dant of emeralds
and diamonds--a work of art, that glittered as he displayed it, like a
star on a frosty night.

"Pretty thing, isn't it?" he said proudly. "Eight hundred pounds, and
cheap, too! It was ordered for Miss Vere, two months ago, by the Duke of
Moorlands. I see he sold his collection of pictures the other day.
Luckily they fetched a tidy sum, so I'm pretty sure of the money for
this. He'll sell everything he's got to please her. Queer? Oh, not at
all! She's the rage just now,--I can't see anything in her myself,--but
I'm not a duke, you see--I'm obliged to be respectable!"

He laughed as he returned the pendant to its nest of padded amber satin,
and Errington,--sick at heart to hear such frivolous converse going on
while that crushed and lifeless form lay in the very room
above,--unwatched, uncared-for,--put his arm through Lorimer's and left
the shop.

Once in the open street, with the keen, cold air blowing against their
faces, they looked at each other blankly. Piccadilly was crowded; the
hurrying people passed and re-passed,--there were the shouts of omnibus
conductors and newsboys--the laughter of young men coming out of the St.
James's Hall Restaurant; all was as usual,--as, indeed, why should it
not? What matters the death of one man in a million? unless, indeed, it
be a man whose life, like a torch, uplifted in darkness, has enlightened
and cheered the world,--but the death of a mere fashionable "swell"
whose chief talent has been a trick of lying gracefully--who cares for
such a one? Society is instinctively relieved to hear that his place is
empty, and shall know him more. But Errington could not immediately
forget the scene he had witnessed. He was overcome by sensations of
horror,--even of pity,--and he walked by his friend's side for some time
in silence.

"I wish I could get rid of this thing!" he said suddenly, looking down
at the horsewhip in his hand.

Lorimer made no answer. He understood his feeling, and realized the
situation as sufficiently grim. To be armed with a weapon meant for the
chastisement of a man whom Death had so suddenly claimed was, to say the
least of it, unpleasant. Yet the horsewhip could scarcely be thrown away
in Piccadilly--such an action might attract notice and comment.
Presently Philip spoke again.

"He was actually married all the time!"

"So it seems;" and Lorimer's face expressed something very like
contempt. "By Jove, Phil! he must have been an awful sc