.

As he lay there a cab drove up to the front door, and a lady dressed
in black descended from it. She rang, and Mrs. Flint appeared.

'Is Mr. Fenwick at home?'

'He is, ma'am,' said the woman, hesitating--'but he did say he wasn't
to be disturbed.'

'Will you please give him my card and say I wish to see him at once? I
have brought him an important letter.'

Mrs. Flint, wavering between her dread of Fenwick's ill-humour and the
impression produced upon her by the gentle decision of her visitor,
retreated into the house. The lady followed.

'Well, if you'll wait there, ma'am'--the charwoman opened the door of
the dismantled sitting-room--'I'll speak to Mr. Fenwick.'

She shuffled off. Eugenie de Pastourelles threw back her veil. She
had arrived only that morning in London after a night journey, and her
face showed deep lines of fatigue. But its beauty of expression had
never been more striking. Animation--joy--spoke in the eyes, quivered
in the lips. She moved restlessly up and down, holding in one hand a
parcel of letters. Once she noticed the room--the furniture ticketed
in lots--and paused in concern and pity. But the momentary cloud was
soon chased by the happiness of the thought which held her. Meanwhile
Mrs. Flint knocked at the door of the studio.

'Mr. Fenwick! Sir! There's a lady come, sir, and she wishes to speak
to you particular.'

An angry movement inside.

'I'm busy. Send her away.'

'I've got her card here, sir,' said Mrs. Flint, dropping her voice.
'It's a queer name, sir--somethin furrin--Madam somethin. She says
it's _most_ pertickler. I was to tell you she'd only got home to-day,
from abroad.'

A sudden noise inside. The door was opened.

'Where is she? Ask her to come in.'

He himself retreated into the darkness of the studio, clinging, so
the charwoman noticed, to the back of a chair, as though for support.
Wondering 'what was up,' she clattered back again down the long
passage which led from the sitting-room to the studio.

But Eugenie had heard the opening door and came to meet her.

'Is anything wrong?' she asked, anxiously. 'Is Mr. Fenwick ill?'

'Well, you see, ma'am,' said Mrs. Flint, cautiously--'it's the
Sheriff's horficers--though they do it as kind as they can.'

Eugenie looked bewildered.

'A hexecution, ma'am,' whispered the woman as she led the way.

'Oh!' It was a cry of distress, checked by the sight of Fenwick, who
stood in the door of his studio.

'I am