de a sign to the groom to follow, and
slipped his hand engagingly within my arm.

"Glad of the chance of a walk," he said. "Wish I was a free man like
you, Howard, London would not often see me!"

"What would?" I asked, for I like to know where vermin harbours.

"Ah!"--he paused, and, as I thought, glanced at me. "The wide world.
Should like, for instance, a roving commission such as yours--to look
for a scoundrel with a lot of money-bags, who may be in London or
Timbuctoo."

I walked on in silence, never having had quick speech or the habit of
unburthening my soul to the first listener.

"Not likely to stay in London in November if he is a man of sense as
well as enterprise," he added, jerking up the fur collar of his coat.

We walked on a little farther.

"Suppose you have no notion where he is?" said my bland companion, to
which I made no articulate reply.

"_Do_ you know?" he asked at length, as one in a corner.

"Do you _want_ to know?" retorted I.

"Oh--no," with a laugh.

"That is well," said I finally. And we walked on for a space in
silence, when my companion changed the conversation with that ease of
manner under the direct snub which only comes from experience. Mr.
Devar was certainly a good-natured person, for he forgave my rudeness
as soon as it was uttered.

I know not exactly how he compassed it, but he restored peace so
effectually that before we reached Hyde Park Street he had forced me
to invite him to lunch with me at my club on the following Saturday.
This world is certainly for the thick-skinned.

We entered Isabella's drawing-room, therefore, together, and a picture
of brotherly love.

"Force of good example," explained Mr. Devar airily. "I saw Howard
walking and walked with him."

There were assembled the house-party only, Devar and I being the
guests of the evening. Isabella frowned as we entered together. I
wondered why.

Devar attached himself to Alphonse Giraud, whom he led aside under
pretext of examining a picture.

"Monsieur Giraud," he then said to him in French, "as a man of affairs
I cannot but deplore your heedlessness."

He was a much older man than Giraud, and had besides the gift of
uttering an impertinence as if under compulsion.

"But, my dear sir--" exclaimed Alphonse.

"Either you do not heed the loss of your fortune or you are blind."

"You mean that I cannot trust my friend," said Alphonse.

Mr. Devar spread out his hands in denial of any such meani