y my own den.

I had an important letter to write, but scarcely had I seated myself
at the table when old Browning, grave, grey-faced and solemn, entered,
saying--

"A clergyman called to see you about three o'clock, sir. He asked if
you were at home. When I replied that you were at the club, he became
rather inquisitive concerning your affairs, and asked me quite a lot
of questions as to where you had been lately, and who you were. I was
rather annoyed, sir, and I'm afraid I may have spoken rudely. But as
he would leave no card, I felt justified in refusing to answer his
inquiries."

"Quite right, Browning," I replied. "But what kind of a man was he?
Describe him."

"Well, sir, he was rather tall, of middle age, thin-faced and drawn,
as though he had seen a lot of trouble. He spoke with a pronounced
drawl, and his clerical coat was somewhat shabby. I noticed, too, sir,
that he wore a black leather watch-guard."

That last sentence at once revealed my visitor's identity. It was the
Reverend Edmund Shuttleworth! But why had he returned so suddenly from
Riva? And why was he making secret inquiry concerning myself?

"I think I know the gentleman, Browning," I replied, while the
faithful old fellow stood, a quaint, stout figure in a rather
tight-fitting coat and grey trousers, his white-whiskered face full of
mystery. I fancy Browning viewed me with considerable suspicion. In
his eyes, "young Mr. Owen" had always been far too erratic. On many
occasions in my boyhood days he had expressed to my father his strong
disapproval of what he termed "Master Owen's carryings-on."

"If he should call again, tell him that I have a very great desire to
renew our acquaintance. I met him abroad," I said.

"Very well, sir," replied my man. "But I don't suppose he will call
again, sir. I was rude to him."

"Your rudeness was perfectly justifiable, Browning. Please refuse to
answer any questions concerning me."

"I know my duty, sir," was the old man's stiff reply, "and I hope I
shall always perform it."

And he retired, closing the door silently behind him.

With my elbows upon the table, I sat thinking deeply.

Had I not acted like a fool? Those strange words, and that curious
promise of Sylvia Pennington sounded ever in my ears. She had
succeeded in inducing me to return home by promising to meet me
clandestinely in England. Why clandestinely?

Before me every moment that I now lived arose that pale, beautiful
face--tha