up and splashing in his bath, a custom that he
hugely enjoyed, winter and summer. He had come home the night before by
the last train, after dining with some friends he had picked up, and
spending an hour with them at the Alhambra.

He dressed himself with unusual care and discrimination, selecting a
suit of dark brown tweeds that matched his complexion, and a scarf with
a good bit of red in it. Prepared for him in the studio, and presided
over by Alphonse in a white apron, were rolls and coffee, eggs and
bacon. The sun was shining brightly outside. The postman came while he
was at breakfast, and he read his batch of letters; from some of which
dropped checks. One he purposely saved for the last, and the
contents--only a few lines--brought a smile to his lips. He tore the
dainty sheet of note-paper into small pieces and threw them into the
fire. Then he filled his cigar case with choice Regalias, pulled on his
driving gloves, and perched a jaunty Alpine hat on his head.

"Alphonse, you must be here all day," he said. "Mordaunt, of the
Frivolity, will send for that poster; and a messenger may come from the
Piccadilly Magazine--the drawings are in a parcel on my desk. Say to any
person who calls that I will not be back until evening."

"I will remember," assured Alphonse.

"By the by, Alphonse, you were living in a big house in the Parc
Monceaux half a dozen years ago?"

"Monsieur is right."

"Do you remember a gentleman by the name of Marchand--M. Felix
Marchand?"

"My memory may be at fault," Alphonse answered, "but I do not recall a
person of that name."

"Well, no matter. He may not have resided there then, and the Parc
Monceaux means a large neighborhood."

Jack banished M. Marchand from his mind with ease, as he went out into
the sunshine and freshness of the spring morning; the singing of the
birds, and the beauty of the trees and flowers, told him that it was a
glorious thing to be alive. He waited a few moments at a nearby livery
stable, while the attendants brought out a very swell-looking and newly
varnished trap, and put into the shafts a horse that would have held his
own in Hyde Park.

Chiswick high-road, with its constantly widening and narrowing
perspectives, its jumble of old and modern houses, had never looked more
cheerful as Jack drove rapidly westward. He crossed Kew Bridge, rattled
on briskly, and finally entered Richmond, where he pulled up by the curb
opposite to the station where cen