the way of cooking, Kitty went to interview Mrs Pulchop on the subject. She found that lady wrapped up in a heavy shawl, turning herself into a tea-kettle by drinking hot water, the idea being, as she assured Kitty, to rouse up her liver. Miss Topsy Pulchop was tying a bandage round her face, as she felt a toothache coming on, while Miss Anna Pulchop was unfortunately quite well, and her occupation being gone, was seated disconsolately at the window trying to imagine she felt pains in her back.

'Ah!' groaned Mrs Pulchop, in a squeaky voice, sipping her hot water; 'you don't know, my dear, what it is to be aworrited by your liver—tortures and inquisitions ain't in it, my love.'

Kitty said she was very sorry, and asked her if nothing would relieve her sufferings, but Mrs Pulchop shook her head triumphantly.

'My sweet young thing,' said the patient, with great gusto, 'I've tried everything under the sun to make it right, but they ain't no good; it's always expanding and a contracting of itself unbeknown to me, and throwing the bile into the stomach, which ain't its proper place.'

'It does sound rather nasty,' assented Kitty; 'and Topsy seems to be ill, too.'

'Toothache,' growled Topsy, who had a deep, bass voice, and being modelled on the canine lines of her late lamented father, the growl suited her admirably. 'I had two out last week, and now this one's started.'

'Try a roasted fig, Topsy dear,' suggested her mother, who, now, having finished her hot water, looked longingly at the kettle for more.

'Toothache,' growled Topsy, in reply, 'not gumboil;' the remedy suggested by Mrs Pulchop being for the latter of these ills.

'You are quite well, at any rate,' said Kitty to Anna, cheerfully.

Anna, however, declined to be considered in good health. 'I fancy my back is going to ache,' she said, darkly placing her hand in the small of it. 'I'll have to put a linseed poultice on it tonight, to draw the cold out.'

Then she groaned dismally, and her mother and sister, hearing the familiar sound, also groaned, so there was quite a chorus, and Kitty felt inclined to groan also, out of sympathy.

'M. Vandeloup is coming to dinner tonight,' she said, timidly, to Mrs Pulchop.

'And a wonder it is, my sweet angel,' said that lady, indignantly, rising and glancing at the pretty girl, now so pale and sad-looking, 'it's once in a blue moon as he comes 'ome, a—leaving you to mope at home like a broken-hearted kitten in a coal box. Ah, if he only had a liver, that would teach him manners.'

Groans of assent from the Misses Pulchops, who both had livers and were always fighting with them.

'And what, my neglected cherub,' asked Mrs Pulchop, going to a looking-glass which always hung in the kitchen, for the three to examine their tongues in, 'what shall I give you for dinner?'

Kitty suggested a fowl, macaroni cheese, and fruit for dessert, which bill of fare had such an effect on the family that they all groaned in unison.

'Macaroni cheese,' growled Topsy, speaking from the very depth of the cork soles she wore to keep her feet dry; 'there's nothing more bilious. I couldn't look at it.'

'Ah,' observed Mrs Pulchop, 'you're only a weak gal, and men is that obstinate they'd swaller bricks like ostriges sooner nor give in as it hurt 'em. You shall 'ave a nice dinner, Mrs Vanloops, tho' I can't deny but what it ull be bilious.'

Thus warned, Kitty retired into her own room and made herself nice for Gaston to look on when he came.

Poor thing, it was so rarely now that he came home to dinner, that a visit from him was regarded by her in the light of a treat. She dressed herself in a pretty white dress and tied a blue sash round her waist, so that she might look the same to him as when he first saw her. But her face was now worn and white, and as she looked at her pallor in the glass she wished she had some rouge to bring a touch of colour to her cheeks. She tried to smile in her own merry way at the wan reflection she beheld, but the effort was a failure, and she burst into tears.

At six o'clock everything was ready for dinner, and having seen that all was in good order, Kitty walked outside to watch for Gaston.

There was a faint, warm, light outside, and the sky was of a pale opaline tint, while the breeze blowing across the garden brought the perfume of the flowers to her, putting Kitty in mind of Mrs Villiers' garden at Ballarat. Oh, those innocent days! would they never come again? Alas! she knew that they would not—the subtle feeling of youth had left her for ever; and this girl, leaning up against the house with her golden head resting on her arm, knew that the change had come over her which turns all from youth to age.

Suddenly she heard the rattle of wheels, and rousing herself from her reverie, she saw a hansom cab at the gate, and M. Vandeloup standing on the pavement paying the driver. She also heard her lover tell the cabman to call for him at eight o'clock, and her heart sank within her as she thought that he would be gone again in two hours. The cab drove off, and she stood cold and silent on the verandah waiting for Gaston, who sauntered slowly up the walk with one hand in the pocket of his trousers. He was in evening dress, and the night being warm he did not wear an overcoat, so looked tall and slim in his dark clothes as he came up the path swinging his cane gaily to and fro.

'Well, Bebe,' he said, brightly, as he bent down and kissed her, 'here I am, you see; I hope you've got a nice dinner for me?'

'Oh, yes,' answered Kitty, trying to smile, and walking before him into the house; 'I told Mrs Pulchop, and she has made special preparations.'

'How is that walking hospital?' asked Vandeloup, carelessly taking off his hat; 'I suppose she is ill as usual.'

'So she says,' replied Kitty, with a laugh, as he put his arm in hers and walked into the room; 'she is always ill.'

'Why, Bebe, how charming you look tonight,' said Vandeloup, holding her at arm's length; 'quite like your old self.'

And indeed she looked very pretty, for the excitement of seeing him had brightened her eyes and flushed her cheeks, and standing in the warm light of the lamp, with her golden hair floating round her head, she looked like a lovely picture.

'You are not going away very soon?' she whispered to Gaston, coming close to him, and putting her hand on his shoulder; 'I see so little of you now.'

'My dear child, I can't help it,' he said, carelessly removing her hand and walking over to the dinner table; 'I have an engagement in town tonight.'

'Ah, you no longer care for me,' said Kitty, with a stifled sob.

Vandeloup shrugged his shoulders.

'If you are going to make a scene,' he said, coldly, 'please postpone it. I don't want my appetite taken away; would you kindly see if the dinner is ready?'

Kitty dried her eyes and rang the bell, upon which Mrs Pulchop glided into the room, still wrapped in her heavy shawl.

'It ain't quite ready yet, sir,' she said, in answer to Gaston's question; 'Topsy 'aving been bad with the toothache, which you can't expect people to cook dinners as is ill!'

'Why don't you send her to the hospital?' said Vandeloup, with a yawn, looking at his watch.

'Never,' retorted Mrs Pulchop, in a decisively shrill voice; 'their medicines ain't pure, and they leaves you at the mercy of doctors to be practised on like a pianer. Topsy may go to the cemetery like her poor dear father, but never to an inquisition of a hospital;' and with this Mrs Pulchop faded out of the room, for her peculiar mode of egress could hardly be called walking out.

At last dinner made its appearance, and Kitty recovering her spirits, they had a very pleasant meal together, and then Gaston sat over his coffee with a cigarette, talking to Kitty.

He never was without a cigarette in his mouth, and his fingers were all stained a yellowish brown by the nicotine. Kitty lay back in a big arm-chair listening to his idle talk and admiring him as he sat at the dinner table.

'Can't you stay tonight?' she said, looking imploringly at him.

Vandeloup shook his head gently.

'I have an engagement, as I told you before,' he said, lazily; 'besides, evenings at home are so dreary.'

'I will be here,' said Kitty, reproachfully.

'That will, of course, make a difference,' answered Gaston, with a faint sneer; 'but you know,' shrugging his shoulders, 'I do not cultivate the domestic virtues.'

'What will you do when we are married?' said Kitty, with an uneasy laugh.

'Enough for the day is the evil thereof,' replied M. Vandeloup, with a gay smile.

'What do you mean?' asked the girl, with a sudden start.

Vandeloup arose from his seat, and lighting another cigarette he lounged over to the fireplace, and leaned against the mantelpiece with his hands in his pockets.

'I mean that when we are married it will be time enough to talk about such things,' he answered, looking at her through his eyelashes.

'Then we will talk about them very shortly,' said Kitty, with an angry laugh, as her hands clenched the arms of the chair tightly; 'for the year is nearly up, and you promised to marry me at the end of it.'

'How many things do we intend to do that are never carried out?' said Gaston, gently. 'Do you mean that you will break your promise?' she asked, with a scared face.

Vandeloup removed the cigarette from his mouth, and, leaning one elbow on the mantelpiece, looked at her with a smile.

'My dear,' he said, quietly, 'things are not going well with me at present, and I want money badly.'

'Well?' asked Kitty in a whisper, her heart beating loudly.

'You are not rich,' said her lover, 'so why should we two paupers get married, only to plunge ourselves into misery?'

'Then you refuse to marry me?' she said, rising to her feet.

He bowed his head gently.

'At present, yes,' he answered, and replaced the cigarette between his lips.

Kitty stood for a moment as if turned to stone, and then throwing up her hands with a gesture of despair, fell back into the chair, and burst into a flood of tears. Vandeloup shrugged his shoulders in a resigned sort of manner, and glanced at his watch to see when it would be time for him to go. Meanwhile he smoked quietly on, and Kitty, after sobbing for some time, dried her eyes, and sat up in the chair again.

'How long is this going to last?' she asked, in a hard voice.

'Till I get rich!'

'That may be a long time?'

'It may.'

'Perhaps never?'

'Perhaps!'

'And then I will never be your wife?'

'Unfortunately, no.'

'You coward!' burst forth Kitty, rising from her seat, and crossing over to him; 'you made me leave my home with your false promises, and now you refuse to make me the only reparation that is in your power.'

'Circumstances are against any virtuous intentions I may entertain,' retorted Vandeloup, coolly.

Kitty looked at him for a moment, then ran over to a desk near the window, and took from thence a small bottle of white glass with two red bands round it. She let the lid of the desk fall with a bang, then crossed to Vandeloup, holding the bottle up before him.

'Do you know what this is?' she asked, in a harsh voice.

'The poison I made in Ballarat,' he answered, coolly, blowing a wreath of smoke; 'how did you get hold of it?'

'I found it in your private desk,' she said, coldly.

'That was wrong, my dear,' he answered, gently, 'you should never betray confidences—I left the desk in your charge, and it should have been sacred to you.'

'Out of your own mouth are you condemned,' said the girl, quickly; 'you have betrayed my confidence and ruined me, so if you do not fix a day for our marriage, I swear I will drink this and die at your feet.'

'How melodramatic you are, Bebe,' said Vandeloup, coolly; 'you put me in mind of Croisette in "Le Sphinx".'

'You don't believe I will do it.'

'No! I do not.'

'Then see.' She took the stopper out of the bottle and held it to her lips. Vandeloup did not stir, but, still smoking, stood looking at her with a smile. His utter callousness was too much for her, and replacing the stopper again, she slipped the bottle into her pocket and let her hands fall idly by her side.

'I thought you would not do it,' replied Gaston, smoothly, looking at his watch; 'you must really excuse me, I hear the cab wheels outside.'

Kitty, however, placed herself in front of him as he moved towards the door.

'Listen to me,' she said, in a harsh voice, with white face and flaming eyes; 'to-night I leave this house for ever.'

He bowed his head.

'As it pleases you,' he replied, simply.

'My God!' she cried, 'have you no love for me now?'

'No,' he answered, coldly and brutally, 'I am tired of you.'

She fell on her knees and clutched his hand.

'Dear Gaston! dear Gaston!' she cried, covering it with kisses, 'think how young I am, how my life is ruined, and by you. I gave up everything for your sake—home, father, and friends—you will not cast me off like this after all I have sacrificed for you? Oh, for God's sake, speak—speak!'

'My dear,' said Vandeloup, gravely, looking down at the kneeling figure with the streaming eyes and clenched hands, 'as long as you choose to stay here I will be your friend—I cannot afford to marry you, but while you are with me our lives will be as they have been; good-bye at present,' touching her forehead coldly with his lips, 'I will call to-morrow afternoon to see how you are, and I trust this will be the last of such scenes.'

He drew his hand away from hers, and she sat on the floor dull and silent, with her eyes fixed on the ground and an aching in her heart. Vandeloup went into the hall, put on his hat, then lighting another cigarette and taking his stick, walked gaily out of the house, humming an air from 'La Belle Helene'. The cab was waiting for him at the door, and telling the man to drive to the Bachelors' Club, he entered the cab and rattled away down the street without a thought for the broken-hearted woman he left behind.

Kitty sat on the floor with her folded hands lying carelessly on her lap and her eyes staring idly at the carpet. This, then, was the end of all her hopes and joys—she was cast aside carelessly by this man now that he wearied of her. Love's young dream had been sweet indeed; but, ah! how bitter was the awakening. Her castles in the air had all melted into clouds, and here in the very flower of her youth she felt that her life was ruined, and she was as one wandering in a sterile waste, with a black and starless sky overhead. She clasped her hands with a sensation of pain, and a rose at her breast fell down withered and dead. She took it up with listless fingers, and with the quiver of her hand the leaves fell off and were scattered over her white dress in a pink shower. It was an allegory of her life, she thought. Once it had been as fresh and full of fragrance as this dead rose; then it had withered, and now she saw all her hopes and beliefs falling off one by one like the faded petals. Ah, there is no despair like that of youth; and Kitty, sitting on the floor with hot dry eyes and a pain in her heart, felt that the sun of her life had set for ever.

**

So still the night was. No moon as yet, but an innumerable blaze of stars set like diamonds in the dark blue sky. A smoky yellowish haze hung over the city, but down in the garden amid the flowers all was cool and fragrant. The house was quite dark, and a tall mulberry tree on one side of it was black against the clear sky. Suddenly the door opened, and a figure came out and closed the door softly after it. Down the path it came, and standing in the middle of the garden, raised a white tear-stained face to the dark sky. A dog barked in the distance, and then a fresh cold breeze came sweeping through the trees and stirring the still perfumes of the flowers. The figure threw its hands out towards the house with a gesture of despair, then gliding down the path it went out of the gate and stole quietly down the lonely street.



CHAPTER III

M. VANDELOUP HEARS SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE

As he drove rapidly into town Gaston's thoughts were anything but pleasant. Not that he was thinking about Kitty, for he regarded the scene he had with her as merely an outburst of hysterical passion, and did not dream she would take any serious step. He forgot all about her when he left the house, and, lying back in the cab smoking one of his everlasting cigarettes, pondered about his position. The fact was he was very hard up for money, and did not know where to turn for more. His luck at cards was so great that even the Bachelors, used as they were to losing large sums, began to murmur among themselves that M. Vandeloup was too clever, and as that young gentleman by no means desired to lose his popularity he stopped playing cards altogether, and so effectually silenced everyone. So this mode of making money was gone, and until Madame Midas arrived in town Vandeloup did not see how he was going to keep on living in his former style. But as he never denied himself anything while he had the money, he ordered the cabman to drive to Paton's, the florist in Swanston Street, and there purchased a dainty bunch of flowers for his button hole. From thence he drove to his club, and there found a number of young fellows, including Mr Barty Jarper, all going to the Princess Theatre to see 'The Mikado'. Barty rushed forward when Vandeloup appeared and noisily insisted he should come with them. The men had been dining, and were exhilarated with wine, so Vandeloup, not caring to appear at the theatre with such a noisy lot, excused himself. Barty and his friends, therefore, went off by themselves, and left Vandeloup alone. He picked up the evening paper and glanced over it with a yawn, when a name caught his eye which he had frequently noticed before.

'I say,' he said to a tall, fair young fellow who had just entered, 'who is this Meddlechip the paper is full of?'

'Don't you know?' said the other, in surprise; 'he's one of our richest men, and very generous with his money.'

'Oh, I see! buys popularity,' replied Vandeloup, coolly; 'how is it I've never met him?'

'He's been to China or Chile—or—something commencing with a C,' returned the young man, vaguely; 'he only came back to Melbourne last week; you are sure to meet him sooner or later.'

'Thanks, I'm not very anxious,' replied Vandeloup, with a yawn; 'money in my eyes does not compensate for being bored; where are you going to-night?'

'"Mikado",' answered the other, whose name was Bellthorp; 'Jarper asked me to go up there; he's got a box.'

'How does he manage to pay for all these things?' asked Vandeloup, rising; 'he's only in a bank, and does not get much money.'

'My dear fellow,' said Bellthorp, putting his arm in that of Vandeloup's, 'wherever he gets it, he always has it, so as long as he pays his way it's none of our business; come and have a drink.'

Vandeloup assented with a laugh, and they went to the bar.

'I've got a cab at the door,' he said to Bellthorp, after they had finished their drinks, and were going downstairs; 'come with me, and I'll go up to the Princess also; Jarper asked me and I refused, but men as well as women are entitled to change their minds.'

They got into the cab and drove up Collins Street to the Princess Theatre. After dismissing the cab, they went up stairs and found the first act was just over, and the bar was filled with a crowd of gentlemen, among whom Barty and his friends were conspicuous. On the one side the doors opened on to the wide stone balcony, where a number of ladies were seated, and on the other balcony a lot of men were smoking. Leaving Bellthorp with Jarper, Vandeloup ordered a brandy and soda and went out on the balcony to smoke.

The bell rang to indicate the curtain was going to rise on the second act, and the bar and balconies gradually emptied themselves into the theatre. M. Vandeloup, however, still sat smoking, and occasionally drinking his brandy and soda, while he thought over his difficulties, and wondered how he could get out of them. It was a wonderfully hot night, and not even the dark blue of the moonless sky, studded with stars, could give any sensation of coolness. Round the balcony were several windows belonging to the dressing-rooms of the theatre, and the lights within shone through the vivid red of the blinds with which they were covered. The door leading into the bar was wide open, and within everything seemed hot, even under the cool, white glare of the electric lights, which shone in large oval- shaped globes hanging from the brass supports in clusters like those grapes known as ladies' fingers. In front stretched the high balustrade of the balcony, and as Vandeloup leaned back in his chair he could see the white blaze of the electric lights rising above this, and then the luminous darkness of the summer's night. Beyond a cluster of trees, with a path, lit by gas lamps, going through it, the lights of which shone like dull yellow stars. On the right arose the great block of Parliament-buildings, with the confused mass of the scaffolding, standing up black and dense against the sky. A pleasant murmur arose from the crowded pavement below, and through the incessant rattle of cabs and sharp, clear cries of the street boys, Gaston could hear the shrill tones of a violin playing the dreamy melody of the 'One Summer's Night in Munich' valse, about which all Melbourne was then raving.

He was so occupied with his own thoughts that he did not notice two gentlemen who came in from the bar, and taking seats a little distant from him, ordered drinks from the waiter who came to attend to them. They were both in evening dress, and had apparently left the opera in order to talk business, for they kept conversing eagerly, and their voices striking on Vandeloup's ear he glanced round at them and then relapsed into his former inattentive position. Now, however, though apparently absorbed in his own thoughts, he was listening to every word they said, for he had caught the name of The Magpie Reef, a quartz mine, which had lately been floated on the market, the shares of which had run up to a pound, and then, as bad reports were circulated about it, dropped suddenly to four shillings. Vandeloup recognised one as Barraclough, a well-known stockbroker, but the other was a dark, wiry-looking man of medium height, whom he had never seen before.

'I tell you it's a good thing,' said Barraclough, vehemently laying his hand on the table; 'Tollerby is the manager, and knows everything about it.'

'Gad, he ought to,' retorted the other with a laugh, 'if he's the manager; but I don't believe in it, dear boy, I never did; it started with a big splash, and was going to be a second Long Tunnel according to the prospectus; now the shares are only four shillings- -pshaw!'

'Yes, but you forget the shares ran up to a pound,' replied Barraclough, quickly; 'and now they are so cheap we can snap them up all over the market, and then—'

'Well?' asked the other, with interest.

'They will run up, old fellow—see?' and the Broker rubbed his hands gleefully.

'How are you going to get up a "Boom" on them?' asked the wiry man, sceptically; 'the public won't buy blindly, they must see something.'

'And so they shall,' said Barraclough, eagerly; 'Tollerby is sending down some of the stone.'

'From the Magpie Reef?' asked the other, suspiciously.

'Of course,' retorted the Broker, indignantly; 'you did not think it was salted, did you? There is gold in the reef, but it is patchy. See,' pulling out a pocket-book, 'I got this telegram from Tollerby at four o'clock to-day;' he took a telegram from the pocket-book and handed it to his companion.

'Struck it rich—evidently pocket—thirty ounces to machine,' read the other slowly; 'gad! that looks well, why don't you put it in the papers?'

'Because I don't hold enough shares,' replied the other, impatiently; 'don't you understand? To-morrow I go on 'Change and buy up all the shares at four shillings I can lay my hands on, then at the end of the week the samples of stone—very rich—come down. I publish this telegram from the manager, and the "Boom" starts.'

'How high do you think the shares will go?' asked the wiry man, thoughtfully.

Barraclough shrugged his shoulders, and replaced the telegram in his pocket-book.

'Two or three pounds, perhaps more,' he replied, rising. 'At all events, it's a good thing, and if you go in with me, we'll clear a good few thousand out of it.'

'Come and see me to-morrow morning,' said the wiry man, also rising. 'I think I'll stand in.'

Barraclough rubbed his hands gleefully, and then slipping his arm in that of his companion they left the balcony and went back to the theatre.

Vandeloup felt every nerve in his body tingling. Here was a chance to make money. If he only had a few hundreds he could buy up all the Magpie shares he could get and reap the benefit of the rise. Five hundred pounds! If he could obtain that sum he could buy two thousand five hundred shares, and if they went to three pounds, he could clear nearly eight thousand. What an idea! It was ripe fruit tumbling off the tree without the trouble of plucking it. But five hundred pounds! He had not as many pence, and he did not know where to get it. If he could only borrow it from someone—but then he could offer no security. A sense of his own helplessness came on him as he saw this golden tide flowing past his door, and yet was unable to take advantage of it. Five hundred pounds! The sum kept buzzing in his head like a swarm of bees, and he threw himself down again in his chair to try and think where he could get it.

A noise disturbed him, and he saw that the opera was over, and a crowd of gentlemen were thronging into the bar. Jarper was among them, and he thought he would speak to him on the subject. Yes, Barty was a clever little fellow, and seemed always able to get money. Perhaps he would be able to assist him. He stepped out of the balcony into the light and touched Barty on the shoulder as he stood amid his friends.

'Hullo! it's you!' cried Barty, turning round. 'Where have you been, old chap?'

'Out on the balcony,' answered Vandeloup, curtly.

'Come and have supper with us,' said Barty, hospitably. 'We are going to have some at Leslie's.'

'Yes, do come,' urged Bellthorp, putting his arm in that of Vandeloup's; 'we'll have no end of fun.'

Vandeloup was just going to accept, as he thought on the way he could speak privately to Barty about this scheme he had, when he saw a stout gentleman at the end of the room taking a cup of coffee at the counter, and talking to another gentleman who was very tall and thin. The figure of the stout gentleman seemed familiar to Vandeloup, and at this moment he turned slowly round and looked down the room. Gaston gave a start when he saw his face, and then smiled in a gratified manner to himself.

'Who is that gentleman with the coffee?' he asked Barty.

'Those stout and lean kine,' said Barty, airily, 'puts one in mind of Pharaoh's dream, doesn't it?'

'Yes, yes!' retorted Gaston, impatiently; 'but who are they?'

'The long one is Fell, the railway contractor,' said Barty, glancing with some surprise at Vandeloup, 'and the other is old Meddlechip, the millionaire.'

'Meddlechip,' echoed Vandeloup, as if to himself; 'my faith!'

'Yes,' broke in Bellthorp, quickly; 'the one we were speaking of at the club—do you know him?'

'I fancy I do,' said Vandeloup, with a strange smile. 'You must excuse me to your supper to-night.'

'No, we won't,' said Barty, firmly; 'you must come.'

'Then I'll look in later,' said Vandeloup, who had not the slightest intention of going. 'Will that do?'

'I suppose it will have to,' said Bellthorp, in an injured tone; 'but why can't you come now?'

'I've got to see about some business,' said Vandeloup.

'What, at this hour of the night?' cried Jarper, in a voice of disgust.

Vandeloup nodded, and lit a cigarette.

'Well, mind you come in later,' said Barty, and then he and his friends left the bar, after making Vandeloup promise faithfully he would come.

Gaston sauntered slowly up to the coffee bar, and asked for a cup in his usual musical voice, but when the stout gentleman heard him speak he turned pale and looked up. The thin one had gone off to talk to someone else, so when Vandeloup got his coffee he turned slowly round and looked straight at Meddlechip seated in the chair.

'Good evening, M. Kestrike,' he said, quietly.

Meddlechip, whose face was usually red and florid-looking, turned ghastly pale, and sprang to his feet.

'Octave Braulard!' he gasped, placing his coffee cup on the counter.

'At your service,' said Vandeloup, looking rapidly round to see that no one overheard the name, 'but here I am Gaston Vandeloup.'

Meddlechip passed his handkerchief over his face and moistened his dry lips with his tongue.

'How did you get here?' he asked, in a strangled voice.

'It's a long story,' said M. Vandeloup, putting his coffee cup down and wiping his lips with his handkerchief; 'suppose we go and have supper somewhere, and I'll tell you all about it.'

'I don't want any supper,' said Meddlechip, sullenly, his face having regained its normal colour. 'Possibly not, but I do,' replied Vandeloup, sweetly, taking his arm; 'come, let us go.'

Meddlechip did not resist, but walked passively out of the bar with Vandeloup, much to the astonishment of the thin gentleman, who called out to him but without getting any answer.

Meddlechip went to the cloak room and put on his coat and hat. Then he followed Vandeloup down the stairs and paused at the door while the Frenchman hailed a hansom. When it drove up, however, he stopped short at the edge of the pavement.

'I won't go,' he said, determinedly.

Vandeloup looked at him with a peculiar gleam in his dark eyes, and bowed.

'Let me persuade you, Monsieur,' he said, blandly, holding the door of the cab open.

Meddlechip glanced at him, and then, with a sigh of resignation, entered the cab, followed by Vandeloup.

'Where to, sir?' asked the cabman, through the trap.

'To Leslie's Supper Rooms,' replied the Frenchman, and the cab drove off.



CHAPTER IV

THE CASE OF ADELE BLONDET

Leslie's Supper Rooms in Bourke Street East were very well known— that is, among a certain class. Religious people and steady businessmen knew nothing about such a place except by reputation, and looked upon it, with horror, as a haunt of vice and dissipation.

Though Leslie's, in common with other places had to close at a certain hour, yet when the shutters were up, the door closed, and the lights extinguished in the front of the house, there was plenty of life and bustle going on at the back, where there were charmingly furnished little rooms for supper parties. Barty Jarper had engaged one of these apartments, and with about a dozen young men was having a good time of it when Vandeloup and Meddlechip drove up. After dismissing the cab and looking up and down the street to see that no policeman was in sight, Vandeloup knocked at the door in a peculiar manner, and it was immediately opened in a stealthy kind of way. Gaston gave his name, whereupon they were allowed to enter, and the door was closed after them in the same quiet manner, all of which was very distasteful to Mr Meddlechip, who, being a public man and a prominent citizen, felt that he was breaking the laws he had assisted to make. He looked round in some disgust at the crowds of waiters, and at the glimpses he caught every now and then of gentlemen in evening dress, and what annoyed him more than anything else—ladies in bright array. Oh! a dissipated place was Leslie's, and even in the daytime had a rakish-looking appearance as if it had been up all night and knew a thing or two. Mr Meddlechip would have retreated from this den of iniquity if he could, but as he wanted to have a thorough explanation with Vandeloup, he meekly followed the Frenchman through a well-lighted passage, with statues on either side holding lamps, to a little room beautifully furnished, wherein a supper table was laid out. Here the waiter who conducted them took their hats and Meddlechip's coat and hung them up, then waited respectfully for M. Vandeloup to give his orders. A portly looking waiter he was, with a white waistcoat, a white shirt, which bulged out in a most obtrusive manner, and a large white cravat, which was tied round an equally large white collar. When he walked he rolled along like a white-crested wave, and with his napkin under his arm, the heel of one foot in the hollow of the other, and his large red face, surmounted by a few straggling tufts of black hair, he was truly wonderful to behold.

This magnificent creature, who answered to the name of Gurchy, received Vandeloup's orders with a majestic bend of his head, then rolling up to Mr Meddlechip, he presented the bill of fare to that gentleman, who, however, refused it.

'I don't want any supper,' he said, curtly.

Gurchy, though a waiter, was human, and looked astonished, while Vandeloup remonstrated in a suave manner.

'But, my dear sir,' he said, leaning back in his chair, 'you must have something to eat. I assure you,' with a significant smile, 'you will need it.'

Meddlechip's lips twitched a little as the Frenchman spoke, then, with an uneasy laugh, he ordered something, and drew his chair up to the table.

'And, waiter,' said Vandeloup, softly, as Gurchy was rolling out of the door, 'bring some wine, will you? Pommery, I think, is best,' he added, turning to Meddlechip.

'What you like,' returned that gentleman, impatiently, 'I don't care.'

'That's a great mistake,' replied Gaston, coolly; 'bad wine plays the deuce with one's digestion—two bottles of Pommery, waiter.'

Gurchy nodded, that is to say his head disappeared for a moment in the foam of his collar, then re-appeared again as he slowly rolled out of the door and vanished.

'Now, then, sir,' said Meddlechip, sharply, rising from his seat and closing the door, 'what did you bring me here for?'

M. Vandeloup raised his eyebrows in surprise.

'How energetic you are, my dear Kestrike,' he said, smoothly, lying down on the sofa, and contemplating his shoes with great satisfaction; 'just the same noisy, jolly fellow as of yore.'

'Damn you!' said the other, fiercely, at which Gaston laughed.

'You had better leave that to God,' he answered, mockingly; 'he understands more about it than you do.'

'Oh, I know you of old,' said Meddlechip, walking up and down excitedly; 'I know you of old, with your sneers and your coolness, but it won't do here,' stopping opposite the sofa, and glaring down at Vandeloup; 'it won't do here!'

'So you've said twice,' replied M. Vandeloup, with a yawn. 'How do you want me to conduct myself? Do tell me; I am always open to improvement.'

'You must leave Australia,' said Meddlechip, sharply, and breathing hard.

'If I refuse?' asked M. Vandeloup, lazily, smiling to himself.

'I will denounce you as a convict escaped from New Caledonia!' hissed the other, putting his hands in his pockets, and bending forward.

'Indeed,' said Gaston, with a charming smile, 'I don't think you will go so far as that, my friend.'

'I swear,' said Meddlechip, loudly, raising his hand, 'I swear—'

'Oh, fie!' observed M. Vandeloup, in a shocked tone; 'an old man like you should not swear; it's very wrong, I assure you; besides,' with a disparaging glance, 'you are not suited to melodrama.'

Meddlechip evidently saw it was no good trying to fight against the consummate coolness of this young man, so with a great effort resolved to adapt himself to the exigencies of the case, and fight his adversary with his own weapons.

'Well,' he said at length, resuming his seat at the table, and trying to speak calmly, though his flushed face and quivering lips showed what an effort it cost him; 'let us have supper first, and we can talk afterwards.'

'Ah, that's much better,' remarked M. Vandeloup, sitting up to the table, and unrolling his napkin. 'I assure you, my dear fellow, if you treat me well, I'm a very easy person to deal with.'

The eyes of the two men met for a moment across the table, and Vandeloup's had such a meaning look in them, that Meddlechip dropped his own with a shiver.

The door opened, and the billowy waiter rolled up to the table, and having left a deposit of plates and food thereon, subsided once more out of the door, then rolled in again with the champagne. He drew the cork of one of the bottles, filled the glasses on the table, and then after giving a glance round to see that all was in order, suddenly found that it was ebb-tide, and rolled slowly out of the door, which he closed after him.

Meddlechip ate his supper in silence, but drank a good deal of champagne to keep his courage up for the coming ordeal, which he knew he must go through. Vandeloup, on the other hand, ate and drank very little, as he talked gaily all the time about theatres, racing, boating, in fact of everything except the thing the other man wanted to hear.

'I never mix up business with pleasure, my dear fellow,' said Gaston, amiably, guessing his companion's thoughts; 'when we have finished supper and are enjoying our cigars, I will tell you a little story.'

'I don't want to hear it,' retorted the other, harshly, having an intuitive idea what the story would be about.

'Possibly not,' replied M. Vandeloup, smoothly; 'nevertheless it is my wish that you should hear it.'

Meddlechip looked as if he were inclined to resent this plain speaking, but after a pause evidently thought better of it, and went on tranquilly eating his supper.

When they had finished Gaston rang the bell, and when the billow rolled in, ordered a fresh bottle of wine and some choice cigars of a brand well known at Leslie's. Gurchy's head disappeared in foam again, and did not emerge therefrom till he was out of the door.

Try one of these,' said M. Vandeloup, affably, to Meddlechip, when the billow had rolled in with the cigars and wine, 'it's an excellent brand.'

'I don't care about smoking,' answered Meddlechip.

'To please me,' urged M. Vandeloup, persuasively; whereupon Meddlechip took one, and having lighted it puffed away evidently under protest, while the billow opened the new bottle of wine, freshened up the glasses, and then rolled majestically out of the door, like a tidal wave.

'Now then for the story,' said M. Vandeloup, leaning back luxuriously on the sofa, and blowing a cloud of smoke.

'I don't want to hear it,' retorted the other, quickly; 'name your terms and let us end the matter.'

'Pardon me,' said M. Vandeloup, with a smile, 'but I refuse to accept any terms till I have given you thoroughly to understand what I mean; so you must hear this little tale of Adele Blondet.'

'For God's sake, no!' cried the other, hoarsely, rising to his feet; 'I tell you I am haunted by it; by day and by night, sleeping or waking, I see her face ever before me like an accusing angel.'

'Curious,' murmured M. Vandeloup, 'especially as she was not by any means an angel.'

'I thought it was done with,' said Meddlechip, twisting his fingers together, while the large drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, 'but here you come like a spectre from the past and revive all the old horrors.'

'If you call Adele a horror,' retorted Vandeloup, coolly, 'I am certainly going to revive her, so you had best sit down and hear me to the end, for you certainly will not turn me from my purpose.'

Meddlechip sank back into his chair with a groan, while his relentless enemy curled himself up on the sofa in a more comfortable position and began to talk.

'We will begin the story,' said M. Vandeloup, in a conversational tone, with an airy wave of his delicate white hand, 'in the good old-fashioned style of our fairy tales. Once upon a time—let us say three years ago—there lived in Paris a young man called Octave Braulard, who was well born and comfortably off. He had a fancy to be a doctor, and was studying for the medical profession when he became entangled with a woman. Mademoiselle Adele Blondet was a charmingly ugly actress, who was at that time the rage of Paris. She attracted all the men, not by her looks, but by her tongue. Octave Braulard,' went on M. Vandeloup, complacently looking at himself, 'was handsome, and she fell in love with him. She became his mistress, and caused a nine days' wonder in Paris by remaining constant to him for six months. Then there came to Paris an English gentleman from Australia—name, Kestrike; position, independent; income, enormous. He had left Madame his wife in London, and came to our wicked Paris to amuse himself. He saw Adele Blondet, and was introduced to her by Braulard; result, Kestrike betrayed his friend Braulard by stealing from him his mistress. Why was this? Was Kestrike handsome? No. Was he fascinating? No. Was he rich? Yes. Therein lay the secret; Adele loved the purse, not the man. Braulard,' said Gaston, rising from the sofa quickly and walking across the room, 'felt his honour wounded. He remonstrated with Adele, no use; he offered to fight a duel with the perfidious Kestrike, no use; the thief was a coward.'

'No,' cried Meddlechip, rising, 'no coward.'

'I say, yes!' said Vandeloup, crossing to him, and forcing him back in his chair; 'he betrayed his friend and refused to give him the satisfaction of a gentleman. What did Braulard do? Rest quiet? No. Revenge his honour? Yes! One night,' pursued Gaston, in a low concentrated voice, grasping Meddlechip's wrist firmly, and looking at him with fiery eyes, 'Braulard prepared a poison, a narcotic which was quick in its action, fatal in its results. He goes to the house of Adele Blondet at half-past twelve o'clock—the hour now,' he said, rapidly swinging round and pointing to the clock on the mantelpiece, which had just struck the half-hour; 'he found them at supper,' releasing Meddlechip's wrist and crossing to the sofa; 'he sat opposite Kestrike, as he does now,' leaning forward and glaring at Meddlechip, who shrank back in his chair. 'Adele, at the head of the table, laughs and smiles; she looks at her old lover and sees murder in his face; she is ill and retires to her room. Kestrike follows her to see what is the matter. Braulard is left alone; he produces a bottle and pours its contents into a cup of coffee, waiting for Adele. Kestrike returns, saying Adele is ill; she wants a drink. He takes her the poisoned cup of coffee; she drinks it and falls'—with a long breath—'asleep. Kestrike returns to the room, asks Braulard to leave the house. Braulard refuses. Kestrike is afraid, and would leave himself; he rises from the table; so does Braulard;'—here Gaston rose and crossed to Meddlechip, who was also on his feet—'he goes to Kestrike, seizes his wrist, thus—drags him to the bedroom, and there on the bed lies Adele Blonde—dead—killed by the poison of one lover given her by the other—and the murderers look at one another—thus.'

Meddlechip wrenched his hand from Vandeloup's iron grip and fell back ghastly white in his chair, with a strangled cry, while the Frenchman stood over him with eyes gleaming with hatred.

'Kestrike,' pursued Vandeloup, rapidly, 'is little known in Paris— his name is an assumed one—he leaves France before the police can discover how he has poisoned Adele Blondet, and crosses to England— meets Madame, his wife, and returns to Australia, where he is called—Meddlechip.'

The man in the chair threw up his hands as if to keep the other off, and uttered a stifled cry.

'He then goes to China,' went on Gaston, bending nearer to the shrinking figure, 'and returns after twelve months, where he meets Octave Braulard in the theatre—yes, the two murderers meet in Melbourne! How came Braulard here? Was it chance? No. Was it design? No. Was it Fate? Yes.'

He hissed the words in Meddlechip's ear, and the wretched man shrank away from him again.

'Braulard,' pursued Vandeloup, in a calmer tone, 'also left the house of Adele Blondet. She is found dead; one of her lovers cannot be found; the other, Braulard, is accused of the crime; he defies the police to prove it; she has been poisoned. Bah! there is no trace. Braulard will be free. Stop! who is this man called Prevol, who appears? He is a fellow student of Braulard's, and knows the poison. Braulard is lost! Prevol examines the body, proves that poison has been given—by whom? Braulard, and none other. He is sentenced to death; but he is so handsome that Paris urges pardon. No; it is not according to the law. Still, spare his life? Yes. His life is spared. The galleys at Toulon? No. New Caledonia? Yes. He is sent there. But is Braulard a coward? No. Does he rest as a convict? No. He makes friends with another convict; they steal a boat, and fly from the island; they drift, and drift, for days and days; the sun rises, the sun sets—still they drift; their food is giving out, the water in the barrel is low—God! are they to die of thirst and famine? No. The sky is red—like blood—the sun is sinking; land is in the distance—they are saved!' falling on his knees; 'they are saved, thank God!'

Meddlechip, who had recovered himself, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and sneered with his white lips at the theatrical way Gaston was behaving in. Vandeloup saw this, and, springing to his feet, crossed to the millionaire.

'Braulard,' he continued, quickly, 'lands on the coast of Queensland; he comes to Sydney—no work; to Melbourne—no work; he goes to Ball'rat—work there at a gold-mine. Braulard takes the name of Vandeloup and makes money; he comes to Melbourne, lives there a year, he is in want of money, he is in despair; at the theatre he overhears a plan which will give him money, but he needs capital— despair again, he will never get it. Aha! Fate once more intervenes- -he sees M. Kestrike, now Meddlechip, he will ask him for the money, and the question is, will he get it? So the story is at an end.' He ended with his usual smile, all his excitement having passed away, and lounging over to the supper-table lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa.

Meddlechip sat silently looking at the disordered supper-table and thinking deeply. The dishes were scattered about the white cloth, and some vividly red cherries had fallen down from the fruit dish in the centre, some salt was spilt near his elbow, the napkins, twisted into thin wisps, were lying among the dirty dishes, and the champagne glasses, half filled with the straw-coloured wine, were standing near the empty bottles. Meddlechip thought for a few moments, and then looked up suddenly in a cool, collected, business- like manner.

'As I understand you,' he said, in a steady voice, 'the case stands thus: you know a portion, or rather, I should say, an episode of my life, I would gladly forget. I did not commit the murder.'

'No, but you gave her the poison.'

'Innocently I did, I confess.'

'Bah! who will believe that?' retorted M. Vandeloup, with a shrug; 'but never mind this at present; let me hear what you intend to do.'

'You know a secret,' said Meddlechip, nervously, 'which is dangerous to me; you want to sell it; well, I will be the buyer—name your price.'

'Five hundred pounds,' said Vandeloup, quietly.

'Is that all?' asked the other, with a start of surprise; 'I was prepared for five thousand.'

'I am not exorbitant in my demands,' answered Vandeloup, smoothly; 'and as I told you, I have a scheme on hand by which I may make a lot of money-five hundred pounds is sufficient to do what I want. If the scheme succeeds, I will be rich enough to do without any more money from you.'

'Yes; but if it fails?' said Meddlechip, doubtfully.

'If it fails, I will be obliged to draw on you again,' returned Gaston, candidly; 'you can't say, however, that I am behaving badly to you.'

'No,' answered Meddlechip, looking at him. 'I must say you are easier to deal with than I anticipated. Well, if I give you my cheque for five hundred—'

'Say six hundred,' observed Vandeloup, rising and going to a small table in the corner of the room on which were pens and ink. 'I want an extra hundred.'

'Six hundred then be it,' answered Meddlechip, quietly, rising and going to his overcoat, from whence he took his cheque book. 'For this amount you will be silent.'

M. Vandeloup bowed gracefully.

'On my word of honour,' he replied, gaily; 'but, of course,' with a sudden glance at Meddlechip, 'you will treat me as a friend—ask me to your house, and introduce me to Madame, your wife.'

'I don't see the necessity,' returned Meddlechip, angrily, going over to the small table and sitting down.

'Pardon me, I do' answered the Frenchman, with a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

'Well, well, I agree,' said Meddlechip, testily, taking up a pen and opening his cheque book. 'You, of course, can dictate your own terms.'

'I understand that perfectly,' replied Vandeloup, delicately, lighting a cigarette, 'and have done so. You can't say they are hard, as I said before.'

Meddlechip did not answer, but wrote out a cheque for six hundred pounds, and then handed it to Vandeloup, who received it with a bow and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.