CHAPTER IX.
KATHERINE HUNT.

In the course of that same morning a bright-looking, dark-eyed girl appeared in Madame Dupuys' showrooms. She asked to see madame herself. Madame came out. She gave a start when she saw that the girl who wished to see her was Miss Hunt.

"I have come to order a dress," said Miss Hunt. "I want it to be pretty—as pretty as possible. I have, just at the eleventh hour, had an invitation to go to the great fancy ball at Goring. I am determined to go; the ball is the event of the season, and I would not miss it for the world. I have been all morning going from place to place, and have just time to visit you. What can you give me? Money no object. I shall require the very prettiest dress you can conceive and execute, that is all."

Miss Hunt dropped into a seat as she spoke. She had a taking way and a bright manner. She was one of madame's very best customers. Not only was she extravagant, but she was open-handed. She was a very rich girl—the daughter of a millionaire. She always paid ready cash for her clothes. Had Kitty come to demand a dress on such short notice, madame would have negatived the possibility immediately; but with Miss Hunt it was different. If madame could not supply Miss Hunt with a dress, the latter had it in her power to visit one of the most expensive shops in Bond Street, and get what she required at double the money. Money was little or no object to Miss Hunt. She tapped the floor lightly now with her parasol, and looked with expectant eyes at madame.

"Something recherché," she said, "and at the same time a little outré—something that will attract attention."

"I wonder what she is thinking of?" thought madame. "And does she know yet that she has lost her purse, and that that purse contained one hundred pounds? But why should I think she has lost it? Surely Miss Hepworth would not pay me with another person's money! The mere coincidence of Miss Hunt's address being in the purse means nothing—nothing at all."

"You ask me rather a difficult question, Miss Hunt," she said then. "This is Thursday; the ball is on Monday. I am at my wits' end, as it is, to supply a dress to Miss Katherine Hepworth. Do you know Miss Hepworth, Miss Hunt?"

"No—never heard of her," said Katherine Hunt, yawning as she spoke. "Now, my dear, good creature," she continued, rising, "will you give me a dress? Yes, or no."

"I shall do my utmost to accommodate you, Miss Hunt; but it is only at the risk of offending other customers."

"I will pay you anything in reason," said the girl. "I am so delighted to get this invitation that I shall not rest unless I am one of the stars of the evening. Understand that money is no matter. And now, what can you do for me?"

Madame left the room, returning again with fashion-books and yards of brocade, velvet, and other rich materials. Katherine Hunt became absorbed in the vital question of what she was to wear. She was a girl with a great deal of directness of manner; she always knew her own mind, and on this occasion was not long in making her selection. As the ball was to be a fancy one, she would appear as Anne Boleyn. Madame applauded the idea, saying that the dress would suit the stately figure and bold, bright eyes of the young lady.

"It must be done absolutely correctly," said the girl. "I wish you would send round to Fortescue's now for a book of costumes of the time of Henry the Eighth. I know he happens to have them. I will wait until it comes. We must decide all the particulars immediately."

Madame rang her bell, and an attendant entered the room.

"Will you pay for the book?" she said, turning to the girl.

"Oh yes, certainly." And then Miss Hunt dived her hand into her pocket to fetch out her purse.

Madame looked at her with intense curiosity. The pupils of her own eyes dilated when Katherine Hunt took out a pocket-handkerchief, shook it, and then gazed up at madame with an expression of despair.

"My purse is gone!" she said. "Some one must have stolen it! I went to the bank only this morning, and got a hundred pounds in gold and notes. There were several things I wanted to buy—in especial a wedding present for a friend of mine. The purse is gone! What can be the matter?"

Madame sympathized, but held her own counsel. Miss Hunt looked worried. Rich as she was, the loss of a hundred pounds was rather serious.

"Who can be the thief?" she said. "I remember now: I was in a hansom driving to Bond Street. I took out my purse and handkerchief. I must have left the purse on the seat, or perhaps it tumbled to the floor. Yes, I remember the number of the hansom. I took the number. It is funny that I should have done so, but I did. I can repeat it to you—22,461. If the man found the purse, he will, of course, take it to Scotland Yard."

"Of course, Miss Hunt," replied madame. "But, on the other hand, a dishonest person may have got into the hansom and taken the purse."

"Oh, not likely, not at all likely," said Miss Hunt, in a careless tone. Then she said, turning to the messenger, "Will you pay for the book, please? I will wait until it comes back.—Dishonest people don't often ride in those nice sort of hansoms," she continued. "It had rubber tyres, I remember quite well. Yes, and the number was 22,461. I will drive from here to Scotland Yard. I do hope I shall get back my purse. I was so fond of it too."

"Had your purse silver initials on the outside?" asked madame suddenly.

"Yes, my own initials, 'K.H.' Why do you ask?"

"And was it a Russian leather one?"

"It was; and oh, such a darling purse! It was given to me by one of my cousins a week ago. But have you seen it? How strange!"

"I must have seen it with you," said madame, "when last you called."

"That is impossible. I have not been here for three weeks, and my darling new purse has been one of my pet toys for only a week."

"Then I must have dreamt about it," said madame carelessly. "It is well, Miss Hunt, that you are a rich young lady: you can afford to lose even a hundred pounds."

"Indeed I can't; no one can. And daddy will be so angry. If he is a millionaire, he works hard for his wealth. He will hate to think that I was so careless. But now let us talk about the dress. When shall I be able to have it?"

The conversation became quite dressmakery. The messenger soon returned with the book of costumes, and madame and the girl bent over the pages, criticising, suggesting alterations, and finally making up their minds. The dress was ordered, and Miss Hunt, with a laugh, said that she would desire her hansom-driver to take her to Scotland Yard at once.

"If I get back my pretty purse with my initials, I will let you know," she said, with a nod. And then she went out of the room.

After she was gone madame stood for some time and thought. She was not a hard-hearted woman, and she was sorry for Katherine Hepworth.

"There is not the slightest doubt what has happened," thought madame. "That poor little lady was sorely tempted; she yielded to temptation. The hundred pounds in notes and gold which I have locked away in my writing-table is stolen money. What is to be done? I cannot for a moment allow this thing to go on. I must see Mrs. Keith. I am sorry for Miss Hepworth; but if I passed over a matter of this kind, I should consider myself terribly to blame."

Busy as she was, madame, soon after lunch that day, went out. She took a hansom and drove to the house in Maida Vale. When the servant opened the door, she asked for Mrs. Keith. The woman told her that Mrs. Keith was out, and would not be back until the evening. Madame uttered a sigh of disappointment, and had scarcely done so before a tall, well-set-up young man crossed the hall. Madame had often heard of Captain Keith, and guessed that it was he. He might do as well as his mother, and save her having a second journey—a waste of time which she could ill afford.

"Perhaps Captain Keith is in," she said suddenly.

The young man paused at the sound of his name and turned round.

"I am Captain Keith," he said, coming forward courteously. "Can I do anything to help you?"

"You certainly can help me, sir, if you will," replied madame.

"Then come into the library," said Keith. He ushered the dressmaker in and closed the door behind them.

"I am Madame Dupuys," she said at once. "Perhaps you have heard my name, sir? I am a well-known dressmaker; I live in Bond Street."

"You make dresses for Miss Hepworth," he said, with a smile. "She was telling me only this morning that she was going to see you. She was anxious about a dress she is to wear on Monday night."

"Miss Hepworth is going to the fancy ball at Goring as the Silver Queen," said madame.

Keith was silent for a moment; then he said,—

"Well, and what can I do for you?"

Madame looked full at him. Should she tell him, or should she be silent? Just for a moment she thought that she would reserve her information for the young man's mother; but on second thoughts the memory of her wasted time and the sorry trick which she considered Miss Hepworth had played upon her aroused her indignation. She spoke impulsively.

"I wished to see your mother, Captain Keith, on a matter of great privacy."

"Indeed! Then I cannot help you?"

"Yes, and no, sir. I am very much troubled about a matter which occurred to-day."

"If it is a worry, I would rather you did not tell my mother now."

"Why so, sir?"

"Because she has other things to trouble her: my regiment is ordered south next week."

"I am sorry and yet glad, sir, to know that you are going to help to protect your country." Madame half rose, then sat down again. "I ought to tell some one," she said, as if questioning herself.

"Perhaps I shall do," replied Keith, smiling, and trying to control his impatience.

"What I have to say, Captain Keith, is in absolute confidence."

"I understand."

"It has to do with Miss Hepworth."

"Miss Hepworth!" cried Keith. He coloured, and an uneasy sensation visited him. "Then perhaps I had best not hear it," he said.

"Either you or your mother must hear it, sir; and as you are willing to listen to my confidence, I will give it to you. The fact is, I have been placed in a most awkward position. I asked Miss Hepworth to call on me this morning. She came. She owes me money."

Keith made no remark, but waited for madame to proceed. He did not suppose that Kitty had large private funds at present, and a sum of ten pounds or so owed to a dressmaker did not seem to him a heinous offence.

"Perhaps I can accommodate you with a cheque," he said. After all, the woman's story was scarcely worth taking up his time with.

"It is possible that you can do so, Captain Keith; but the matter I have to speak about means more than a mere cheque. Miss Hepworth has owed me money for a long time, and to-day I asked her for a cheque. She said it was out of her power to give it to me. I asked for a cheque for a large sum. When she refused to accommodate me, I told her that I could not let her have the dress she had ordered for the ball."

Keith did not reply. A vision rose before his eyes of the pretty face of his cousin—her sparkling eyes, her tender mouth. She always dressed well, and she would look, as she herself expressed it, like a vision on this occasion.

"I should not like Miss Hepworth to be disappointed," he said slowly.

"The thing is graver than just a mere disappointment, sir. Miss Hepworth could not accommodate me, and I was firm; she left my house very angry and troubled. She returned within an hour, and said she would pay me then a hundred pounds in cash."

"A hundred pounds!" cried Keith, thoroughly roused at last. "You don't mean to tell me that Miss Hepworth owes you more than that?"

"Considerably more, sir. She said she had it in her power to pay me there and then a hundred pounds; and although I had asked for a hundred and fifty, I promised to be satisfied with what she gave me, and I gave her six weeks' grace for the remainder. I also said she should have the new dress. She took a purse out of her pocket—a Russian leather purse, marked with initials in silver, 'K.H.' She opened it, and took from it a hundred pounds in notes and gold. I gave her a receipt, and she left the house. I was about to put the money into my writing-table drawer until I could take it to the bank, when I observed a piece of paper which had fallen on the floor. I took it up, opened it, and read the address of a lady who is also a customer of mine. The lady's name was Miss Katherine Hunt, and her address, 24 Child's Gardens, Bayswater. I thought this a little strange, and instead of tearing up the paper, put it with the notes and gold in my drawer. In less than an hour Miss Hunt arrived. She was also going to the fancy ball, and she wished for a fancy dress immediately. She is a very rich young lady. Her father is a millionaire. He is the well-known David Hunt, who has made his fortune with the new sort of free wheel.

"Miss Hunt always pays me in cash for everything she gets. You will naturally understand, sir, that a hard-worked woman would be glad to oblige such a customer. She proceeded to order her dress, and finally put her hand into her pocket to pay for a book of costumes which she required. She could not find her purse. She then explained to me that she had gone to her bank that morning and had drawn a hundred pounds in notes and gold. She concluded that she must have left her purse in a hansom. Strange to say, she remembered the number of the hansom, and when she left me, went to Scotland Yard to report on her loss, and if the purse had not been returned there, to get the authorities to look up the driver. I got Miss Hunt to describe her purse, and it tallied in every particular with the purse which Miss Hepworth held in her hand when she gave me the hundred pounds. Now, sir, that is the story. I leave you to draw your own conclusions. I do not wish to be the recipient of stolen goods, and I cannot allow the driver whose number was 22,461 to get into trouble on account of the matter."

Keith's face had turned very white. After a time he crossed the room. He and his mother always used the same library for writing in. He took his keys from his pocket, unlocked an inlaid secretaire, and produced a cheque book. He filled in a cheque for a hundred pounds and gave it to madame.

"Will you take this in lieu of the other?" he said. "And will you let me have the notes and gold? I trust your suspicions are wrong. In any case, I am obliged to you for not making the matter public."

"Will you tell Mrs. Keith, sir?"

"I have not yet decided what I will do. Try to forget the circumstance. You are not likely to have anything further to do with it. This is my affair."

"Certainly, sir. I am sure Miss Hepworth ought to be very much obliged."

Keith thought for a moment.

"What is the exact amount she owes you?" he asked.

"Three hundred pounds, sir."

"I will give you another cheque for two hundred pounds; I do not wish Miss Hepworth to be any longer in your debt. And will you kindly, when you send her dress home, let me have the bill. You will not be surprised at my acting in this prompt manner when I tell you that Miss Hepworth is about to become my wife."

"Oh, indeed, sir!" Madame Dupuys dimpled all over her face. She had not expected to get her troublesome debt cleared so nicely. "I hope, sir," she said, "that you will not be hard upon the dear young lady. I regret very much that I should have subjected her to such a temptation."

"Here are your cheques," said Keith, by way of response. "You will kindly give me a receipt in full."

CHAPTER X.
YOU TALK IN RIDDLES.

Madame did give a receipt in full, and soon afterwards left the house. Before doing so, she had promised Keith that the hundred pounds in gold and notes should be forwarded to him by special messenger within an hour.

Keith had not intended to remain in to lunch, but he did not go out. Neither, however, did he appear in the dining-room.

Kitty, restless, with fear now dogging her footsteps, came in. Mrs. Keith was out, and was not expected to return for the day. She inquired of the servant if Captain Keith were within.

"Yes, miss," replied the girl; "the captain is in his study."

"Will you tell him that lunch is ready?" said Kitty.

The maid withdrew to give the necessary information. She came back in a moment or two to say that Captain Keith did not require lunch.

Kitty pouted. She sat down with but a sorry appetite. She ate very little. When her slight meal was concluded, she ran across the passage and tapped with her knuckles at the door of the study.

"It's me, Gavon," she called out. "May I come in?"

"Not now, Katherine," he replied, without opening the door. "I am particularly engaged."

She pouted once more and walked across the hall. She went slowly, very slowly, upstairs to her own room.

"Such an opportunity, and to miss it!" she thought. "I should have had him all to myself; no troublesome Mollie to distract his thoughts, and no Aunt Louisa to watch us both, as I have always seen her do lately. Why did he not lunch with me, and why did he refuse me admittance to his study? I suppose it is all too patent a fact that he does not care for me. I am one of those miserable girls who give their heart unsought, who give their love unasked for. I have read about such girls, and oh, how I have scorned them, little thinking that I should be one of them! The question now is this—Is the case hopeless? Will the fancy ball at Goring open Gavon's eyes? Will he see then that I, his cousin Kitty, possess a heart all on fire with love to him? If he sees me as I shall look that night, will he still prefer the cold, statuesque beauty of Mollie to my living, loving human heart? O Gavon, you cannot do so! When a girl gives up everything for you, you cannot reject her! O Gavon, if you do, my heart will break. I cannot live without you, my darling."

Struggling with her emotion, thinking hardly at all of the grave sin which she had committed, Kitty sat down by her open window.

"He is going away so soon," she thought. "He may never return. I cannot live without him. If he goes I will go too. Yes, I must. I will follow him somehow, in some fashion. How sorry I am now that I did not take up the profession which makes it possible for Mollie to be near him in his hour of danger!"

The large room which Kitty and Mollie occupied was situated in the front of the house, and just then Kitty heard a slight noise below. She ran to the window, opened it, and put out her head. She saw Captain Keith run down the steps of the house and walk rapidly up the street. There was purpose in his walk, and there was also a slight droop of his head, as though something perplexed and troubled him.

Kitty, whose love made her able to read his every emotion, noticed this look, and felt a fresh tightening of her heart.

"Something worries him," thought the girl; "something worries him. Oh, can anything in all the world put wrong right now? If you only knew, Gavon—if you only knew what I did for you to-day! I stole a purse of gold and notes, and all for you. I stole it because I wanted a pretty dress—something to make me look attractive in your eyes. You cannot guess that your Kitty is a thief—you cannot guess that I have risked the most hideous danger for you; for God only knows whether the purse will be missed, and whether the owner will make a fuss, and whether the officers of the law will not discover what I have done. Nevertheless I do not fear. I fear nothing now but the possibility that I shall not win that which I madly crave—your love and devotion."

Meanwhile Gavon Keith quickly reached the end of the long street, turned to his left, and held up his umbrella to a hansom-driver. The man pulled up at the pavement, and Gavon got in. He held a small parcel in his hand. The parcel was tied and sealed. He gave a direction in Bayswater. The man whipped up his horse, and in about twenty minutes drew up at the door of the house where the Hunts lived.

It was nearly five in the afternoon, and the rays of the setting sun were gilding some of the windows of the great house. Gavon rang the bell, and a liveried and powdered footman attended to his summons.

"Is Miss Katherine Hunt within?" was his first inquiry.

"My mistress is at home, sir," replied the man, after a pause, "but I am not sure whether she receives this afternoon."

Gavon was prepared for this reply. He scribbled a few words on his visiting card, and asked the servant to take it to the young lady.

"I will not come in," he said; "I will wait here."

The man went upstairs. Katherine Hunt was lounging in an arm-chair, idly turning the pages of a fashion magazine, thinking of the dress she was to wear on Monday night, and yawning now and then with downright ennui.

When the footman appeared, he presented the card on a salver. Miss Hunt took it up and glanced at it.

"Captain Keith, North Essex Light Infantry." Then in a corner were words scribbled in pencil: "I have called to see you on behalf of Madame Dupuys."

"What can this mean?" thought the girl. She sat up, and her ennui vanished. "Show Captain Keith up," she said to the servant; and a moment later he entered the room. He came quickly towards her, and she stood up as he advanced, and bowed in return to his greeting.

"Will you sit down?" she said. Then she added, speaking somewhat conventionally, "What can I do for you?"

"I must apologize for forcing myself into your presence in this way, Miss Hunt," replied Keith. "I have a very painful business to transact, and I want to do it as quickly as possible. I want, to a certain extent, also to throw myself on your mercy."

"I will do anything I can for you," said the girl.

She saw that Keith was agitated. His face was white, and although his words were bold enough, she observed that his hand slightly trembled. She pushed a chair towards him; but he did not take it, although he laid his hand on the rail.

Miss Hunt sat down on a sofa which stood near. She looked up with expectancy on her face. Keith thought for a brief moment, and then plunged into the ugly task which he had set himself.

"You took a drive this morning," he said, "in a hansom, number 22,461."

"I did," said the girl, in some astonishment.

"You left your purse in the hansom, and that purse contained one hundred pounds in gold and notes."

"It did. It also contained five shillings. Have you heard anything about it? I shall be so thankful to get it back. I went to Scotland Yard, but could get no information. I was just regarding the whole affair as hopeless, although, of course, the police will do what they can. I was wondering how I could break the news to my father. Although he is rich, he hates what he calls wilful waste. Won't you sit down, Captain Keith? I wish you would."

Keith did now drop into the nearest chair.

"My father will naturally accuse me of carelessness for leaving my purse in a hansom," continued the young lady.

"I wish to goodness you had not done so, Miss Hunt!"

"How strangely you speak! Is it possible you know something about it?"

"I do; and because I don't wish the hansom-driver to get into trouble, and because it is right that you should have your money back, I have brought you—this." As the captain spoke he took a small packet and laid it on the table near Miss Hunt.

"Does this contain my purse?"

"It contains the hundred pounds which were in your purse."

"But not my pretty purse itself?"

"No."

Miss Hunt eagerly broke the seals, untied the string, and opened the parcel. The gold was wrapped in tissue paper; the notes were in a neat roll.

"Count the money, please," said Keith.

She did so, and in a very business-like way.

"The sum is quite correct," she said. And now she raised her bright, dark eyes, and looked full at the young man. "What is the meaning of all this?" she inquired. "Why should you give me back my hundred pounds?"

"You are at liberty to draw any conclusions which occur to you," said Keith. He spoke deliberately, and with pauses between his words. "I trust to what I am sure is your kindly nature not to make things too—difficult."

It was with an effort that he could bring out the words; they stung him as they passed his lips.

"I cannot give you back your purse, I regret to say," he continued, "but the money at least is yours again. Will you kindly let the superintendent at Scotland Yard know, in order that the driver may not get into trouble?"

"I will do so; and thank you very much. Then you can really give me no particulars about my purse?"

"I regret I cannot."

"This is strange!"

"It must appear so to you." Keith looked full at her. "Do you intend to make this story public?" he asked.

She laughed, and her laugh was almost harsh.

"It would make a good story," she said then; "and we do pine for that sort of thing in society, girl—a rich girl—loses her purse. An officer in one of Her Majesty's regiments brings her back the money, not the purse."

"You can make your story exceedingly funny," said Keith, but as he spoke he did not smile.

"I will never make it funny," she replied, and she rose and drew herself up. "I am not ungenerous, and if I fail to read between the lines, or to see what you mean me to see, or to understand whether you are acting with chivalry and the desire to screen another, or because yours is merely a tardy repentance for something you yourself have done, you cannot blame me. I shall never know which motive actuates you. I shall be satisfied to go without knowing. The money is returned to me, and the affair goes no further."

"Thank you," replied Keith. Then he added, and the words came out with a visible effort, "Put the chivalrous theory quite out of your head. I thank you most sincerely. Good-afternoon."

He left her, and never was a girl more astonished than she as she stood, her hand resting on the table, with the gold and notes close to her. She was interrupted in her meditations by the entrance of a stout, very red-faced man.

"Hallo, Kate!" he said. "I am glad you are home. I have just requested Jameson to bring up tea. Why, what a lot of money you have lying loose about the place!"

"Only a hundred pounds, dad. I got it from the bank this morning."

"A very careless way to keep it," said Mr. Hunt—"very careless indeed! Money is hard to win and easy to lose. You are never aware of that fact. I wish you were not quite so careless."

"I have been made painfully aware of that fact to-day," thought Katherine, but she did not speak her thoughts aloud. She sat down and gazed straight before her. "The money is right enough; don't fret, dad." Then she added, after a pause: "What is the news from the Transvaal?"

"Have you not heard? We are sending out troops, doubtless as a precautionary measure, immediately."

"Do you happen to know who are going?"

Hunt mentioned two or three regiments.

"Is the North Essex Light Infantry going?" asked the girl suddenly.

"The North Essex Light Infantry!" repeated Hunt, in a tone of surprise. "Why, yes; a contingent of that regiment is ordered south. But why? Do you know any one belonging to it?"

"One man. I shall be sorry if he gets killed," she said, with apparent carelessness.

"You always were a very droll girl, Katherine. How long have you known this man?"

"I only met him to-day. I have taken a fancy to him."

"Why so, child?"

"Because he is one of those rare products of modern times, a man who puts a woman's honour before his own."

"Now you talk in riddles."

"Doubtless, father; and you are not to hear anything more. Only I respect him."

"Take up your money, and don't leave it lying about any longer, Katherine."

She took her money. She put the gold back into the tissue paper and rolled up the notes, and went slowly out of the room up to her own. She had a little cabinet built into the wall, where she kept her most valuable diamonds and trinkets. She unlocked the little cabinet, pressed a spring revealing a secret drawer, and put the notes and gold into it.

"As a souvenir of quite a wonderful adventure," she said to herself. And then she locked the cabinet and went back into the room where Hunt the millionaire was enjoying his tea.

"I have been making a new pile this morning," he said, turning to his daughter. "An investment turned up trumps. Do you want some more money put to your private account, little girl?"

"You might let me have a hundred pounds," she answered.

"What an extravagant piece it is! But I can let you have more than that."

"A hundred will do, father." And Hunt drew her a cheque on the spot.

CHAPTER XI.
THE FANCY BALL.

It was the night of Lady Marsden's fancy ball, and the crowd outside the beautiful grounds of Kenmuir House at Goring grew greater each moment. Policemen were stationed near, in order to keep a free passage for the stream of carriages which came up continually.

Within the noble house all that art and beauty could do to make the scene as like fairyland as possible had been done. Exotics of the rarest beauty and sweetest perfume were placed wherever flowers could appear; the lights were softened by shades of golden silk; the great marble staircase—a feature of the house—was thronged with guests in every imaginable costume. Motley, truly, was the animated scene, for people of all nationalities appeared to be present—Turks, Mohammedans, Armenians, Greeks. Men who seemed to have stepped down from ancient history; men who might have been pictured in the canvases of Vandyck and Romney; men of low degree, and men of high degree; savages with tomahawks; graceful and scented cavaliers of the time of Charles the First; men who came to look foolish, men who came to look beautiful or wise, as the case might be—but all more or less disguised, more or less carried out of themselves by the auspicious occasion—thronged the passages and pressed up the stairs.

The garbs in which the women appeared were even more humorous and striking than those worn by the men, for at a fancy ball imagination can have its full sway. Any daring thought that comes to you you may execute, being assured of at least a measure of success. Provided you have funds, or provided you do not mind running into debt, you can at least look outré or blasé; you can get, for the time being, out of your true personality, which doubtless is the main fascination of all incognitos. The desire at any cost to get away from ego; the desire to be somebody else for at least a few hours—somebody else who carries your heart within him, who hopes with your hopes, who fears with your fears, who carries your anxieties or your joys, your curses or your blessings, as the case may be, and yet who is not wholly you—is worth struggling for. In its way there is no charm like this; you see yourself from a novel standpoint. Sometimes you learn fresh and great truths with regard to yourself.

The ball at Kenmuir House had been anticipated for a long time. Lady Marsden was one of the beauties of the past London season. She had been a débutante at the beginning of the season, and before the end had become engaged to Lord Marsden—one of the best matches of the year. During the period when London is supposed to be empty she had married him, and now stood a bride of dazzling youth and fairness in one of her husband's noble houses, receiving her guests as one so lovely, talented, and high-born knew how.

The nuns and the cavaliers, the savages with tomahawks and the fair ladies of the time of Marie Antoinette, went off in couples, and the spacious rooms beyond the great staircase filled fast; the sweet, spirited music of the Blue Hungarian Band sounded through all the rooms, and the dance went merrily forward. But no one guessed, as the fair girls and the gallant men danced together, or met together, or talked together, that in those rooms and through those most lovely grounds stalked also a gaunt figure. It is true a few saw him in imagination, but no one fully recognized him. He was the god of war. For war had been declared between England and the Transvaal, and already the best of her sons, the flower of her young manhood, were preparing to go south. So the aching hearts which some wore that night, and the dread which encompassed others, and the longing for glory and fame and greatness which swelled the breasts of others, were all due to the god of war. He had been quiet, sleeping for a long time; but he was awake at last, and he came to gloat over his victims at Kenmuir House that evening.

The dance was essentially a dance for the military; for Lord Marsden belonged to a family of soldiers, and three of his own young brothers were amongst those who were to go to Africa immediately.

In the midst of the throng there came slowly up the stairs a slender young figure—a girl with a pale face, large and sorrowful dark eyes, and lips slightly, very slightly rouged; those lips revealed white teeth, and constantly smiled, and gave the lie to the sorrowful and anxious eyes. The girl was spoken of in the list of guests as the Silver Queen, her real name being Katherine Hepworth. She came in the company of a titled lady, who had promised to chaperon her to the great fancy ball; and following her at a slight distance, accompanied by her father, Hunt the millionaire, came Anne Boleyn. For some extraordinary reason, the bold, bright, dark eyes of Anne Boleyn followed the slender figure of the Silver Queen. She did not even know who the young lady was, but her face attracted her. Presently, leaning on the arm of an Armenian slave, she pointed in the direction where the Silver Queen was standing in the midst of a glittering throng.

"Who is that young lady?" asked Anne Boleyn.

Her companion followed her eyes, looked at the Silver Queen, and said in a tone of admiration,—

"What a lovely girl she is! quite one of the belles on this most auspicious evening."

"She is a beautiful girl. But I am not interested in her looks," said Katherine Hunt; "I want to know her name."

"If you will let me take you to this chair, I will endeavour to find out," replied the Armenian slave.

She sank into a seat near an open window, and he went to do her bidding. He came back after a minute or two.

"The fair lady's name is Miss Katherine Hepworth. I cannot find out much about her. She has been in society a little, not a great deal. She is acknowledged to be quite a beauty wherever she goes."

"Katherine Hepworth," whispered Katherine Hunt to herself. "K.H., Katherine Hepworth—K.H."

"What do you mean?" asked the Armenian slave.

"She has my initials," replied the girl. "I am interested in her. I should like to know her."

"Well, I have no doubt we can manage an introduction. I will try to find a mutual friend."

"Oh, there is no special hurry. I am not inclined to dance just at present; I want to watch the people. Sit down near me, will you, and tell me who's who."

The Armenian slave was well known in society as a certain Mr. Roy, an inveterate gossip, and a man who never failed to secure an entrée into the best houses. He was not in love with Katherine Hunt; but he was considerably in love with her money, and in consequence was only too anxious to do anything to please the young lady. He stood near her now, bent towards her, and answered her different questions. Yes, he knew everybody; through all their disguises he recognized the well-known features of the ladies of fashion. Even under their dominoes he knew who the men were who walked about to-night in their foreign characters. The only guest he neither knew nor recognized was the god of war, who made no sound as he peered into the faces of the guests. Beside the god of war might also have been seen by those who had very keen vision—by those who had that penetration which amounts to second sight—the grim, very grim form of the god of death. And the god of death marked his victims that night, scoring the name of one young gallant after another in his book of fate, for many met that evening who were never to meet again. The fancy ball at Kenmuir House was something like the celebrated dance in Brussels before the battle of Waterloo—

"Bright eyes looked love to eyes that spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell."

Miss Katherine Hunt enjoyed herself on the whole. She had by no means got over her curiosity with regard to the handsome young man who had brought her back her hundred pounds. Not that she had been specially struck with that young man's beauty; but she had penetration—a good deal, all things considered—and she read beneath his light words, and made a very shrewd guess with regard to the truth. Never, even for a single instant, did she accuse him in her own mind of having taken her money. When he denied all chivalry in the matter, she became certain that his action had been caused by chivalry of a rare quality; and now she, who had never before been seriously interested in any man except her father, was anxious to see Captain Keith again. He was one of the few men present who wore his uniform only on the auspicious occasion. He wore the full and very becoming uniform of the North Essex Light Infantry, and he came into the ballroom with a smiling face, and looked around him for the Silver Queen. He was a little late in arriving, and the rooms were very full. Katherine Hunt saw him long before Katherine Hepworth did, for Katherine Hunt still retained her cool point of vantage near a window; and as the Armenian slave had long ceased to interest her, and was only standing on sufferance by her side, she was able to give her full attention to all the new arrivals; and when she saw Captain Keith, who walked across the room with that upright and graceful step which always characterized him, the colour rose in her cheeks under all her rouge, and she half started forward, as though she would speak to him. As she did so she caught his eyes. Her own—dark, brilliant, daring—fell beneath his gaze. He looked at her as if he would recognize her, but under the guise of Anne Boleyn he did not see the slim girl to whom he had spoken a few days before, and was passing on, when she called his name.

"Captain Keith!" said Katherine Hunt.

He turned at once.

"Don't you know me?" she said. "I am Anne Boleyn in this room. When I return home to-night I shall be Katherine Hunt. Don't you remember me?"

"Of course I do now," replied Keith. He did not offer to shake hands with her, nor did she hold out her hand to him, but he stood near her without speaking for a minute.

The Armenian slave, seeing he was not wanted, went off in quest of another partner, and Katherine made way for Keith to sit by her side.

"I am interested in you," she said frankly. "What you did the other day struck me as particularly un-nineteenth century. Why are you not in costume to-night?"

"I wear my Queen's colours," he replied.

She laughed, but it was evident that his remark pleased her.

"You are one of those who go south?" she said, dropping her voice.

"I am glad to say yes."

She did not speak at all for a minute. Then she said slowly,—

"My card is not full." She handed it to him, smiling as she did so.

He took it, and scribbled his name for a waltz.

"The third from now," she said, looking at him. "Yes, I can give it you."

He sat with her for a few minutes longer, then bowed and left her. A partner came up to claim her hand. She glided away in the mazes of the waltz. As she flew round and round with her companion, a cavalier of the time of King Charles, she saw Captain Keith leaning idly against one of the massive doors. He was not dancing; his face looked moody. It seemed to her that his eyes were watching for some one. Presently she saw the girl in white and silver glide by in the arms of a handsome partner. At the same moment she noticed that Captain Keith drew himself up, and stood like one at attention. He seemed to stiffen all over, and his face wore an expression which was almost akin to pain. His eyes were fixed full on the girl in white and silver. Katherine Hunt began to feel that the plot was thickening.

"What intuition has seized me?" she said to herself. "He knows her—beyond doubt, he knows her. I wait with impatience for the third waltz."

It came, and with it Captain Keith.

"Don't dance," she said suddenly; "come and sit in the garden. I am too hot to dance."

"Shall I fetch you an ice?" he asked.

"No; I only want air. It is cool out of doors. Come."

She led the way, and he followed her. They sat down together. Katherine Hunt was not sorry to perceive that the white and silver dress was in view—that another girl, bearing the same initials as her own, was also resting under the shade of a sycamore. The light from a Chinese lantern fell softly on her face. This girl had her cavalier, of course, but her attitude was weary, and she was scarcely speaking. Katherine Hunt, impelled by an ardent curiosity, determined to see this game, as she termed it, through. She chose a seat which would keep the Silver Queen full in view, and she contrived that Captain Keith should sit near her, and in such a position that he could see each movement of the Silver Queen. They talked for a moment or two upon indifferent matters; then she turned her head, looked full up at him, and watched until his eyes rested on the hem of the dress of the other girl.

"How pretty she is!" said Katherine Hunt.

"Who?" he asked, with a start.

"The young lady whom they call Katherine Hepworth. I have been told that is her name. Do you know her, Captain Keith?"

"Yes, I know her," replied Keith.

"I have not seen you dancing with her."

"I shall dance with her next time. Her name is on my card."

Katherine Hunt tapped the ground with the heel of her white satin shoe. She was silent for a minute; then she said,—

"It is strange, her initials are the same as my own."

"Are they?" answered Keith.

"Yes. My name is Katherine Hunt; her name is Katherine Hepworth. I presume she spells her name with a 'K'?"

"She does; we call her Kitty at home."

"At home! Do you know her very well?"

"Miss Hepworth lives with my mother; she is my mother's adopted daughter."

"How interesting! What a charming face she has! Are you engaged to her, Captain Keith?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, in astonishment.

"You are not married, are you?"

"No," he replied; and his face seemed to stiffen, and he moved a little away from Katherine Hunt.

"I hope you will forgive me," she added, noticing this movement. "I am a daring girl, but it seems to me that to be in the same house with a girl like the Silver Queen, to see her daily, would make it almost impossible to any man not to have a good try for her. I wonder if you have tried, and if you are going to succeed! I know you like her—I see it in your face."

Captain Keith turned and looked at the audacious girl with an expression of utter astonishment. She gazed back at him with bright, laughing eyes, and his own fell under her glance.

"I read your secret in your face," she said then. As she spoke she rose and laid her hand on the back of her chair. "Take me back to the ballroom, please," she said.

As he was leading her back she continued in a light tone,—

"Thank you for returning the money; only I miss the purse. It was given to me by a very dear friend. The initials on the purse were 'K.H.,' and I miss it; I should like to have it back."

He looked then as if he wished to speak, but not a word passed his lips. The waltz had come to an end, and Katherine's partner came to claim her. Keith was released. He went back to the garden to find Katherine Hepworth. She was waiting for him. She was standing in an expectant attitude; her face was very white. There was a moon in the sky, and some of its light fell with silver radiance across the slender figure of the Silver Queen, and made her beautiful face look almost unearthly. As Keith approached her lips trembled.

"This is our dance," he said.

He took her hand, and was about to lead her into the ballroom, when she interrupted.

"I cannot dance," she said, in a husky voice.

Then he knew that his hour had come, and that he must go through with something which would crush the joy out of his life.

CHAPTER XII.
KATHERINE HUNT'S STRATEGY.

"Is there any place where we can be alone?" said Kitty.

"Why?" asked Keith.

"I cannot dance," she said again; "my heart beats too fast."

Keith could observe through the cobweb lace which was fastened across her neck that her heart was beating far too fast for health and prudence. He looked at her earnestly. Her eyes were raised to his, and something of the passion which blazed in them was communicated to his breast. His intense unwillingness to fling himself at her feet—his almost aversion to her when he had learned a few days ago that she had committed a crime punishable by the law—left him. He said in a choking voice,—

"You want supper; I will get you a glass of champagne. Come with me."

He led her through the throng, put her into a cool seat by an open window, and brought her some champagne. She drank a glassful, and then handed the glass back to him. He laid it down. From where they sat the dreamy music of the band, the rhythmic steps of the dancers, the buzz of conversation, seemed far off and almost unreal. A curtain, gracefully arranged, almost concealed the figure of Kitty Hepworth; but the reflection of some fairy lamps in the wide balcony outside fell across her face, and Keith thought he had never seen such dark and such lovely eyes before.

Close to them, unseen and unnoticed, stalked the god of war. If it were given to him to smile, he must have smiled then as he saw the young pair, for Keith suddenly bent forward and took Kitty's hand in his own.

"This is Monday," he said, "and I go on Saturday."

She tried to speak, but found herself unable.

"Will you wait for me until I come back?" he said then.

His words were like an electric shock to the girl. Notwithstanding all her beauty, her attitude had been one which denoted extreme weariness, not to say despair; but now there shot through every fibre of her being the most rosy and golden hope.

"Will I wait for you, Gavon! Do you mean it?" she asked.

"I mean it," he said slowly. "Will you be my wife when I return home, Kitty?"

"I will go with you," she said. She took his hand in both her own and clasped it with feverish intensity. "You must not go alone. I will go with you."

"We cannot be married between now and Saturday," was his next remark.

"We can," she said, "by special licence. And what is money worth? I will go with you; you shall not go into danger alone."

"Wives are not expected to go with their husbands."

"With you, or without you, I will go south," she said. "And is it true that you really love me, Gavon?"

"I have always cared for you," he said then, very slowly, "and I will marry you when I return, Katharine."

"Before you go," she replied.

He shook his head.

For a wonder, Katherine Hunt was standing alone on a balcony; she had no cavalier close at hand—the daughter of the millionaire was to all appearance, for the time being, neglected. A man came close to her; she turned, and saw Captain Keith. There was a change in his face. She did not know whether he looked glad or sorry. He just came up to her and said briefly,—

"I should like to tell you something,"

"What is it?" she answered.

"I am going to marry the Silver Queen. Will you congratulate me?"

She gave a quick start; then she said quietly,—

"I congratulate you with all my heart. I trust she will make you happy."

"She is very fond of me," he said. "I hope we shall be happy. Thank you for your congratulations."

"Will you marry before you go south?" was her next remark.

"Certainly not. Can I take you anywhere?"

"No. I came out here to be alone. Don't tell anybody where I am. It is delightful to be in a crowd like this, and yet to be alone. I congratulate you again, Captain Keith. You said the other day that you were without chivalry. I think you have a great deal. Good-bye. Will you think I am taking a liberty if I say, 'God bless you'?"

"Indeed I do not," was his answer.

She held out her hand; he wrung it and went away. A moment later he had left the ballroom.

Katherine Hunt sat on alone.

"This dazes me," she said to herself. "He doesn't love her. Is she worthy of him? I must find out something else too," she thought impatiently, and now she looked towards the crowded ballroom.

Presently a man appeared—a tall man, with a florid face.

"Major Strause!" said the girl.

He came towards her at once. He had paid court to her assiduously for some time, always without the slightest result. She detested the man, reading his character well enough. He was delighted at the welcoming tone in her voice, and went quickly to her side.

"Is there the most remote chance of your giving me a dance?" was his first query.

"I think not," she answered. "My card has been full for a long time."

"Then may I at least have the privilege of staying with you until your next partner arrives?"

She was silent for a minute; then she said quickly,—

"You may stay on one condition."

"What is that?"

"I want to be introduced to a young lady, one of the guests."

"What young lady?"

"She is known as the Silver Queen. Her real name is Katherine Hepworth."

"What! Keith's young lady?" said Major Strause.

"Captain Keith," corrected Katherine Hunt.

"Captain Keith, if you like. We happened to be brother officers for a time in the same regiment. I thought he seemed very much taken with her the other day. But what can I do for you with regard to Miss Hepworth?"

"Will you bring her to me to be introduced, or shall I go with you? I want to see her, to speak to her, to look at her."

"Why this romantic interest?" queried Strause. "I do not know that there is anything very special about Miss Hepworth. She has a sister worth twenty of herself—a very fine girl indeed. Still, she is pretty, and, I believe, will have money."

"What has money to do with it?" asked Katharine Hunt. "I don't want to see her because she has money. I want to see her in order to speak to her. Can you introduce me?"

"I will try. Will you stay where you are? and I will, if possible, bring her back to you."

Major Strause re-entered one of the reception rooms Katherine Hunt waited in the balcony. Her heart was beating fast.

"I am curious—wonderfully curious," she said to herself. "I want to find out."

A moment later she heard a man's voice and a girl's silvery laughter. She turned. A girl with a radiant face—a face which beamed happiness on all around her—stood by her side. Major Strause performed the necessary introduction.

"I wanted to see you so badly," said Anne Boleyn. "Will you come with me, beautiful Silver Queen?—Major Strause, will you keep guard? I shall be everlastingly indebted to you." The major frowned; he evidently did not care for the rôle assigned to him. "And will you dine with us to-morrow night?" added Katherine. Whereupon his face cleared. He liked his dinners at the Hunts', and Katherine was quite cordial.

The two girls retired into a little alcove close at hand. They were in comparative solitude in this position, and what they said to each other could not be overheard. Katherine Hunt looked full at the excited, beaming, happy face of the Silver Queen.

"I am going to leap over conventionalities, and come direct to a subject which must be very near your heart," she said.

"What is that?" asked Kitty.

She looked with interest at Katherine Hunt. She had never seen her before, but she liked her face.

"You are one of those blessed ones," continued Miss Hunt, "whose privilege it is to help a man in a great emergency. All we girls in these ballrooms know that many of those we love best will soon be exposed to danger, to hardship—perhaps to death."

"Why do you remind me of it?" asked Kitty. She trembled as she spoke.

"Because such thoughts must have come to you: because I guess—nay, I know—your secret. I met Captain Keith a few days ago. He is engaged to you. He asked me for my congratulations."

"Did he?" replied Kitty. She held out her soft hand impulsively. "Congratulate me too," she said. "I can scarcely realize my great happiness. Yes, I am engaged to him, and if possible we will be married before Saturday, and I mean to go south with him."

"I don't know whether to admire or to upbraid you," said Katherine Hunt. "Sometimes a woman best shows her love by effacing herself."

"Mine is not that sort of love. It is selfish; I don't pretend to deny it," replied Kitty.

"I am sorry to hear you say so, for Captain Keith deserves an unselfish devotion. Shall I tell you how I first became acquainted with him?"

"Please do." Kitty leaned back as she spoke. She felt quite restful and very happy. All was right at last—her daring step had been crowned with success. Even the dress of the Silver Queen had been worth buying at the cost of honesty, for was not the prize she had coveted in her hand?

Katherine Hunt read the eager and charming face as though she would sift all its thoughts to the very bottom. She noticed, even in that moment of bliss and exultation, certain lines about the lips, certain weaknesses in the contour of chin and neck, which would develop into something more than weakness by-and-by. She felt a curious desire to wring this girl's secret from her. She knew that she was in a measure cruel, but she could not desist.

"I will tell you," she said, "it is such an exciting story. Do you know that on Thursday of last week—yes, I remember quite well, it was Thursday—I lost my purse."

"Your purse!" said Kitty. She half rose; but Katherine, with a very light, detaining hand, kept her seated.

"When your partner wants you he will find you out. Major Strause will be sure to see to that," she said.

"I beg your pardon," said Kitty. She sat back again. "Your purse!" she said. "I think the present style of pockets very unsafe."

"I did not lose it in that way. I had gone to my bank and drawn a hundred pounds. I had a few shillings in the purse at the time. My purse had the initials 'K.H.' in silver on it. It was a Russian leather purse. I left it in a hansom. Curious to say, I, who am one of the most reckless of girls, took the number of the hansom. It was 22,461. I had just got an invitation to go to Kenmuir House. My father had been angling for the invitation for some time. I was most anxious to go. I was wild with delight, and hurried off to my dressmaker, Madame Dupuys. Did you say anything?"

"Curious," said Kitty. "I—oh, nothing."

"Nothing! Do speak."

"She happens to be my dressmaker too—that is, if you mean Madame Dupuys in Bond Street."

"I mean the same. She made your exquisite dress, did she not?"

"Yes. I am sure I ought to go back to the ballroom."

"How uninteresting of you not to listen to the end of my story! But I will be quick. And I have not yet come to Captain Keith's part."

"But Gavon—"

"Who is Gavon?"

"Captain Keith's name is Gavon. But Gavon can have nothing to do with the story of your purse."

"You would certainly think not; but wait until you hear. I went to Madame Dupuys and put my hand in my pocket. The purse was gone! I made a great fuss, and said that I would go straight to Scotland Yard, as I happened to remember the number of the cab. I went there, but could get no tidings. The cabman had not brought the purse there; but as the number of his cab was known, the police said that they would look him up. I gave full particulars and returned home. I hoped to get my money back, and I expected some one to come to me from Scotland Yard with tidings at any moment. The hours passed, however, and no one came, and I was considerably annoyed. I am rich, but my father would be angry if I lost so much money. In the afternoon Captain Keith called to see me. I saw him. He said that he had called to restore me my lost money. He was sorry he could not let me have the purse as well. What is the matter?"

"My partner must be waiting for me," said Kitty. "And this place is too close," she added. "I cannot breathe comfortably."

She staggered out of the little retreat, and Katherine Hunt noticed that her face was as white as death. Major Strause was within view. Katherine led Kitty on to the balcony. She did not say anything more about the purse.