nel now spent many afternoons and nearly every
evening at the Garden Club; whist before dinner, poker after supper,
being the established rule. Moreover, a new element had been
introduced, as far as he was concerned. Mr. Percival Miles had been
elected a member of the club, and had forthwith presented himself in the
card-room, where he at once distinguished himself by his bold and
intrepid play. The curious thing was that, while openly professing a
kind of cold acquaintanceship, it was invariably against Lionel Moore
that he made his most determined stand; with the other players he might
play an ordinarily discreet and cautious game; but when Moore could be
challenged, this pale-faced young man never failed promptly to seize the
opportunity. And the worst of it was that he had extraordinary luck,
both in the run of the cards and in his manoeuvres.

"What is that young whipper-snapper up to?" Lionel said to himself,
after a particularly bad night (and morning) as he sat staring into the
dead ashes of his fireplace. "He wanted to take my life--until my good
angel interfered and saved me. Now does he want to break me financially?
By Jove! they're coming near to doing it among them. I shall have to go
to Moss to-morrow for another L250. Well, what does it matter? The luck
must turn some time. If it doesn't?--if it doesn't?--then there may come
the trip before the mast, as the final panacea, according to Maurice.
Australia?--there would be freedom there, and perhaps forgetfulness."

As he was passing into his bedroom he chanced to observe a package that
was lying on a chair, and for a second he glanced at the handwriting of
the address. It was Miss Burgoyne's. What could she want with him now?
He cut the string, and opened the parcel; behold, here was the
brown-and-scarlet woollen vest that she had knitted for him with her own
fair hands. Why these impatiently down-drawn brows? A true lover would
have passionately kissed this tender token of affection, and bethought
him of all the hours and half-hours and quarters of an hour during which
she had been employed in her pretty task, no doubt thinking of him all
the time. Alas! the love-gift was almost angrily thrown on to the chair
again--and he went into his own room.

CHAPTER XXII.

PRIUS DEMENTAT.

When Maurice Mangan left the train at Winstead, and climbed out of the
deep chalk cutting in which the station is buried, and emerged upon the
open downs, he found him