was in shadow, but his face seemed to be turned to Mrs.
Romaine's house. Oliver sedulously averted his eyes and hailed a passing
hansom cab. He had no mind to be delayed just then, and he was almost
certain that he recognized in that gaunt and shabby figure his
disreputable brother. No, by-and-bye he would talk to Francis, he said
to himself, but not to-night. He had other game in view on this
particular evening in September.

The Novelty Theatre was just then occupied by a company that claimed to
be the interpreters of a Scandinavian play-writer whose dramatic poems
were just then the talk of London. Ethel Kenyon was playing a very minor
part--a smaller _role_, indeed, than she was generally supposed to take,
but one which she had accepted simply as an expression of her
enthusiastic admiration for the author. Oliver knew the state of mind in
which she generally came away from the representation of this play, and
counted on her bright and elevated mood as a help to him in the course
he meant to pursue.

He knew her habits as well as he knew her moods. For the last three
years, ever since Rosalind had settled in London, and he had been able
to cultivate Miss Kenyon's acquaintance, he had watched her blossom from
a saucy, laughing girl into a very attractive woman. It was only during
the past few months, however, that he had thought of her as his future
wife--only since she had succeeded to that enticing legacy of twenty
thousand pounds. Since then he had studied her more carefully than ever.

The Scandinavian writer's play was always over by a quarter to ten
o'clock, and was succeeded by another in which Ethel had no share. She
never stayed longer than was necessary on these nights. She was
generally ready to leave the theatre soon after ten o'clock with her
companion, Mrs. Durant, who had the right of entry to her dressing-room,
and generally acted as her dresser. Maurice Kenyon had refused to let
his sister go upon the stage unless she was always most carefully
chaperoned. Mrs. Durant was always at hand whenever Ethel went to the
Novelty Theatre. And Oliver knew exactly what to expect when he took up
his position--not for the first time--at the narrow little stage-door.

It was after ten o'clock, and the moon had risen in an almost cloudless
sky. Even London looked beautiful beneath its light. Oliver cast a
glance towards it and nodded as if in satisfaction. He did not care for
the moon one jot; but he held a theory