ly could not say. Nurse Allworthy might know--and
the matron took up her pen.

John found the ward Sister with the house doctor at the bed of a patient.
She was short, even curt, said over her shoulder she knew nothing about
the girl, and then turned back to her work. As John passed out of the
ward the doctor followed him and hinted that perhaps the porter might be
able to tell him something.

The porter was difficult at first, but seeing his way clearer after a
while he admitted to receiving letters for the nurse and delivering them
to her when she called. That was long ago, and she had not been there
since New Year's Eve. Then she had given him a shilling and said she
would trouble him no more.

John gave him five shillings and asked if anybody ever called for her.
Yes, once. Who was it? A gentleman. Had he left his name? No, but he had
said he would write. When was that? A day or two before she was there the
last time.

Drake! There could not be a shadow of a doubt of it. John Storm looked at
the clock. It was 3:45. Then he buttoned his coat and crossed the street
to the park with his face in the direction of St. James's Street.

Horatio Drake had given a luncheon in his rooms that day in honour of
Glory's first public appearance. The performance was to come off at
night, but in the course of the morning there had been a dress rehearsal
in the _salon_ of the music hall. Twenty men and women, chiefly
journalists and artists, had assembled there to get a first glimpse of
the _debutante_, and cameras had lurked behind _portieres_ and in alcoves
to catch her poses, her expressions, her fleeting smiles, and humorous
grimaces. Then the company had adjourned to Drake's chambers. The
luncheon was now over, the last guest had gone, and the host was in his
dining-room alone.

Drake was standing by the chimney-piece holding at arm's length a pencil
sketch of a woman's beautiful face and lithe figure. "Like herself--alive
to the fingertips," he thought, and then he propped it against the
pier-glass.

There was a sound of the opening and closing of the outer door
downstairs, and Lord Robert entered the room. He looked heated, harassed,
and exhausted. Shaking out his perfumed pocket handkerchief, he mopped
his forehead, drew a long breath, and dropped into a chair.

"I've done it," he said; "it's all over."

Polly Love had lunched with the company that day, and Lord Robert had
returned home with her in order to break th