quiet. There was no sound from the
deserted square; only the windows shook a little in the breeze. He
reached for the ukulele, and staring dreamily into the fire, picked
softly at the strings until he found four notes that blended
harmoniously.

The fire slowly faded from his gaze, and in its place, by memory's
alchemy, came the vision of _her_ face--a changing vision, one moment
mocking as when he first met her, turning to a look of pain as when she
spoke of Dick, and then resolving into the wistful tenderness that had
crept into her eyes that evening by the trout-stream--a tenderness that
vanished before the expression of scorn she had shown that fateful
August night.

The night stole wearily on, but still Selwyn sat in the shadowy
darkness, occasionally strumming the one chord on the strings, like a
worshipper keeping vigil at some heathen shrine and offering the
incense of soft music.

CHAPTER XIV.

STRANGE CRAFT.

I.

One slushy night in December Selwyn was returning from a solitary
dinner at a modest Holborn restaurant, when a damp sleet began to fall,
making the sickly street-lamps darker still, and defying the protection
of mufflers and heavy coats. With hat pulled over his eyes and hands
immersed in the pockets of his coat, he made his way through the
throng, while the raucous voices of news-venders cried out the latest
tidings from the front.

To escape the proximity of the crowds and the nerve-shaking noises of
traffic, he turned down a wide thoroughfare, and eventually emerged on
Fleet Street. Again the seething discontent of rumbling omnibuses and
hurrying crowds irritated him, and crossing to Bouverie Street, where
Mr. Punch looks out on England with his genial satire, he followed its
quiet channel until he reached the Thames.

In contrast to the throbbing arteries of Holborn and Fleet Street, the
river soothed his nerves and lent tranquillity to his mind. Following
the Embankment, which was shrouded in heavy darkness, he reached the
spot where Cleopatra's Needle, which once looked on the majesty of
ancient Egypt, stands, a sentinel of incongruity, on the edge of
London's river. Giving way to a momentary whim, Selwyn paused, and
finding a spot that was sheltered from the sleet, sat down and leaned
against the monument.

In the masque of night he could just make out the sketchy forms of a
river-barge and two steamers anchored a few yards out. From their
masts he could see the du