CHAPTER XXXIX.—THE OTHER SIDE.

It seemed very curious to Madge that she should become the confidant of those two men, with whose fate that of her mother had been so sadly associated. She was thrust into the ungracious position of arbiter between them; she had to decide whether or not the one was false and treacherous, or the other the victim of his own hasty passion and self-deceived in his accusations. She was satisfied that Mr Beecham had spoken under the conviction of the truth of what he told her; and Mr Hadleigh had just shown her that—if innocent—he could be magnanimous, by his willingness to meet in friendliness one whom he had so long regarded as his implacable foe.

The position involved so much in the result to her and to Philip, that she felt a little bewildered, and almost afraid of what she was about to hear. But she could forgive: that knowledge steadied her.

Mr Hadleigh with his formal courtesy asked her to be seated. He stood at the window, and she could see that the white gloom of the coming snowstorm was reflected on his face.

‘May I inquire where you have met Mr Shield?’

She was obliged to reply as she had done to a question put by Philip, which, although different, was to the same purport: ‘I may not tell you yet.’

‘Philip knows that you have met him?’

‘No.’ It was most uncomfortable to have to give these evasive answers, which seemed to make her the one who had to give explanations. She observed that Mr Hadleigh’s heavy eyebrows involuntarily lifted.

‘I ought not to have asked. Pardon me.’

Something in his tone and manner plainly showed that he had penetrated her secret and Mr Beecham’s.

‘I am sorry not to be able to give you a direct answer.’

‘It does not matter,’ he said with a slight movement of the hand, as if he were putting the whole subject of her acquaintance with Shield aside. ‘I know, from the exclamation you made a little while ago, that he has told you with all his bitterness why he and I have not been friends.’

‘There was no bitterness, Mr Hadleigh, but much sadness.’

‘I am pleased to hear it, and I will try to give you my explanation in the same spirit. First about George Laurence. I never heard his name until after my marriage; and it is therefore unnecessary to say that when I did hear it, and learned the nature of his former relations with my wife, it was not possible for me to receive him in my house, or for him to regard me as a desirable acquaintance. There were unfortunate consequences following upon this peculiar position; but they may pass. They made my life a hard and solitary one.’

He paused, and as he looked out into the dull atmosphere, the vague stare in his eyes, as if he were seeking something which he could not see, became pathetic. Madge began to understand that expression now, and the meaning of the melancholy, which was concealed from others under a mask of cold reserve. She sympathised, but could say nothing.

‘I never spoke to the man, and saw him only a few times. But acquaintances of mine, who thought the news would be agreeable to me, told me of his ways of life and predicted the end, which came quickly. The mistake made by Philip’s mother and Mr Shield was in believing that it was not until after her marriage that Laurence neglected his business and took to dissipation. Men who had known him for several years previous to that date informed me that his habits were little altered after it. Nights spent in billiard-rooms and other places; days wasted on racecourses and his fortune squandered. He attempted to retrieve all by one daring speculation. Success would have enabled him to go on for a longer or shorter time, according to the use he made of the money; failure meant disgrace and a charge of fraud. He failed, and escaped the law by taking poison.’

‘Are you sure of this?’ ejaculated Madge, startled and shocked by this very different version of the sentimental story she had heard.

‘I will show you the newspaper report of the inquest, and a copy of the accountant’s report to the creditors on what estate was left. They will suffice to satisfy you that there is no error in anything I have said.’

‘Why was it that Mr Shield, who was his most intimate friend, knew nothing of this?’

‘He must have known something, but not all. His ways were quiet and studious, and what he did see, he did not regard with the eyes of experience. I do not think that Laurence attempted to deceive him; for men who fall into his course of life soon become blind to its evils and consequences; and so, without premeditation, he did deceive him. Mr Shield, being a man as passionate in his friendships as in his hates, would listen to no ill of his friend. But there is one thing more which I have never repeated, and never until now allowed any one over whom I had influence to repeat. You, however, must learn it from the lips of one who witnessed the scene.’

He rang the bell, and Terry the butler appeared. It was one of Mr Terry’s strict points of discipline in his kingdom below stairs that without his sanction no one but himself should answer the drawing-room bell. Obeying a motion of the master’s hand, he advanced with a portly gravity becoming the dignity of his office.

‘You were an attendant in the Cosmos Club about the date of my marriage?’ said the master.

‘I was, sir, then, and for six months before, and a good while after.’

‘You recollect what was said about the marriage a few evenings after it took place?’

‘Perfectly, sir, because you told me to write it down, as you thought some day it might be useful to you.’

‘The day has come. Tell us what you heard.’

‘There was a small dinner-party in the strangers’ room, and I had charge of it. The gentlemen were particularly merry, and in fact there was a remarkable quantity of wine used. Your marriage, sir, was mentioned; and Mr Laurence, who was the gayest of the company, although he took less wine than any other gentleman, proposed the health of the happy couple. I recollect his very words, sir. He says: “I was in the swim for the girl myself; but this beggar, Hadleigh, cut me out; that was luck for me, so here’s luck to them;” and the toast was drunk with perfect enthusiasm. Mr Laurence made away with himself some time after; and I heard the gentlemen whisper among themselves, when referring to the sad event, that it was a question of doing that or of doing a spell of penal servitude. That’s all, sir.’

The master nodded: Mr Terry bowed and retired with the portly gravity with which he had entered.

Mr Hadleigh turned to Madge. The butler’s story produced the effect desired: she was convinced, for she felt sure that no man who loved could speak so lightly—or speak at all—of the woman he loved in a company of club bacchanalians.

‘But why did you not tell this to Mr Shield?’ was her reproachful exclamation.

‘Because he would not listen to anything I had to say. From the time of the marriage until after the death of Laurence, we never met. Then he came to me, mad with passion, and poured out a volley of abuse. I was patient because he was her brother; and silent because it was as hopeless to expect a man drunk with rage to be reasonable as one drunk with alcohol. In his last words to me he accused me of murder. We have never spoken together since.—Do you think me guilty?’

‘I do not believe it,’ she replied decisively; ‘nor would he have believed it, if what you have told me had been made known to him in time.’

‘I am grateful to you,’ said Mr Hadleigh, bending his head; ‘but I perceive you do not know Mr Shield. Time and solitude alter most men, and they must have had a peculiar effect upon him to have enabled him to make such a deep impression on you. He used to be obstinate to the last degree, and once he had formed an opinion, he held to it in spite of reason.’

‘He must be changed indeed, then, Mr Hadleigh. I am sure that when he had had time to think, he would have understood it all but’——

She paused; and his keen eyes rested searchingly on her troubled face.

‘I know what you would say, and I see that you have doubted me. Ah well, ah well; it is a pity; but that, too, shall be made clear to you, I trust.’

She looked up again hopefully.

‘Oh, if you will do that!’ The tone was like that of an appeal.

‘It can be done, I think.... You have been told that it was I who, in my enmity to Shield, took advantage of his long absence and silence to set abroad the report that he was married. I did not. The story was on the tongue of everybody hereabouts for months, and I, like the rest, believed it. There are only two men who would have said that I spoke the falsehood—the one is the man who invented it; the other is Shield himself.’

‘You knew the man?’

‘I did.’

‘Then why, why did you not denounce him in time?’

‘Because I did not know him until after your mother’s wedding; and then I thought she would learn the truth only too soon for her peace of mind.’

‘How did you discover him, then?’

‘The scoundrel revealed himself. He came to me, and insolently told me that, knowing the state of affairs between Shield and me, he thought he would do me a good service. So he had given him a blow which he would not get over in a hurry. I knew something of the man, and at once suspected his meaning. I inquired how he had struck the blow; and he explained that it was he who had brought about matters so that when Shield came home he found his sweetheart already married to somebody else.’

Poor Madge was weeping bitter tears in her heart, but there were none in her eyes: they were full of eagerness and wonder. She was drawing nearer and nearer to the truth, which would enable her to effect the purpose Philip so much desired.

‘It is the advantage of my nature,’ Mr Hadleigh went on calmly, ‘that I can listen to a scoundrel without losing temper. On this occasion, I asked how he knew that Shield had returned. “I have seen him,” he said; “and he is cut up enough to please even you. Now, having done this job for you, I expect you to give me something for my trouble.”—“How much?”—“A hundred is not too much to ask for the satisfaction of knowing that your bitterest foe has got it hot.”—I asked him to write down that he had been the first to report in the village that Austin Shield was married, although at the time he had no authority for the statement.—“That looks like a confession,” he said.—“Exactly. I mean it to be one.”—After thinking for a moment, the fellow said: “All right; it won’t matter to me, for to-morrow I am off to the diggings.”’

Mr Hadleigh stopped and looked out at the window again, as if the scene he was recalling even now filled him with indignation. He resumed:

‘When he had written the memorandum and signed it, I told him my opinion of his villainous transaction, and threatened to have him horsewhipped through the village. At the same time I rang the bell. Although disappointed, “Bah!” said he; “I always thought you were a sneak, without the pluck to give the fellow who hates you a hiding. Shield has the right stuff in him; he gave me the money for telling him that you employed me to tell the lie. That paper you swindled out of me isn’t worth a rap. You have no witnesses.”—He got out of the room before I could reach him, and escaped pursuit.... He was right; the paper was useless to me.’

‘Who was the man?’

‘Richard Towers. Your aunt will tell you what a scamp he was.’

‘But what motive could he have for such a cruel wrong?’

‘Unknown to Shield, he was his rival; and it was his own satisfaction he sought in spreading the falsehood, as it was his own interests he served by endeavouring to make capital of it out of both Shield and me by playing upon the unfortunate misunderstandings between us.’

Madge was now calm and thoughtful. She, too, saw what a powerless instrument the villain’s memorandum was unless it could be proved that he had written it. Who would not say Mr Hadleigh himself had written it, to escape blame?

‘Have you got the memorandum still?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Will you give it to me?’

‘But it is useless, except to satisfy those who trust me that I had no part in the disgraceful affair.’

‘It is not quite useless, Mr Hadleigh. There are letters bearing that man’s name amongst my grandfather’s papers, and Mr Shield can compare the handwriting. That will be enough to assure him that you are blameless, even if he be so ungenerous as you imagine. Give me the paper.’

A clever thought; and Mr Hadleigh was struck by her quickness in seeing it and the energy with which she took up his cause. He did not know that she was working for Philip.

‘You will make a good advocate,’ he said with that far-off look in his eyes. ‘You shall have the paper. It is in the safe in my room.’

‘Thank you, thank you! I will wait here till you send it to me.’

(_To be continued._)

THE LARGEST STATUES IN THE WORLD, ANCIENT AND MODERN.

A piece of interesting news comes to us from Egypt regarding a discovery recently made in Lower Egypt, by Mr Flinders Petrie, of the fragments of a colossal statue of King Rameses II., which, calculating the height from the fragments which remain, must have stood considerably over one hundred feet in height! The material employed is granite; and the executing of such a work in such a material, and when completed, rearing it into position, must have involved a profound knowledge not only of high art but of engineering skill. Is it possible that the statue could have been cut out whole in one piece? If so, what lever-power did the Egyptians possess to raise such an enormous weight into a perpendicular position?

Certain it is that these ancient builders knew well how to get over, and did get over, prodigious difficulties, as witness their obelisks, and the enormous stones which compose the platform of the magnificent Temple of the Sun at Baalbec. As there is no stone quarry near, how these vast stones could possibly have been conveyed thither in the first place, and then raised to their position, has been an enigma to all modern architects and engineers by whom the temple has been critically examined, and who have freely confessed that, even with all our modern science of steam-cranes, hydraulic jacks, and railways, the transport and raising of such immense cyclopean masses would have undoubtedly presented many serious difficulties, if indeed it could be accomplished at all.

Many of our readers will doubtless remember Mr Poynter’s grand picture in the Royal Academy of London, a few years ago, entitled ‘Israel in Egypt.’ It represented an enormous mass of sculpture mounted on a wheeled truck, dragged along by hundreds of the unfortunate captive Israelites, who are smarting under the whips of their cruel drivers. Mr Poynter had good authority for his ‘motive-power’ as shown in his picture. So far as we can discover from ancient works or ancient sculptures, the hugest stone masses were transported mainly by force of human muscles, with few mechanical expedients. Levers and rollers seem to have been almost, if not altogether, unknown. The mass was generally placed on a kind of sledge, the ground over which it was to pass lubricated with some oily substance, and the sheer strength of human shoulders was then applied.

The most colossal and by far the most remarkable statue of modern days is that most elaborate and rather eccentric gift of the French nation to the people of America. Not only is it remarkable for its enormous height and gigantic proportions, but for the very singular and ingenious manner in which it has been constructed, so singular, indeed, that at first sight it is somewhat difficult to comprehend the manner in which it has been built up piece by piece, especially when we mention that the several pieces of copper composing the figure have _not_ been cast. How, then, have they been made? This we will try to explain.

The statue is a female figure of Liberty, having on her head a crown, and holding aloft in her hand a torch. The figure is one hundred and five feet high; but, reckoning the extreme height to the top of the torch, the marvellous altitude of one hundred and thirty-seven feet nine inches is reached. The statue is to be reared on a pedestal of solid granite eighty-three feet high, so that the entire work will rise to the immense height of two hundred and twenty feet nine inches! The artist is M. Bartholdi (the family name, by-the-bye, of the great composer best known as ‘Mendelssohn’).

Having first carefully constructed a model in clay about life-size, this was repeatedly enlarged until the necessary form and size were obtained. The next step was to obtain plaster-casts from the clay, and these casts were then reproduced by clever artists in hard wood. The wooden blocks were then in their turn placed in the hands of coppersmiths, who by the hammer alone, it is stated, gave the copper sheets the exact form of the wooden moulds or models; and thus, in this peculiar and laborious manner, the outside copper ‘skin’ of the statue was formed and, to all outward appearance, completed. But as the copper is only one-eighth of an inch thick, an inner skin is also provided, placed about a foot behind the first, whilst the intermediate space will be filled in with sand, especially at the lower extremities, to give the whole a steadfast foundation.

The stability of the figure will not, however, be left to depend solely on these sheets of thin copper and loose sand; and therefore the interior, from top to bottom, will be strengthened by a framework of girders and supports, by which the whole will be knit together in one firm, compact, unyielding mass. As the sheets of copper and the interior framework are simply secured in the ordinary manner by rivets, when it is desired to remove this metallic mountain, all that has to be done is to unrivet the several plates, take down, and pack on board ship for New York.

It is proposed to place this gigantic ‘Liberty’ on Bedloe’s Island, a very small islet lying about two miles south of the Battery and Castle Garden, the lowest point of the island of Manhattan on which the city of New York is built, so that travellers approaching the city by water on that side will get a fine view of the statue of ‘Liberty enlightening the World.’

This mighty work of art, after many years of close and anxious labour, has recently been formally handed over by M. Jules Ferry to the minister of the United States, as a free gift from the people of France to the people of America—a token of love and admiration from the one republic to the other—and measures are being adopted to take the statue to pieces, with a view to its immediate transmission to New York, in which go-ahead city we shall doubtless soon hear of its final erection.

If Mr Flinders Petrie’s discovery of the remains of the gigantic statue of Rameses II. in Lower Egypt, one hundred feet high of solid granite, is the largest statue of antiquity, the ‘Liberty’ of M. Bartholdi may certainly take rank as the most colossal production of modern days.

A GREENROOM ROMANCE.

IN THREE SCENES.—SCENE I.

Mr Percy Montmorency was seated in front of a looking-glass in his dressing-room at the Pantheon Theatre, habited in the costume of Charles Surface, with the perruquier in attendance. The name of ‘Montmorency’ was merely a _nom de théâtre_ assumed by Harry Stanley when he adopted the somewhat singular resolution of ‘fretting and strutting his hour’ on the boards of a metropolitan theatre; for Mr Stanley was the only child of his father Colonel Stanley, and consequently heir to that gallant officer’s estates in Yorkshire and elsewhere. For the rest, he was three-and-twenty, undeniably good-looking, and endowed with considerable abilities. Having completed the arrangement of the powdered wig, the perruquier withdrew a pace and contemplated the effect with well-simulated admiration. ‘Mr Charles Mathews never looked the part better, sir.’

The actor seemed to coincide in the opinion of his flattering attendant, for he rose, and surveyed himself in the glass with admiration, which he made no attempt to conceal.

‘A good house, Jackson?’

‘Capital, sir. But a little cold. They’ll warm up when _you_ go on, sir.’

‘Tell the call-boy I want him, Jackson.’

Jackson withdrew; and Montmorency surrendered himself to a mental soliloquy, which assumed somewhat of this form: ‘I wonder what my father wishes to see me about? The same old story, I suppose—the folly and wickedness of the step I have taken. Well, of one thing I am certain: I am much better off in my present position, than wedded to that Barbadoes girl, Miss Anstruther, in spite of her money-bags, and whom I have never seen.’

These reflections were put an end to by the entrance of the call-boy.

‘If a gentleman giving the name of Colonel Stanley should call, show him in here.’

‘He is outside, sir,’ replied the boy.

‘Show him in at once,’ whereupon there entered a small wizen-faced old gentleman, with snow-white hair, and supporting himself on a stick. Montmorency advanced, shook hands with a great show of cordiality, and placed a chair, on which Colonel Stanley slowly seated himself, gazing round the small apartment with an unfeigned expression of curiosity. ‘So this is a theatrical dressing-room. You are pretty snug.’

The room certainly deserved the encomium of the old colonel. Paintings in oil and water colours nearly covered the walls; fancy pipes and cigar-boxes and scent-bottles littered the tables; a case of champagne reposed in one corner, while in the other was a small pile of seltzer water.

The colonel, after indulging in a sigh, proceeded: ‘I have called, Harry, before I return to Yorkshire, to make one more appeal to you to give up your present mode of life, settle down as a landed proprietor in your native county, and marry Miss Anstruther.’

It was now the turn of the young man to sigh as he replied: ‘Impossible, my dear sir. I am already wedded—to the stage.’

‘That may be; but unions can easily be dissolved by a divorce, especially in these days.’

‘Not where the contracting parties are so attached to each other as I am to my profession. No, sir. If a man could take a wife on lease, for seven, fourteen, or twenty-one years, the case would be different. But the feeling that my lot in life was fixed—cut and dried, so to speak—the matter won’t bear a thought.’ The young man felt strongly inclined to indulge in a stage-walk, but the limited area of the apartment forbade such a physical relief. If the reader should consider the remarks of the actor somewhat flippant, it must be borne in mind that no one whose character did not fall under that definition would have acted as Harry Stanley had done.

The old man scowled as he resumed: ‘I wonder you can respect yourself, dizened out and painted like a mummer at a pantomime.’

‘I am of the same calling as the glory of England, Shakspeare the actor’——

‘And poet—you forget that, sir—poet, sir,’ sharply retorted the colonel.

‘I can assure you, sir, we have men of good family playing very small parts to-night. Trip took honours at Oxford, and Backbite is a Cambridge man.’

‘Pray, sir,’ replied the colonel, ‘if that be the case, why do you all sail under false colours? Why resign the honoured name of Stanley for the Frenchified one of Montmorency?’

The young man bowed as he responded: ‘Out of deference to the shallow scruples of the narrow-minded portion of Society.’

‘Of which I constitute a member, eh?’

It was in a more conciliatory tone that his son took up the argument. ‘Pray, sir, let me ask you a question. Do poets and novelists never adopt a _nom de plume_? Did not Miss Evans style herself “George Eliot;” the late Governor-general of India, “Owen Meredith;” Mademoiselle de la Ramée, “Ouida;” Dickens, “Boz?”’

‘That’ll do,’ interrupted the colonel. ‘Then one fine day you will be falling in love, as you call it, with one of these artful and painted sirens, and I shall find myself grandfather to a clown or a pantaloon! For, of course, you will bring up your offspring to _the_ profession, as you call it, as if there were no other profession in the world.’

His son and heir drew himself proudly up as he replied: ‘No, sir; I trust I shall never forget that I own the honoured name of Stanley.’

The colonel remained silent for several moments ere he observed: ‘I shall never understand why you declined even to see Miss Anstruther.’

‘Because the very fact that the lady was labelled my future wife,’ replied his son, ‘would have caused me to detest her at first sight.’

The old colonel rose from his seat. ‘I can see very plainly that I am wasting both your time and my own.—I suppose you will have to do a little “tumbling” presently?’

‘I do not make my first entrance till the third act. If you will go in front, you can have my box.’ Montmorency rang the bell as he spoke, and when the call-boy appeared, directed him to show his visitor into box A.

The actor was indulging in a sigh of relief, when a head appeared at the half-closed door, and a voice exclaimed: ‘May I come in?’

Montmorency bounded from his chair as he seized hold of the extended hand and drew the owner into the room. The new-comer was a young man of about the same age as the actor, and was habited in modern evening dress. Montmorency wrung the hand of his friend Vallance, and forced him into a seat. ‘Delighted to see you, Jack! Have a weed and a seltzer?’

In a few seconds the two young men were similarly occupied, and immersed in the consumption of a couple of choice Partagas.

The actor opened the ball. ‘You must have met an elderly party in the passage. That was the governor. He is very irate because I won’t fall in love by word of command, and marry Miss Anstruther, whom I have never seen.—By-the-bye, _you_ have seen her. What is she like?’

‘A lovely girl,’ replied Vallance. ‘I met her at a ball at Scarborough, soon after her arrival from the West Indies. Faith, Harry, you might do worse.’

‘And might do better; eh, Jack? But your ideas of beauty are so opposite to mine, as I remember of old. Now, if you wish to see a perfect vision of loveliness, go in front and see Fonblanque, the Lady Teazle of to-night.’

‘You mean _Miss_ Fonblanque, I presume?’

‘Exactly. The prefix “Miss” is frequently omitted in theatrical parlance. She is bewitching!’

Vallance shakes his head. ‘Have a care, Harry. It would be a pity if you allied yourself with some unknown adventuress, after refusing the rich Miss Anstruther.’

‘Well, to be candid, Jack, I _am_ afraid of myself. If I did not constantly call to my mind the fact that I am a Stanley, I should speedily succumb to the charms of the divine Fonblanque, so there is some benefit arising from birth after all.’

‘And how long do you mean to pursue this mad freak of yours?’ inquired Vallance.

‘Till I hear on good authority that the troublesome Miss Anstruther is engaged, or married.’

‘And then?’

‘Why, then I quit the mimic stage as suddenly as I entered upon it.’

‘Meanwhile!’ ejaculated Vallance with an incredulous smile.

‘Meanwhile,’ replied Montmorency loftily, ‘I contribute to the “gaiety of nations,” as Johnson said of Garrick; and therefore consider myself a far better member of society than a successful general, who has killed so many hundreds of his fellow-mortals; or a lawyer, who has set whole families by the ears in order to fill his pockets; or a doctor, who, as Tobin says, spends the greater part of his time in writing death-warrants in Latin.’

Vallance examined his finger-nails for a few seconds, and after an embarrassing pause, said: ‘Harry, I am about to make a confession.’

‘I cannot promise you absolution, Jack.’

Vallance proceeded: ‘On the memorable night when I first beheld Miss Anstruther at the ball at Scarborough, I fell over head and ears in love with her.’

‘You fell in love with her, did you!’ repeated Montmorency, in a tone of some annoyance. ‘You mean with her banking account. Remember, you are in the confession box.’

‘On my honour, no!’ replied Vallance. ‘As you are aware, I could not afford to marry a penniless girl; but if I were as rich as Rothschild, and Miss Anstruther a pauper, I would marry her to-morrow, if she would have me.—You do not seem to like the idea?’

‘Humanity is a strange compound, Jack. It grates upon my sense of propriety that any one else should step into my shoes and wed the woman intended for my wife, yet whom I have vowed never to marry.’

‘Why, what a dog in the manger, you are!’

‘I would not so much mind if a stranger were to win the heiress; but to know her as your wife, Jack, for the remainder of my existence, to repent probably of my obstinacy—— You are not in earnest, Jack?’

‘Ah, but I am!’ replied Vallance, inwardly murmuring: ‘May I be forgiven the lie!’

After a brief mental struggle, Montmorency continued: ‘Well, success attend you. You are a lucky fellow to walk off with such a prize; while I—I shall remain a humble stage-player.’

‘Remember the peerless Fonblanque, Harry.’

‘Ah! you are right. There is beauty, talent, wit, elegance, refinement, all enshrined in the admirable Lady Teazle of to-night. I shall now no longer hold back. To-night I shall know my fate. You have applied the touchstone.’

The shrill voice of the call-boy now uttered the words ‘Charles Surface.’

‘There is my call. So adieu for the present. Go in front, and call for me at the end of the show; and we will have a steak at the _Albion_ together, and drink to the speedy nuptials of my _bête noire_, Miss Anstruther.’

‘With whom?’

‘Any one! I care not—no offence, Jack—so I am free.’

Vallance proceeded straight to box A, and having tapped at the door, found himself face to face with Colonel Stanley, who eagerly exclaimed: ‘Well, Vallance, has my plan succeeded?’

‘I fear not, sir.’

‘Give him a second dose the first opportunity. I never knew it fail. If you want to make a man fall in love with a particular woman, tell him she is half engaged, and she will instantly go up twenty per cent. in his estimation. That is how I came to marry his mother. Directly my father told me that Fred Spencer was mad after her, and that she was half inclined to marry him, I rushed to the attack, stormed the fortress, and carried off the prize! _I_ wasn’t going to let that puppy Spencer march off with her. A fellow with not a tithe of my personal recommendations.’ Here the colonel paused, as he beheld the countenance of his auditor completely engrossed with the scene; for in the lovely Lady Teazle of the play, Jack Vallance had recognised the West Indian heiress, Emily Anstruther!