subjects to discuss. For a couple of hours--long after
Madge had forsaken the piano and gone to bed--a whispered conversation
was carried on that had no reference to the girl. It was nearly eleven
o'clock when Nevill left the house, and bade Stephen Foster good-night
on the step. He knew the way in spite of the darkness and the paucity
of street lamps. Having lighted a cigar, he walked briskly toward
Gunnersbury.

"It was a narrow squeak yesterday," he reflected. "Until I met the girl
to-night, I was doubtful as to her having failed to see me on the coach.
It would have been most unfortunate had both of them recognized me; they
would have compared notes in that case, and discovered that Victor
Nevill and Mr. Royle were one and the same. I must be more careful in
future. Foster was rather inclined to be ugly, but he promised certain
things, and he knows that he can't play fast and loose with me. I am
afraid some harm has been done already, but it will blow over if he
keeps a tight rein on his daughter. As for Vernon, he must be forced to
decamp. Curse the fate that brought him across my path! There's not much
I would stop at if he became a dangerous rival. But there is no danger
of that. I have the inner track, and by perseverance I will win the
girl in the end. She is not a bit like other women--that's her
charm--but it ought to count for something when she learns that I am Sir
Lucius Chesney's heir. I've been going to the devil pretty fast, but I
meant what I told Foster. I love Madge with all my better nature, and
for her sake I would run as straight as a die. A look from her pretty
eyes makes me feel like a blackguard."

Thus Nevill communed with himself until he neared Gunnersbury station,
when the distant rumble of a train quickened his steps. He had just time
to buy his ticket, dash down the steps, and jump into a first-class
carriage. Getting out at Portland road, he took a cab to Regent street,
and dropped in at the Cafe Royal for a few minutes. Then he started
toward his lodgings on foot. It was that witching hour when West End
London, before it goes to sleep, foams and froths like a glass of
champagne that will soon be flat and flavorless. Men and women, inclined
to be hilarious, thronged the pavements under the strong lights. Birds
of prey, male and female, prowled alertly.

A jingling hansom swung from Piccadilly Circus into the Quadrant. Its
occupants were a short, Jewish-looking man with a big diamond i