he voice of fashionable people, the voices of
"society"--rose in an indistinguishable sound to his ears. He moved
uneasily, and refilled and lit the pipe that he had borrowed of Dick. He
heard the footsteps of several persons climbing the steep stairs. One
seemed familiar to him. He pulled at his pipe, and crossed his legs with
an air of preparation, of resignation.

The voices came nearer, and presently one said:

"I certainly, for one, decline to go any farther. I think it is too
absurd to expect one to climb these ridiculous steps. And there is
nothing to see up there, is there?"

At the sound of the voice, clear and bell-like, yet languid, with the
languor of the fashionable woman, Mr. Drake Vernon bit his lips and
colored. He half rose, but sank down again, as if uncertain whether to
meet her, or to remain where he was; eventually he crossed his legs
again, rammed down his pipe, and waited.

"Oh, but you'll come up to the top, Lady Lucille!" remonstrated a man's
voice, the half-nasal drawl of the man about town--the ordinary club
lounger. "There's a view, don't you know--there really is!"

"I don't care for views. Not another step, Archie. I'll wait here till
you come back. You can describe the view--or, rather, you can't, thank
Heaven!"

As she spoke, she mounted a few steps, and turned into the small square
which offered a resting place on the steep ascent, and so came full upon
Mr. Vernon.

He rose and raised his hat, and she looked at him, at first with the
vagueness of sheer amazement, then with a start of recognition, and with
her fair face all crimson for one instant, and, the next, pale, she
said, in a suppressed voice, as if she were afraid of being overheard:

"Drake!"

He looked at her with a curious smile, as if something in the tone of
her voice, in her sudden pallor following upon her; blush, were
significant, and had told himself something.

"Well, Luce," he said; "and what brings you here?"

CHAPTER VI.

The girl who, with changing color, stood gazing at Lord Drake Selbie
might have stepped out of one of Marcus Stone's pictures. She was as
fair as a piece of biscuit china. Her hair was golden, and, strange to
say in these latter days, naturally so. It was, indeed, like the fleece
of gold itself under her fashionable yachting hat. Her eyes, widely
opened, with that curious look of surprise and fear, were hazel--a deep
hazel, which men, until they knew her, accepted as an indica