"My own sweet Madge!" he cried.

All his passionate love was poured out in those four little words. He
forgot the past, and saw only the rich promise of the future. There was
a lump in his throat as he added softly:

"You shall never repent your choice, darling!"

For an hour they sat on the bench, talking as they had never talked
before, and many a whispered confidence of the girl's, many a phrase and
sentence, burnt into Jack's memory to haunt him afterward. Then they
parted, there by the riverside, and Madge tripped homeward.

Happy were Jack's reflections as he picked up a cab that rattled him
swiftly into Richmond and up the famous Hill to the Roebuck. Nevill and
Jimmie Drexell, who had arrived a short time before, greeted him
hilariously.

The table was laid for Nevill and his guests in the coffee-room of the
Roebuck, as cheerful and snug a place as can be found anywhere, with its
snowy linen and shining silver and cut-glass, its buffet temptingly
spread, and on the walls a collection of paintings that any collector
might envy.

The Roebuck's _chef_ was one of the best, and the viands served were
excellent; the rare old wines gurgled and sparkled from cobwebbed
bottles that had lain long in bin. The dinner went merrily, the evening
wore on, and the sun dipped beneath the far-off Surrey Hills.

"This is a little bit of all right, my boys," said Jimmie, quoting
London slang, as he stirred his _creme de menthe frappe_ with a straw.
"I'm jolly glad I crossed the pond. Many's the time I longed for a
glimpse of Richmond and the river while I sweltered in the heat on the
Casino roof-garden. Here's to 'Dear Old London Town,' in the words
of--who _did_ write that song?"

Nevill drained his chartreuse.

"Come, let's go and have a turn on the Terrace," he said. "It's too
early to drive back to town."

They lighted their cigars and filed down stairs, laughing gaily, and
crossed the road. Jack was the merriest of the three. Little did he
dream that he was going to meet his fate.

CHAPTER XV.

FROM THE DEAD.

There were not many people about town. The strollers had gone back to
town, or down the hill to their dinners. The Terrace, and the gardens
that dropped below it to the Thames, were bathed in the purplish
opalescent shades of evening. From the windows of the Roebuck streamed a
shaft of light, playing on the trunks of the great trees, and gleaming
the breadth of the graveled walk. It shone full on