ermont following behind them.

"All here?" asked Leroy in his clear voice, as they descended the steps
to where the motors stood waiting. "Come along"--turning to the rest of
the party--"we are all going to supper to celebrate Ada's triumph.
Paxhorn, dismiss your car, old man, and come with us; we want to hear
the rustle of your laurels."

Laughingly, they entered the vehicles, while, above all the others, rang
the harsh voice of the woman, and Jessica, hearing it, shuddered
involuntarily. Then they were gone.

Suddenly, while the girl's eyes were straining after them, the last
motor stopped, and Jasper Vermont jumped out and hastened back into the
theatre. More out of idle curiosity than anything else, or perhaps again
prompted by the guardian angel of Leroy's honour, she waited to see him
come out again. In a few minutes he re-emerged, bearing in his hand a
small roll of papers, one of which he was reading, with a malicious
smile on his face.

Jessica unwittingly stood in his path, and he crashed into her with such
force as to knock his hat to the ground. With an oath he struggled to
regain it, pushing her roughly aside.

"Out of my way, girl," he exclaimed, thinking she was about to beg from
him. "I have nothing for you."

At the sound of his voice Jessica's face whitened, and she turned away,
frightened, and trembling; as she did so, her foot struck against
something light lying on the kerb. She stooped and found it was a small
roll of papers, part of those which had been in the gentleman's hand,
and which he had been studying so attentively.

She did not trouble to open it, but slipped it into the bosom of her
dress and walked dreamily away.

CHAPTER XVI

"Is it a Rubens, or is it not? That is the question," drawled Frank
Parselle, as he dropped his eyeglass.

On an easel in Lady Merivale's drawing-room, stood a picture, before
which were grouped a small assembly of her friends, including one or two
artists and connoisseurs.

Lord Merivale was also present, having been dragged away from his
beloved farm, and worried into the purchase of this picture--the usual
"Portrait of a gentleman"--by his beautiful wife. He himself knew
nothing whatsoever about it, either as to its value or its genuineness;
it was worn and dirty-looking, and, in his opinion, would have been dear
at a five-pound note.

"Yes, that is the question," echoed Lord Standon. "It's not a bad face
th