ather Christoforo's having made
his way to England.

"Yes," said Percival, dubiously. "A Benedictine monk, I believe. He
hinted that you knew Stretton's real name."

"Quite a mistake," said Hugo. "I know nothing about him. But your priest
sounds romantic. An old fellow, isn't he, with grey hair?"

"Not at all: young and slight, with dark eyes and rather a finely-cut
face. Calls himself Dino Vasari or some such name."

Hugo started: a yellowish pallor overspread his face. For a moment he
stopped short in the street: then hurried on so fast that Percival was
left a few steps behind.

"What's the matter? So you know him?" said Heron, overtaking him by a
few vigorous strides.

"A little. He's the biggest scoundrel I ever met," replied Hugo,
slackening his pace and trying to speak easily. "I was surprised at his
being in England, that was all. Do you know where he lives, that I may
avoid the street!" he added, laughing.

Percival told him, wondering at his evident agitation.

"Then you can't tell me anything about Stretton?" he said, as they came
to a building which he was about to enter.

"Nothing. Wish I could," said Hugo, turning away.

"So he escaped, after all!" he murmured to himself, as he walked down
the street, with an occasional nervous glance to the right and left. "I
thought I had done my work effectually: I did not know I was such a
bungler. Does he guess who attacked him, I wonder? I suppose not, or I
should have heard of the matter before now. Fortunate that I took the
precaution of drugging him first. What an escape! And he has got hold of
Heron! I shall have to make sure of the old lady pretty soon, or I
foresee that Netherglen--and Kitty--never will be mine."

CHAPTER XXX.

FRIENDS AND BROTHERS.

In a little room on the second-floor of a London lodging-house near
Manchester-square, Brian Luttrell was packing a box, with the few scanty
possessions that he called his own. He had little light to see by, for
the slender, tallow candle burnt with a very uncertain flame: the glare
of the gas lamps in the street gave almost a better light. The floor was
uncarpeted, the furniture scanty and poor: the fire in the grate
smouldered miserably, and languished for want of fuel. But there was a
contented look on Brian's face. He even whistled and hummed to himself
as he packed his box, and though the tune broke down, and ended with a
sigh, it showed a mind more at ease than Brian's had been for man