ll the door
was opened suddenly, with strange effect.

For Sir Hilton Lisle, Bart., as his name was written, made a sudden
bound off the window-sill, sending his cigar flying, while the guilty
blood flushed his face, as he felt that his wife had returned, and he
had been caught smoking indoors.

But he turned pale with anger the next moment as he stood facing the
little maid, Jane, who was fighting hard to hide a smile which would
show, while her bright eyes twinkled with delight, as she said quickly:
"Lady Tilborough, sir."

And the next moment the widow of the late nobleman of that name, a
round-faced, retrousse-nosed, red-lipped, grey-eyed little woman of
exquisite complexion, and looking delightfully enticing in her tall hat
and perfectly-fitting riding-habit, which she held up with a pair of
prettily-gauntleted hands, hurried into the room.

"There, go away, little girl," she cried, giving Jane a playful tap with
her whip, "and tell your Mark to give my pony's mouth a wash out. No
corn, mind."

"Yes, my lady," cried Jane, beaming upon the natty little body, and
taking in her dress with one glance.

"Here I am, Hilt, dear boy," cried the visitor, as the door closed.
"Caught you all alone, for I passed your wife, and she cut me dead.
Here I am!"

"Yes, I see you are," groaned Sir Hilton; and then to himself:
"Temptation once again, and in its most tempting form."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A DIABOLICAL BUSINESS.

If the old writers were right, so was Sir Hilton Lisle, as he drew a
chair forward and placed it ready for his attractive visitor, who gave
the long folds of her riding-habit a graceful sweep, and then dropped
with an elastic plump into the seat.

"Oh, Hilt, dear boy! Oh, Hilt!" she cried, bursting into tears.

"My dear Lady Tilborough!" he cried, catching her hands in his, as she
dabbed her whip down on the table with a smart blow; "what is the
matter?"

"Don't, don't, don't!" she cried passionately.

"Don't?" said Sir Hilton. "What have I done?"

"Called me Lady Tilborough in that cold, formal way, just as if you were
going to refuse before I asked; and us such very, very old friends!"

"Well, Hetty, then. My dear old girl, what is the matter?"

"Ah, that's better, Hilt," said the lady, with a sigh of relief. "We
are such old friends, aren't we?--even if you have married that
dreadfully severe wife who looks upon me as an awfully wicked woman."

"Which you are not, Hetty," said Sir H