In Friendship's Guise

ANOTHER CHANCE.

Sir Lucius Chesney remained for an hour to further discuss the affair of the two Rembrandts with Mr. Lamb, and the conversation became so interesting that he almost forgot that he had arranged to leave Paddington for Oxford at eight o'clock; when he suddenly remembered the fact he hurried off, fearful of losing his dinner, and St. Martin's in the Fields indicated a quarter to seven as he entered Morley's Hotel.

At that time a little party of three persons were sitting down to a table in one of the luxurious dining-rooms of the Trocadero. Victor Nevill was the host, and his guests were Stephen Foster and his daughter; later they were all going to see the production of a new musical comedy.

Madge, as lovely as a dream in her lustrous, shimmering evening gown, fell under the sway of the lights and the music, and was more like her old self than she had been for months; the papers had been kept out of her way, and she did not know that Jack had returned from India. Stephen Foster was absorbed in the menu and the wine-card, and Nevill, in the highest of spirits, laughed and chatted incessantly. He was ignorant of something that had occurred that very day, else his evening's pleasure would surely have been spoiled.

To understand the incident, the reader must go back to the previous night, or rather an early hour of the morning. For the last of the West End restaurants were putting out their lights and closing their doors when Jimmie Drexell, coming home from a "smoker" at the Langham Sketch Club, ran across Bertie Raven in Piccadilly. It was a fortunate meeting. The Honorable Bertie was with a couple of questionable companions, and he was intoxicated and very noisy; so much so that he had attracted the attention of a policeman, who was moving toward the group.

Jimmie, like a good Samaritan, promptly rescued his friend and took him to his own chambers in the Albany, as he was obviously unfit to go elsewhere. Bertie demurred at first, but his mood soon changed, and he became pliant and sullen. He roused a little when he found himself indoors, and demanded a drink. That being firmly refused, he muttered some incoherent words, flung himself down on a big couch in Jimmie's sitting-room, and lapsed into a drunken sleep.

Jimmie threw a rug over him, locked up the whisky, and went off to bed. His first thought, when he woke about nine the next morning, was of his guest. Hearing footsteps in the outer room, he hurriedly got into dressing-gown and slippers and opened the communicating door. He was not prepared for what he saw. Bertie stood by the window, with the dull gray light on his haggard face and disordered hair, his crushed shirt-front and collar. A revolver, taken from a nearby cabinet, was in his hand. He was about to raise it to his forehead.

Jimmie was across the room at a bound, and, striking his friend's arm down, he sent the weapon clattering to the floor.

"Good God!" he cried. "What were you going to do?"

"End it all," gasped Bertie. He dropped into a chair and gave way to a burst of tears, which he tried hard to repress.

"What does it mean?" exclaimed Jimmie, breathing quick and deep. "Are you mad?"

Bertie lifted a ghastly, distorted face.

"It means ruin, old chap," he replied. "That's the plain truth. I wish you had let me alone."

"Come, this won't do, you know," said Jimmie. "You are not yourself this morning, and I don't wonder, after the condition I found you in last night. Things always look black after a spree. You exaggerate, of course, when you talk about ruin. You are all unstrung, Bertie. Tell me your troubles, and I'll do what I can to help you out of them."

Bertie shuddered as his eyes fell on the pistol at his feet.

"It's awfully good of you, old fellow," he answered huskily, "but you can't help me."

"How do you know that? Come, out with your story. Make a clean breast of it!"

Moved by his friend's kind appeal, the wretched young man confessed his troubles, speaking in dull, hopeless tones. It was the old story—a brief career on the road to ruin, from start to finish. A woman was at the bottom of it—when is it otherwise? Bertie had not reformed when he had the chance; Flora, the chorus-girl of the Frivolity, had exercised too strong an influence over him. His income would scarcely have kept her in flowers, and to supply her with jewels and dinners and a hundred other luxuries, as well as to repay money lost at cards, he had plunged deeper into the books of Benjamin and Company, hoping each time that some windfall would stave off disaster. Disregarding the advice of a few sincere friends, he had continued his mad course of dissipation. And now the blow had fallen—sooner than he had reason to expect. A bill for a large amount was due that very day, and Benjamin and Company refused to renew it; they demanded both interest and principal, and would give no easier terms.

"You'd better let me have that," Bertie concluded, desperately, pointing to the pistol.

Jimmie kicked the weapon under the table, put his hands deep into the pockets of his dressing gown, and whistled thoughtfully.

"Yes, it's bad," he said. "So you've gone to the Jews! You ought to have known better—but that's the way with you chaps who are fed with silver spoons. I'm not a saint myself—"

"Are you going to preach?" put in Bertie, sullenly.

"No; my little lecture is over. Cheer up and face the music, my boy. It's not as bad as you think. Surely your father will get you out of the scrape."

"Do you suppose I would tell him?" Bertie cried, savagely. "That would be worse than—well, you know what I was going to do. It's just because of the governor that I can't bear to face the thing. He has paid my debts three times before, and he vowed that if I ran up any more bills he would ship me off to one of his ranches in Western America. He will keep his word, too."

"Ranch life isn't bad," said Jimmie.

"Don't talk about it! I would rather kill myself than go out there, away from England and all that one cares for. You know how it is, old man, don't you? London is the breath of life to me, with its clubs and theaters, and suppers, and jolly good fellows, and—"

"And Flora!" Jimmie supplemented drily.

"D—n Flora! She threw up the Friv yesterday and slipped off to the Continent with Dozy Molyneaux. I'm done with her, anyway! But what does it all matter? I'm ruined, and I must go under. Give me a drink, old chap—a stiff one."

"You can't have it, Bertie. Now, don't get riled—listen to me. Where was your father while you were going the pace so heavily?"

"In Scotland—at Runnymede Castle. He's there still, and knows nothing of what I've been doing. I dare say he thinks I've been living comfortably on my income—a beggarly five hundred a year!"

"What amount is the bill that falls due to-day?"

"Seven hundred and fifty pounds, with interest."

"And there are others?"

"Yes; three more—all renewals."

"And the total sum? Can you give it to me?"

"What's the use?" Bertie muttered. "But if you want to know—" He took a bit of paper from his pocket. "I counted it up yesterday," he added. "I can't get clear of the Jews for less than twenty-five hundred pounds."

"It's a heavy sum!"

"I can't raise a fraction of it. And the worst of it is that Victor Nevill is on—By Jove, I shouldn't have let that out!"

"You mean that Nevill indorsed the paper—all of it?"

"Only the first bill, and the next one Benjamin and Company took without an indorsement, as they did with the later ones. Nevill warned me what would happen if I kept on. I wish I had listened to him!"

Jimmie looked very grave.

"So Nevill steered you to the Jews!" he said, in a troubled tone. "It was hardly the act of a friend. Have you spoken to him in regard to this matter?"

"Yes, but he was short of money, and couldn't help me," Bertie replied. "He was awfully cut up about it, and went to see the Jews. It was no good—they refused to renew the bill on his indorsement."

"And heretofore they have accepted paper bearing your own signature only! Of course they knew that you had future expectations, or that your father would protect them from loss. It's the old game!"

"My expectations are not what they were," Bertie said sullenly, "and that's about what has brought things to a crisis. I can see through a millstone when there is a hole in it. I have a bachelor uncle on my mother's side—a woman-hater—who always said that he would remain single and make me his heir. But he changed his mind a couple of months ago, and married."

"Be assured that Benjamin and Company know that," Jimmie answered; "it's their reason for refusing to renew the bill."

"Yes; Nevill told me the same. He advised me to own up to the governor."

"How about your eldest brother—Lord Charters?"

"No good," the Honorable Bertie replied, gloomily; "we are on bad terms. And George is in New York."

"Then I must put you on your feet again."

"You!"

"Yes; I will lift your paper—the whole of it."

"Impossible! I can't accept money from a friend!"

"I'm more than that, my boy—or will be. Isn't your brother going to marry my cousin? And, anyway, we'll call it a loan. I'll take your I O U for the amount, and you can have twenty years to repay it—a hundred if you like. I can easily spare the money."

"I tell you I won't—"

"Don't tell me anything. It's settled. I mean to do it."

Bertie broke down; his scruples yielded before his friend's persistence.

"I'll pay it back," he cried, half sobbingly. "I'll be able to some day. God bless you, Jimmie—you don't know what you've saved me from. Another chance! I will make the most of it! I'll cut the old life and run straight—I mean it this time. I'm done with cards and evil companions, and all the rest of it!"

"Glad to hear it," said Jimmie. "I want your word of honor that you won't exceed your income hereafter, and that you will leave London for six months and go home."

"I will; I swear it!"

"And you will have nothing more to do with Flora and her kind?"

"Never again!"

"I believe you," said Jimmie, patting the young man on the shoulder. "Cheer up now and we'll breakfast together presently, and meanwhile I'll send a man round to your rooms for some morning togs. Then I'll leave you here while I go down to the city to see my bankers. I'll be back before noon, and bring a solicitor with me; I want the thing done ship-shape."

With that, Jimmie retired to the bedroom, where he was soon heard splashing in his tub. An hour later, when breakfast was over, he hurried away. He returned at half-past twelve, accompanied by an elderly gentleman of legal aspect, Mr. Grimsby by name. Bertie was ready, dressed in a suit of brown tweeds, and the three went on foot to Duke street, St. James'. They passed through the narrow court, and, without knocking, entered the office of Benjamin and Company. No one was there, but two persons were talking in a rear apartment, the door of which stood open an inch or so. And one of the voices sounded strangely familiar to Jimmie.

"Listen!" he whispered to Bertie. "Do you hear that?"

ON THE TRACK.

In answer to Jimmie's question, Bertie gave him a puzzled look; he clearly did not understand. At the same instant the conversation in the next room was brought to a close. Some person said "Good-morning, Benjamin," and there was a sound of a door closing and of retreating footsteps; one of the speakers had gone, probably by another exit. The house, as Jimmie suspected, fronted on Duke street, and it was the rear portion that was connected with the court.

The elderly Jew, who was Mr. Benjamin himself, promptly entered the office, adjusting a black skull-cap to his head. He gave a barely perceptible start of surprise at sight of his visitors; he could not have known that they were there. He apologized extravagantly, and inquired what he could have the pleasure of doing for them. Mr. Grimsby stated their business, and the Jew listened with an inscrutable face; his deep-sunken eyes blinked uneasily.

"Do I understand," he said, addressing himself to the Honorable Bertie, "that you wish to take up not only the bill which is due to-day—"

"No; all of them, Benjamin," Bertie interrupted. "My friend wants to pay you to the last penny."

"I shall be happy to oblige," said the Jew, rubbing his hands. "I always knew that you were an honest young gentleman, Mr. Raven. I am sorry that I had to insist on payment, but my partner—"

"Will you let me have the paper, sir," Jimmie put in, curtly.

The Jew at once bestirred himself. He opened a safe in which little bundles of documents were neatly arranged, and in a couple of minutes he produced the sheaf of bills that had so nearly been the ruin of his aristocratic young client. The first one was among the number; it had been renewed several times, on Nevill's indorsement.

The affair was quickly settled. The solicitor went carefully over Mr. Benjamin's figures, representing principal and interest up to date, and expressed himself as satisfied; it was extortionate but legal, he declared. The sum total was a little over twenty-five hundred pounds—Bertie had received less than two-thirds of it in cash—and Jimmie promptly hauled out a fat roll of Bank of England notes and paid down the amount. He took the canceled paper, nodded coldly to the Jew, and left the money-lender's office with his companions.

Mr. Grimsby, declining an invitation to lunch, hailed a cab and went off to the city to keep an appointment with a client. The other two walked on to Piccadilly, and Bertie remembered that morning, months before, when Victor Nevill had helped him out of his difficulties, only to get him into a tighter hole.

"No person but myself was to blame," he thought. "Nevill meant it as a kindness, and he advised me to pull up when he found what I was drifting into—I never mentioned the last bill to him. Dear old Jimmie, he's given me another chance! How jolly to feel that one is rid of such a burden! I haven't drawn an easy breath for weeks."

"We'll go to my place first," said Jimmie. "I want a wash after the atmosphere of that Jew's den. And then we'll lunch together."

It was a dull and cheerless day, but the sitting-room in the Albany looked quite different to Bertie as he entered it. Was it only a few hours before, he wondered, that he had stood there by the window in the act of taking that life which had become too great a burden to bear? And in the blackness of his despair, when he saw no glimmer of hope, the clouds had rolled away. He glanced at the pistol, harmlessly resting on a shelf, and a rush of gratitude filled his heart and brought tears to his eyes. He clasped his friend's hand and tried incoherently to thank him.

"Come, none of that," Jimmie said, brusquely. "Let us talk of something more interesting. I have a pot of money; and this stuff," pulling out the packet of bills, "don't even make a hole in it. It was a jolly little thing to do—"

"It wasn't a little thing for me, old chap. I shall never forget, and be assured that you will get your money back some day, with interest."

"Oh, hang the money!" exclaimed Jimmie. "If I'm ever hard up I'll ask for it. If you want to show your gratitude, my boy, see that you stick to your promise and run straight as a die hereafter."

"I swear I will, Jimmie. I would be worse than a blackguard if I didn't. Don't worry—I've had my lesson!"

"Then let it be a lasting one. There are plenty of fellows who never get clear of the Jews."

Jimmie vanished into the next room, and in a few moments reappeared, rubbing his face vigorously with a towel.

"Do you remember in the Jew's den," he said abruptly, "my calling your attention to the men talking in the back office?"

"Yes, but I didn't know what you meant."

"Didn't one of the voices sound familiar to you?"

"By Jove, you're right, come to think of it. It reminded me of—"

"Of Victor Nevill," said Jimmie. "Benjamin's companion talked exactly like him, it struck me."

"That's it. Queer, wasn't it? But, of course, it was only a coincidence. Nevill couldn't have been there."

"No; I hardly think so," Jimmie answered, slowly and seriously.

"I'm positive about it," exclaimed Bertie. "Surely you wouldn't insinuate that Nevill is a—"

"No, I can't believe him to be that—a tout for money-lenders. But it was wonderfully like his voice."

"Don't get such an idea into your head," protested Bertie. "Nevill was only in the place twice, and then he went to oblige me. He hates the Jews, and won't have anything to do with them himself. And he don't need to. He has a settled income of two or three thousand a year."

"Yet he refused to help you, and pleaded that he was hard up?"

"Yes," assented Bertie, "but he didn't put it exactly in that way. He explained how he was fixed, and I quite understand it. He must save all his spare cash just now. He is going to be married soon."

"That's news," said Jimmie. "I hadn't an inkling of it."

"Nor I," declared Bertie, "until a week ago. I was dining with Nevill, and he had taken half a bottle too much, you know. That's when he let it out."

"Who is the girl?"

"A Miss Foster, I believe. She lives somewhere near Kew Bridge, in a big, old-fashioned house on the river. I suppose her father has money. From what Nevill said—"

A sharp exclamation fell from Jimmie's lips, and his face expressed blank astonishment.

"By Jove! Nevill engaged to Madge Foster?" he cried.

"That's the girl, and he's going to marry her!"

Jimmie turned away to hide his feelings. This was a most astounding piece of news, but under the circumstances he was satisfied that it must be true. So Nevill knew Miss Foster! That in itself was a strange revelation! And suddenly a vague suspicion came into his mind—a chilling doubt—as he recalled Nevill's demeanor, and certain little actions of his, on the night when Jack Vernon's French wife confronted him under the trees of Richmond Terrace. Had a jealous rival planned that Diane should be there?—that she should come to life again to blast the happiness of the man who believed her dead? He tried to put away the suspicion, but it would not be stifled; it grew stronger.

"I say, old man, what's gone wrong?" asked Bertie. "You're acting queerly. I hope you've not been hit in that quarter."

Jimmie faced around and laughed.

"No fear, Bertie," he said. "I'm not a marrying man. I wouldn't know Miss Foster from your precious Flora, for I've never seen either of them." He suddenly remembered the photograph Jack had shown him, and his cheeks flushed. "It gave me a bit of a start to hear that Nevill was going to be married," he added, hastily. "I thought he was too fond of a bachelor's existence to tie himself to a wife."

"It's funny what a woman can do with a chap," Bertie sagely observed.

"You ought to know," Jimmie replied, pointedly, as he pulled on his coat. "Come along! It's past my lunch hour, and I'm hungry."

On their way to a noted restaurant in the vicinity Jimmy engaged in deep reflection.

"I'll do it," he vowed, mentally. "I'll keep an eye on Mr. Victor Nevill, and get to the bottom of this thing. I remember that I took a dislike to him in Paris from the first. I hate a traitor, and if Nevill has been playing the part of a false friend, I'll block his little game. He seemed rather too anxious to take Diane away that night. And he'll bear watching for another reason—I'm almost certain that it was his voice I heard in the Jew's back room. Benjamin and Company, like charity, may cover a multitude of sins. Nevill was going a rapid pace when he was abroad, and he couldn't well have kept it up all these years on his legacy."

It was eleven o'clock at night, and the theatres were pouring their audiences from pit and stalls, galleries and boxes, into the crowded, tumultuous, clamoring Strand, blazing and flashing like a vast, long furnace, echoing to the roar of raucous throats, and throbbing to the rumble of an endless invasion of cabs and private carriages. A fascinating scene, and one of the most interesting that London can show.

The uniformed commissionaire of the Ambiguity, reading the wishes of a lady and gentleman who pressed across the pavement to the curb, promptly claimed a hansom and opened the door. Stephen Foster helped his daughter into it and followed her. Madge looked fragile and tired, but her sweet beauty attracted the attention of the bystanders; she drew her fluffy opera-cloak about her white throat and shoulders as she nestled in a corner of the seat. Nevill, who had been separated from them by the crush, came forward just then.

"I'm sorry you won't have some supper," he said. "It is not late."

"It will be midnight before we get home," Stephen Foster replied. "We are indebted to you for a delightful evening."

"Yes, we enjoyed it so much," Madge added, politely.

"I hope you will let me repeat it soon," Nevill said.

The girl did not answer. She held out her hand, and it was cold to Nevill's touch. He bade them both good-night, and stepped aside to give the cabby his directions. He watched the vehicle roll away, and then scowled at the commissionaire, who waited expectantly for a tip.

"As beautiful as a dream," he thought, savagely, "but with a heart of ice—at least to me. Will I never be able to melt her?"

It is no easy matter to cross the Strand when the theaters are dismissing their audiences, and five minutes were required for Nevill to accomplish that operation; even then he had to avail himself of a stoppage of the traffic by a policeman. He bent his steps to the grill-room of the Grand, and enjoyed a chop and a small bottle of wine. Lighting a cigar, he sauntered slowly to Jermyn street, and as he reached his lodgings a man started up suddenly before him.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said humbly, "but ain't you Mr. Victor Nevill?"

A FATEFUL DECISION.

Nevill paused, latch-key in hand; a cautious impulse checked the admission of his identity. The individual who had accosted him, seen by the glow of a distant street-lamp, was thickset and rakish-looking, with a heavy mustache. He repeated his question uneasily.

"If I've made a mistake—" he went on.

"No, you are not mistaken," said Nevill. "But how did you learn my name, and what do you want with me?"

On a natural impulse, fancying he recognized a racing tipster who had been of service to him in the past, he reached for his pocket; the jingling of coin was heard.

"Stow that—I'm not a beggar!" the man said, sharply.

"I beg your pardon! I thought I recalled—"

"We never met before, Mr. Nevill."

"Then it's a queer time of night for a stranger to hunt me up. If you have business with me, come in the morning; or, better still, write to me."

"I've got to talk to you to-night, sir, and I ain't to be put off. For two blessed hours I've been hanging around this house, watching an' waiting—"

"A sad waste of time! You are an impudent fellow, whoever you are. I refuse to have anything to do with you."

"I think you'll change your mind, sir. If you don't you'll be sorry till your dying day."

"You scoundrel, do you dare to threaten me?" cried Nevill. "There is only one remedy for ruffians of your kind—" He looked up and down the street in search of a policeman.

"You can call an officer if you like," the man said, scornfully; "or, if you choose to order me away, I'll go. But in that case," he bent nearer and dropped his voice to a whisper, "I'll take my secret straight to Sir Lucius Chesney. And I'll warrant he won't refuse to hear it."

Nevill's countenance changed, and he seemed to wilt instantly.

"Your secret?" he muttered. "Are you telling the truth? What is it?"

"Do you suppose I'm going to give that away here in the street? It's a private matter, and can only be told under shelter, where there ain't no danger of eavesdroppers."

"I'll trust you," replied Nevill, after a brief hesitation. "Come, you shall go to my rooms. But I warn you in advance that if you are playing a game of blackmail I'll have no mercy on you."

"I won't ask none. Don't you fear."

Nevill opened the house door, and the two went softly up the dimly lit staircase. The gas-lamps were turned on, revealing the luxuries of the front apartment, and the visitor looked about him with bewildered admiration; he seemed to feel his unfitness for the place, and instinctively buttoned his coat over his shabby linen. But that was only for a moment. With an insolent smile he took possession of a basket-chair, helped himself to a cigar, and poured some brandy from a carafe into a glass. Meanwhile Nevill had drawn the window curtains, and when he turned around he had hard work to restrain his anger.

"What the devil—," he began, and broke off. "You are the cheekiest fellow I ever came across," he added.

"It ain't often," replied the man, puffing away contentedly, "that I get a chance to try a swell's tobacco and liquor. That's prime stuff, sir. I feel more like talking now."

"Then be quick about it. What is your business? And as you have the advantage of me at present, it would be better if you began by stating your name."

"My name," the man paused half a second, "is Timmins—Joe Timmins. It ain't likely that you—"

"No; I never heard it," Nevill interrupted. He sat down at the other side of the table, and endeavored to hide his anxiety and impatience. "I can't spare you much time," he added.

"Sure there ain't nobody within earshot?"

"Quite sure. Make your mind easy."

Mr. Joe Timmins—alias Noah Hawker—expressed his satisfaction by a nod. He produced a paper from his pocket, and slowly unfolded it.

"If you will kindly read that," he said.

Nevill took the document curiously. It consisted of half a dozen pages of writing, well-worded and grammatical, but done by a wretched, scrawling hand, and embellished with numerous blots and smudges. From the first he grasped its import, and as he read on to the end his face grew pale and his hands shook. With a curse he started to his feet and made a step toward the grate, where the embers of a coal fire lingered. Then, dropping down again, he laughed bitterly.

"Of course this is only a copy?" he exclaimed.

"That's all, sir," replied Mr. Timmins, with a grim smile. "It ain't likely I'd been fool enough to bring the original here. I did the copy myself, an' though I ain't much of a scholar, I do say as it reads for what it's meant to be, word for word."

"I want better proof than this, my man."

"Ain't you satisfied? Look at the date of the letter, an' where it was written, an' what it says. Could I invent such a thing?"

"No; you couldn't," Nevill admitted. "You have the original letter, you say?"

"I've had that and other papers for years, hid away in a safe place, which is where they lie now. It's only lately I looked into them deep, so to speak, and saw what they might be worth to me. I studied them, sir, and by putting things together I found there were three persons concerned—three chances for me to try."

"You are a cunning fellow," said Nevill. "Why did you bring the letter to me?"

"Because it pointed that way. I knew you were the biggest bird, and the one most likely to pay me for my secret. It was quite a different matter with the others—"

"You haven't seen them?"

"No fear!" Mr. Timmins answered, emphatically. "I spotted you as my man from the first, and I'm glad you've got the sense to look at it right. I hope we understand each other."

"I don't think there can be much doubt about that," replied Nevill, whose quick mind had grasped the situation in all its bearings; he realized that there was no alternative—save ruin—but to submit to the scoundrel's terms. But the bargain must be made as easy as possible.

"I must know more than you have told me," he went on. "How did the letter come into your possession? And why have you waited more than five years to make use of it?"

Mr. Timmins was not averse to answering the questions. He pulled his chair closer, and in low tones spoke for some minutes, revealing all that Nevill wished to know, and much besides that was of interest.

"You'll find me a square-dealing customer," he concluded, "and I expect the same of a gent like you."

Nevill shrank from him with ill-concealed disgust and repulsion; contact with the lower depths of crime affected his aristocratic sensibilities.

"You swear that you have all the papers?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And they are in a safe place?"

"If I was to drop over dead, sir, they wouldn't be found in a hundred years."

"We'll proceed to the next question," Nevill said, abruptly. "To speak with brutal frankness, Mr. Timmins, what is your price?"

"One thousand pounds in cash, when the papers are handed over," was the prompt reply, "and a signed agreement to pay me as much more when you come into—"

"Do you take me for a millionaire?" cried Nevill. "It's all right about the agreement, but a thousand pounds is utterly beyond my means. Say two hundred."

Mr. Timmins shook his head, and glanced significantly about the room.

"I can't take a shilling less," he firmly replied. "I know a good thing when I have it, sir."

Nevill temporized. He argued and entreated, but without avail. He had an inflexible customer to deal with, who would not be put off with anything but his pound of flesh. A decision that night was impossible, and arrangements were made for another meeting within a few days. Then Mr. Timmins filled his pocket with cigars and took his leave.

Nevill let him out into Jermyn street, locked the door, and returned to his sitting-room. His face was distorted with evil passions, and he spilled the brandy on the table as he poured some into a glass.

"Curse him!" he said, hoarsely. "He again! Is he destined to blast my life and ruin my prospects?"

The "do" at Joubert Mansions, Chelsea, by no means fell short of Jack's forecast; on the contrary, it exceeded it. His memory failed him as to what transpired after three in the morning; he woke at noon in a strange bed, with a sense of overmastering languor, and a head that felt too big for his body. Vance Dickens, with a palette on his thumb, was standing over him. He laughed till the roof threatened to come off.

"I wish you could see yourself," he howled. "It's not exactly the awakening of Venus. You wouldn't be undressed, so we had to tuck you away as you were—some chaps helped to bring you here."

"You beggar!" growled Jack. "You look as fresh as a new penny."

"Two whiskies is my limit, old boy—I don't go beyond it. And I had a page black-and-white to do to-day. Stir yourself, and we'll have breakfast. The kettle is boiling. Wait—I'll bring you a pick-me-up."

The pick-me-up, compounded on the principle that like cures like, did not belie its name. It got Jack to his feet and soothed his head. The two men were about of a size, and Dickens loaned his friend a shirt and collar and a tweed suit, promising to send his dress clothes home by a trusty messenger.

"No; I'll attend to that," demurred Jack, who did not care to tell where he lived.

He nibbled at his breakfast, drank four cups of strong tea, and then sauntered to the window. It was drizzling rain, and the streets between the river and the King's road were wrapped in a white mist.

"This sort of thing won't do," he reflected. "I must pull up short, or I'll be a complete wreck." He remembered the brief, sad note—with more love than bitterness in it—which he had received from Madge in reply to his letter of explanation. "I owe something to her," he thought. "She forgave me, and begged me to face the future bravely. And, by heavens, I'll do it! I hope she doesn't know the life I've been leading since I came back. Work is the thing, and I'll buckle down to it again."

Fired by his new resolve, Jack settled himself in a cozy corner and lighted a pipe. With a stimulating interest he watched Dickens, who had finished his black-and-white, and was doing a water color from a sketch made that summer at Walberswick, a quaint fishing village on the Suffolk coast. He blobbed on the paint, working spasmodically, and occasionally he refreshed himself at the piano with a verse of the latest popular song.

"By Jove, this is Friday!" he said suddenly; "and I'm due at the London Sketch Club to-night. Will you come there and have supper with me at nine?"

"Sorry, but I can't," Jack replied, remembering his promise to Sir Lucius Chesney. "I'm off now. I'll drop in to-morrow and get my dress-suit—don't trouble to send it."

Dickens vainly urged a change of mind. Jack was not to be coerced, and, putting on a borrowed cap and overcoat, he left the studio. He walked to Sloane square, and took a train to the Temple; but he was so absorbed in a paper that he was carried past his station. He got out at Blackfriars, and lingered doubtfully on the greasy pavement, staring at the sea of traffic surging in the thick, yellow fog. He had reached another turning-point in his life, but he did not know it.

"I'll go to the 'Cheese,'" he decided, "and have some supper."

A FRUITLESS ERRAND.

The merest trifles often have far-reaching results, and Jack's careless decision, prompted by a hungry stomach, made him the puppet of fate. The crossing at Blackfriars station is the most dangerous in London, and he did not reach the other side without much delay and several narrow escapes. It was a shoulder-and-elbow fight to the mouth of the dingy little court in which is the noted hostelry he sought, and then compensation and a haven of rest—the dining-room of the "Cheshire Cheese!" Here there was no trace of the fog, and the rumble of wheels was hushed to a soothing murmur. An old-world air pervaded the place, with its low ceiling and sawdust-sprinkled floor, its well-worn benches and tables and paneling. The engravings on the walls added to the charm, and the head waiter might have stepped from a page of Dickens. Savory smells abounded, and the kettle rested on the hob over the big fireplace, to the right of which Doctor Johnson's favorite seat spoke eloquently of the great lexicographer, who in time past was wont to foregather here with his friends.

Jack was too hungry to be sentimental. He sat down in one of the high-backed compartments, and, glancing indifferently at a man sitting opposite to him, he recognized the editor of the Illustrated Universe.

"By Jove!" Hunston cried, in surprise, "you're the very chap I want to see. Where have you been hiding yourself, Vernon? I searched for you high and low."

"I've not been out of town," said Jack. "I intended to look you up, or to send my address, but one thing and another interfered—"

"Yes, I understand," Hunston interrupted. "London is fresh to a man who has just come back from India. I hope you've had your fling, and are ready to do some work."

"As soon as you like," Jack replied.

"I'm glad to hear it—I was afraid you had given me the slip altogether. I want some of your sketches enlarged to double-page drawings, and I am thinking of issuing a photographic album of the snap-shots you took on the frontier."

"That's not a bad idea. I'll come in to-morrow."

"I'll expect you, then. You haven't a studio at present?"

"No."

"Well, I can give you a room on the premises to work in. By the bye, there is a letter for you at the office. It came this morning."

"I'll get it to-morrow. I don't suppose it's important."

"It is in a woman's handwriting," said Hunston, with a smile.

"A woman?" exclaimed Jack. "Where does it come from—England or abroad?"

"London postmark," was the reply.

Jack changed color, and a lump seemed to rise in his throat.

"It must be from Madge," he thought. "But why would she write to me?"

"If you would like the letter to-night—" Hunston went on.

"If it's no trouble," Jack replied, eagerly.

"None whatever. I must go back to the office, anyway."

Jack was impatient to start, and he no longer felt hungry. He ordered a light supper, however, and ate it hurriedly. He finished at the same time as Hunston, and they left the "Cheese" and plunged into the outer fog and crowds. A short walk brought them to the Universe building, which was just closing its doors to the public. Hunston turned up the gas in his office.

"Here you are," he said, taking a letter from a pigeon-hole over the desk.

Jack looked at it sharply, and disappointment banished hope. He scowled savagely, and an half-audible oath slipped from his lips. He had recognized Diane's peculiar penmanship. She was in London, contrary to promise, and had dared to write to him.

"Sit down," said Hunston. "Have a cigar?"

"No; I'm off," Jack answered dully, as he thrust the letter into his pocket unopened.

Hunston regarded him anxiously.

"Ill see you to-morrow?" he asked. "You know it's rather important, and I'll want one of the double pages by next Wednesday."

"I'll turn up," Jack promised, in an absent tone.

With that he hastened away, and as he trod the Strand his brain was in a confused whirl, and he was oblivious of the frothing life about him. He groped across Waterloo Bridge in the fog, and looked wistfully toward the black river. He did not care to read the letter yet. It was enough for the present to know that his wife had broken her word and returned to London, doubtless with the intention of demanding more money. He vowed that she should not have a penny. Fierce anger and resentment rose in his heart as he remembered, with anguish as keen as it had ever been, the blow Diane had dealt him.

"I will show her no mercy," he resolved.

In the privacy of his room, when he had locked the door and lighted the gas, he took out the letter. His face was dark and scowling as he tore it open, and read the few lines that it contained:

With a bitter laugh Jack flung the letter on a table. It was not written in French, for Diane was herself of English birth, though of her history before she came to Paris her husband was ignorant; she had never spoken to him of her earlier years, nor had he questioned her about them.

"Does she think I am a fool, to be taken in so easily?" he said to himself. "It is a lie—a trick! Money is her game, of course. She wants to decoy me to her lodgings, and hopes to make me yield by threats of exposure. And yet she writes with a ring of sincerity—something like her old self in the first days of our marriage. Bah! it is only her cunning."

He read the letter again, and pondered it.

"It was written yesterday," he muttered. "The appointment is for to-night. What could she possibly have to tell me that concerns my future happiness? Nothing! And yet, if she should really be remorseful—By Jove! I will go! It can do no harm. But if I find that she has deceived me, and is playing the old game, by heavens! I'll—"

Passion choked his utterance, and he concluded the sentence with a mental threat. He suddenly remembered that he had promised to meet Sir Lucius Chesney at eight o'clock that night.

"I can't do it," he thought. "I'm not fit to talk to any man in this mood. And he would probably detain me more than half an hour. No, I'll write a short note to Sir Lucius, putting off the engagement, and leave it at Morley's."

Whether his decision was a wise one or not, was a question that Jack did not attempt to analyze. He proceeded to carry his plans into effect. It was then seven o'clock, and it took him twenty minutes to write the note to Sir Lucius and exchange his borrowed clothes for a dark suit of his own. He put Diane's letter into a side pocket, so that he might be sure of the address, and then left the house. He did not take a cab, preferring to walk.

He handed the note in at Morley's Hotel, and steered across Trafalgar square. At the top of the Haymarket, to his chagrin, he encountered Jimmie Drexell, who urged him to have a drink at Scott's; he could not well refuse, as it was nearly a fortnight since they had met.

A quarter of an hour slipped by. Jimmie asked a great many questions, but Jack was preoccupied and uneasy, and scarcely answered them. He finally tore himself away on the plea of an urgent engagement, and promised to call at the Albany the next day; he was reluctant to confide in his friend. A distant clock was striking eight-thirty as he turned up the Quadrant.

Regent street was noisy and crowded, but Beak street was gloomy and misty, depressing and lonely, in contrast. Jack found the right number, and as he hesitated before the house—the door of which was partly open—a man came abruptly out. He was tall and slim, dressed in dark clothes, and with a soft hat that concealed all of his features except an aquiline nose and a black beard and mustache. He stared hard at Jack for an instant, then strode rapidly off to the eastward and was lost in the fog.

"A foreigner, from his actions," thought Jack.

He pushed the door open, and mounted a steep and narrow staircase. Reaching the first landing, he saw a door on his left. At the bottom a faint streak of light was visible, but his low rapping brought no response. He rapped again—three times, and each louder—but with the same result.

"No use to keep this up," he concluded, vexatiously. "I am a few minutes late, and she has gone out, thinking that I would not come. There is no mistake about the room. I won't wait—I'll write to her to-morrow, and give her twenty-four hours to get out of London."

He went slowly down the dark stairs, and as he stepped into the street he brushed against a stout, elderly woman. With a muttered apology, he moved aside. The woman turned and looked after him sharply for an instant, then entered the house and closed the door.

Jack thought nothing of the incident. How to put in the evening was the question that concerned him. He was walking undecidedly down the Quadrant when he saw approaching an artist friend whom he did not care to meet. On the impulse of the moment he darted across the street, narrowly missing the wheels of a hansom, and in front of the Café Royal he ran into the arms of Victor Nevill.

"Hello, old chap; you are in a hurry!" cried Nevill. "What's up now? Seen my uncle?"

Jack was flushed and breathless.

"No; I couldn't manage it," he panted. "I left a note at Morley's for him. I had to make a call—party wasn't at home."

"Where are you bound for? Morley's?"

"No; it's too late. Shall we have some refreshment?"

"Sorry, but I can't," replied Nevill. "I'm going to a reception. Will you come to my rooms at eleven?"

"Yes, if I'm not too far away. But don't count on me. Good-night, in case I don't see you again."

"Good-night," echoed Nevill.

As he looked after Jack, the latter pulled out his handkerchief, and a white object fluttered from it to the pavement. He walked on, unconscious of its loss. Nevill hurried to the spot, and picked up a letter.

"A woman's!" he muttered, as he thrust it quickly into his pocket. "And the writing seems familiar. I'll examine this when I get a chance. Everything is fair in the game I am playing."

Jack wandered irresolutely to Piccadilly Circus, seeking distraction. In the American bar at the St. James' he met a man named Ingram, who suggested that they should go to see a mutual friend—an artist—who lived in Bedford Park. Jack agreed, and they drove in a cab. They found a lot of other men they knew at the studio, and whisky and tobacco made the hours fly. They left at two o'clock in the morning—a convivial party of five—and they had to walk to Hammersmith before they picked up a hansom. They dropped off one by one, and Jack was the only occupant when he reached Sloane street. It was long past four when the cab put him down at his lodgings on the Surrey side.

A THUNDERBOLT FROM THE BLUE.

Another day dawned, as wet and gloomy as the preceding ones. It was the middle of the morning when Jack got out of bed, and as he dressed he heard the penetrating voices of newsboys ringing through the Waterloo Bridge road. He could not distinguish what they were saying, though he judged that the papers must contain some intelligence of unusual importance. He rang for his breakfast, and his landlady, Mrs. Jones, appeared in person, bringing coffee, rolls and bacon on a tray. Her face was flushed with excitement.

"Oh, Mr. Vernon, 'ave you 'eard?" she exclaimed. "There was a 'orrible murder last night! I do pity the poor, dear creature—"

"I don't want to be shocked," Jack curtly interrupted. "Murders are common enough. But you might send me up a paper."

"And you won't 'ear—"

"Not now, my good woman."

Mrs. Jones put down the tray, tossed her head, and departed in a huff. The paper arrived five minutes later, and Jack glanced over it while he sipped his coffee. One of the inside pages suddenly confronted him with huge headlines: "The Beak Street Murder!" He read further down the column, and his face turned as pale as ashes; he swayed in his chair.

"My God!" he cried. "It is Diane!"

The report of the affair was enlarged from a briefer account that had appeared in a late edition on the previous night. It seemed that Mrs. Rickett, the landlady and proprietress of 324 Beak street, had discovered the crime at a quarter to ten in the evening. A red stain, coming through the ceiling of her sitting-room, attracted her attention. She went to the room overhead, which was occupied by a female lodger calling herself Diane Merode. The door was locked, and her demands for admittance brought no response. She promptly summoned the police, who broke in the door and found the unfortunate woman, Merode, lying dead in a pool of blood. She had been stabbed to the heart by a powerful blow dealt from behind.

"The murderer left no traces," the Globe continued. "He carried off the weapon, and, after locking the door, he took the key. According to medical opinion, the deed was committed about half-past eight o'clock. At that time there were several other lodgers in the top part of the house, but they heard no noise whatever. Fortunately, however, there is a clew. Mrs. Ricketts, who was out making purchases for breakfast, returned about a quarter to nine. As she entered the doorway a man slipped by her and hastened in the direction of Regent street. She had a good look at him, and declares that she would be able to recognize him again. The police are searching for the suspected person."

Jack's breakfast was untasted and forgotten. His trembling hand had upset the coffee, spilling it over the paper. He felt cold in every vein, and his thoughts were in a state of wild chaos. It was hard to grasp the truth—difficult to realize the import of those staring headlines of black type!

"Diane murdered! Diane dead!" he repeated, vacantly. "I can't believe it!"

After the first shock, when his brain began to throw off the numbing stupor, he comprehended the terrible fact. The crime gave him no satisfaction; it never occurred to him that he was a free man now. On the contrary, a dull remorse stirred within him. He remembered his wife as she had been five years before, when she had loved him with as much sincerity as her shallow nature would permit, and her charms and beauty had bound him captive by golden chains. There were tears in his eyes as he paced the floor unsteadily.

"Poor Diane!" he muttered. "She has paid a frightful penalty for the sins of her wayward life—more than she deserved. She must have been lying dead when I rapped on her door last night. Yes, and the fatal blow had been struck but a short time before! The assassin was the foreign-looking man who came down the stairs as I went up! There can be no doubt of it! But who was he? And what was his motive? A discarded lover, perhaps! What else could have prompted the deed?"

He suddenly paused, and reeled against the wall; he clenched his hands, and a look of sharp horror distorted his face.

"By heavens, this is awful!" he gasped. "I never thought of it before! The police are looking for me—I remember now that I met the landlady when I left the house. I brushed against her and apologized, and she stared straight at me! And the real murderer—the foreigner—appears to have been seen by nobody except myself. What shall I do? It is on me that suspicion has fallen!"

The realization of his danger unnerved and stupefied Jack for an instant. Dread phantoms of arrest and imprisonment, of trial and sentence, rose before his eyes. One moment he determined to flee the country; the next he resolved to surrender to the police and tell all that he knew, so that the real murderer might be sought for without loss of time. But the latter course was risky, fraught with terrible possibilities. The evidence would be strong against him. He remembered Diane's letter. He must destroy it! He hurriedly searched the pockets of the clothing he had worn on the previous night, but in vain.

"The letter is gone—I have lost it!" he concluded, with a sinking heart. "But where and how? And if it is found—"

There was a sharp rap at the door, and as quickly it opened, without invitation. Two stern-looking men, dressed in plain clothes, stepped into the room. Jack knew at once what the visit meant, and with a supreme effort he braced himself to meet the ordeal. It was hard work to stand erect and to keep his face from twitching.

"You are John Vernon?" demanded one of the men.

"Yes."

"I will be very brief, sir. I am a Scotland Yard officer, and I am here to arrest you on suspicion of having murdered your wife, known as Diane Merode, at Number 324 Beak street, last night."

"I expected this," Jack replied. "I have just seen the paper—I knew nothing of the crime before. I am entirely innocent, though I admit that the circumstances—"

"I warn you not to say anything that may incriminate yourself. You must come with me, sir!"

"I understand that, and I will go quietly. I am quite ready. And at the proper time I will speak."

There was no delay. One of the officers remained to search the apartments, and Jack accompanied the other downstairs. They got into a cab and drove off, while Mrs. Jones shook her fist at them from the doorway, loudly protesting that she was a disgraced and ruined woman forever.

The magistrate was sitting in the court at Great Marlborough street, and Jack was taken there to undergo a brief preliminary formality. Contrary to advice, he persisted in making a statement, after which he was removed to the Holloway prison of detention to await the result of the coroner's inquest.

About the time that the cell-door closed on the unfortunate artist, shutting him in to bitter reflections, Victor Nevill was in his rooms on Jermyn street. Several of the latest papers were spread out before him, and he brushed them savagely aside as he reached for a cigar-box. He looked paler than usual—even haggard.

"They have taken him by this time," he thought. "I was lucky to pick up the letter, and it was a stroke of inspiration to send it to the police. He is guilty, without doubt. I vowed to have a further revenge, my fine fellow, if I ever got the chance, and I have kept my word. But there are other troubles to meet. The clouds are gathering—I wonder if I shall weather the storm!"

Enterprising reporters, aided by official leaking somewhere, obtained possession of considerable facts, including the prisoner's arrest and statement, before two o'clock, and the afternoon journals promptly published them, not scrupling to add various imaginary embellishments. The simple truth was enough to cause a wide-spread and profound sensation, and it did so; for John Vernon's reputation as an artist, and his Academy successes, were known alike to society and to the masses. It was a rare morsel of scandal!

Madge Foster's first knowledge of the murder was gleaned from a morning paper, which, delayed for some reason, was not delivered until her father had gone up to town. Toward evening she bought a late edition from a newsboy who had penetrated to the isolated regions of Grove Park and Strand-on-the-Green, and she saw Jack's name in big letters. When she had read the whole account, the room seemed to swim around her, and she dropped, half fainting, into a chair.

"He is innocent—his story is true!" she cried, feebly. "I will never believe him guilty! Oh, if I could only go to him and comfort him in his great trouble!"

Stephen Foster came home at seven o'clock, but he dined alone. Madge was in her room, and would not come out or touch food. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she had wept until the fountain of her tears was dried up.

At four o'clock that same afternoon Mr. Tenby, the famous criminal solicitor, was sitting in his private office in Bedford street, Strand, when two prospective clients were announced simultaneously, and, by a mistake on the part of the office-boy, shown in together. The visitors were Jimmie Drexell and Sir Lucius Chesney, and, greatly to their mutual amazement and the surprise of the solicitor, it appeared that they had come on the same errand—to engage Mr. Tenby to look after the interests of Jack Vernon. They were soon on the best of terms.

"Mr. Vernon is an old friend of mine," Jimmie explained, "and I am going to see him through this thing. I will stake my life on his innocence!"

"I am glad to hear you say that," replied Sir Lucius. "I am convinced myself that he is guiltless—that his story is true in every particular. His face is a warranty of that. I am deeply interested in the young man, Mr. Drexell. I have taken a fancy to him—and I insist on aiding in his defense. Don't refuse, sir. Expense is no object to me!"

"Nor to me," said Jimmie. "But it shall be as you wish."

This understanding being reached, the matter was further gone into. The solicitor, by adroit questioning, drew from Jimmie various bits of information relating to the accused man's past life. His own opinion—he had read all the papers—Mr. Tenby held in reserve behind a sphinx-like countenance, nor did he vouchsafe it when it was finally settled that he should defend the case.

"The circumstantial evidence appears strong—very strong," he said drily. "The situation looks black for Mr. Vernon. But I trust that the police will find the foreign-looking individual whom the accused met coming out of the house, if it is certain that—" He broke off sharply.

"At all events, gentlemen," he added, "be assured that I shall do my best."

This promise from the great Mr. Tenby meant everything. He dismissed his visitors, and they walked as far as Morley's Hotel together, discussing the situation as hopefully as they could. It was evident to both, however, that the solicitor was not disposed to credit Jack's innocence or the truth of his statement.

"I'll spend every dollar I have to get him free," Jimmie vowed, as he went sadly on to the Albany. And much the same thing was in the mind of Sir Lucius, though he wondered why it should be. He was the creature of a whim that dominated him.

The next day was Sunday, and on Monday the coroner held his inquest. The accused was not present, but he was represented by Mr. Tenby, who posed mainly as a listener, however, and asked very few questions. Nothing fresh was solicited. Mrs. Rickett repeated her story, and the letter from the murdered woman, which the prisoner admitted having lost, was put in evidence. The proceedings being merely a prelude to a higher court, the jurors rendered an undecisive verdict. They found that the deceased had been murdered by a person or persons unknown, but that suspicion strongly pointed to her husband, John Vernon. They advised, moreover, that the police should try to find the stranger whom the accused alleged to have seen coming from the house.

On Tuesday the unfortunate woman was decently buried, at Jimmie Drexell's expense, and on the following day a more formal inquiry was held at Great Marlborough street. Jack was there, and he had a brief and affecting interview with Sir Lucius and Jimmie; he had previously seen his solicitor at Holloway. He repeated to the magistrate the story he had told before, and he was compelled to admit, by the Crown lawyers, that the murdered woman had been his wife, that they had lived apart for nearly six years, and that she had recently prevented him from marrying another woman. What prompted these damaging questions, or how the prosecution got hold of the lost letter, did not appear. Mrs. Rickett positively identified the prisoner, and medical evidence was taken. The police stated that they had been unable as yet to find the missing man, concerning whose existence they suggested some doubt, and that they had discovered nothing bearing on the case in the apartments occupied by either the accused or Diane Merode. Mr. Tenby, who was suffering from a headache, did little but watch the proceedings. The inquiry was adjourned, and John Vernon was remanded in custody for a week.

But much was destined to occur in the interval. The solicitor had a formidable rival in the person of Jimmie Drexell. The shrewd American, keeping eyes and ears open, had formed suspicions in regard to the principal witness for the Crown. And he lost no time in making the most of his clew, wild and improbable as it seemed.