n a Continental one; and in this view
she was supported by her father. Clyne had no other desire than to see
his beloved Lydia happy, and would willingly have sacrificed everything
in his power to gain such an end; but as he did not like Ferruci
himself, and saw that Lydia's affections towards him had cooled greatly,
he did not encourage the idea of a match between them.

However, these matters were yet in abeyance, as Lydia was too diplomatic
to break off with so subtle a man as the Count, who might prove a
dangerous enemy were his love turned to hate, and Mr. Clyne was quite
willing to remain on friendly terms with the man so long as Lydia chose
that such friendship should exist. In short, Lydia ruled her simple
father with a rod of iron, and coaxed Ferruci--a more difficult man to
deal with--into good humour; so she managed both of them skilfully in
every way, and contrived to keep things smooth, pending her plunge into
London society. For all her childish looks, Lydia was uncommonly
clever.

When Lucian's card was brought in, Mrs. Vrain proved to be at home, and
as his good looks had made a deep impression on her, she received him at
once. He was shown into a luxuriously furnished drawing-room without
delay, and welcomed by pretty Mrs. Vrain herself, who came forward with
a bright smile and outstretched hands, looking more charming than ever.

"Well, I do call this real sweet of you," said she gaily. "I guess it is
about time you showed up. But you don't look well, that's a fact. What's
wrong?"

"I'm worried a little," replied Lucian, confounded by her coolness.

"That's no use, Mr. Denzil. You should never be worried. I guess I don't
let anything put me out."

"Not even your husband's death?"

"That's rude!" said Lydia sharply, the colour leaving her cheek. "What
do you mean? Have you come to be nasty?"

"I came to return you this," said Denzil, throwing the cloak which he
had carried on his arm before the widow.

"This?" echoed Mrs. Vrain, looking at it. "Well, what's this old thing
got to do with me?"

"It's yours; you left it in Jersey Street!"

"Did I? And where's Jersey Street?"

"You know well enough," said Lucian sternly. "It is near the place
where your husband was murdered."

Mrs. Vrain turned white. "Do you dare to say----" she began, when Denzil
cut her short with a hint at her former discomposure.

"The stiletto, Mrs. Vrain! Don't forget the stiletto!"

"Oh, God!" cried Lydia, trembli