t the Italian with the deed?"

"Can we not find a proof?"

"I fear not."

"But if we search the house?"

"There is little use in doing that," rejoined Lucian. "However, if it
will give you any satisfaction, Miss Vrain, I will take you over the
house to-morrow morning."

"Do!" cried Diana, "and we may find proof of Lydia's guilt in a way she
little dreams of. Good-bye, Mr. Denzil--till to-morrow."

CHAPTER X

THE PARTI-COLOURED RIBBON

The beauty and high spirit of Diana made so deep an impression on Lucian
that he determined to aid her by every means in his power in searching
for the assassin of her father. As yet Denzil had reached the age of
twenty-five without having been attracted in any marked degree towards
woman-kind; or, to put it more precisely, he had not yet been in love.
But now it seemed that the hour which comes to all of Adam's sons had
come to him; for on leaving Diana he thought of nothing else but her
lovely face and charming smile, and, until he met her again, her image
was never absent from his mind.

He took but a languid interest in his daily business or social pursuits,
and, wrapped up in inwardly contemplating the beauties of Diana, he
appeared to move amongst his fellow-men like one in a dream. And dreamer
he was, for there was no substantial basis for his passion.

Many people--particularly those without imagination--scoff at the idea
that love can be born in a moment, but such is often the case, for all
their ill-advised jibes. A man may be brought into contact with the
loveliest and most brilliant of women, yet remain heart-whole; yet
unexpectedly a face--not always the most beautiful--will fire him with
sudden fervour, even against his better judgment. Love is not an affair
of reason, to be clipped and measured by logic and calculation; but a
devouring, destroying passion, impatient of restraint, and utterly
regardless of common sense. It is born of a look, of a smile, of a sigh,
of a word; it springs up and fructifies more speedily than did Jonah's
gourd, and none can say how it begins or how it will end. It is the ever
old, ever new riddle of creation, and the more narrowly its mystery is
looked into the more impossible does it become of solution. The lover of
to-day, with centuries of examples at his back, is no wiser in knowledge
than was his father Adam.

Although Lucian was thus stricken mad after the irrational methods of
Cupid, he had sufficient sense not to exa