on came at last. Mr. Benjamin Levy's excitement mastered his
patience. He asked the question which had been trembling on his lips.

"Is it he?"

She started, and laid her hand upon his shoulder for support. She was
very much shaken.

"Yes. See, he is beckoning. He wants me. I shall go to him. May God give
me strength!"

She moved forward to cross the road. He caught hold of her arm in sudden
fear.

"You mustn't think of it," he exclaimed. "You will spoil everything. I
want you to come with me to--D--n! Come back, I say; come back! Curse
the woman!"

He stood on the pavement, fuming. She had glided from his grasp, and
his words had fallen upon deaf ears. Already she was half across the
road. The door of Sir Allan's house stood open, and a servant was
hurrying down to meet her. At that moment Mr. Benjamin Levy felt
distinctly ill-used.

"D--d old fool!" he muttered to himself angrily. "Hi, hansom, Scotland
Yard, and drive like blazes! The game's getting exciting, at any rate,"
he added. "It was mine easy before that last move; now it's a blessed
toss up which way it goes. Well, I'll back my luck. I rather reckon I
stand to win still, if Miss Thurwell acts on the square."

CHAPTER XL

A STRANGE BIRTHDAY PARTY

It was close upon midnight, and one of the oldest and most exclusive of
West-end clubs was in a state of great bustle and excitement. Sir Allan
Beaumerville was giving a supper party to his friends to celebrate his
sixtieth birthday, and the guests were all assembled.

Sir Allan himself was the last to arrive. The final touches had been
given to the brilliantly decorated supper table, and the _chef_, who had
done his best for the greatest connoisseur and the most liberal member
in the club, had twice looked at his watch. As midnight struck, however,
Sir Allan's great black horses turned into Pall Mall, and a few minutes
later he was quietly welcoming his guests, and leading the way into the
room which had been reserved for the occasion.

As a rule men are not quick at noticing one another's looks, but
to-night more than one person remarked upon a certain change in their
host's appearance.

"Beaumerville's getting quite the old man," remarked Lord Lathon, as he
helped himself to an ortolan. "Looks jolly white about the gills
to-night, doesn't he?"

His neighbor, a barrister and wearer of the silk, adjusted his eyeglass
and looked down the table.

"Gad, he does!" he answered. "Looks as thou