ave guessed long ago that I was a gypsy," he snapped
restlessly.

"Indeed I didn't, nor, I should think, did any one else. I thought you
had nigger blood in you, and I have heard people say that you came from
the West Indies. But what does it matter if you are a gypsy? There is no
disgrace in being one."

"No disgrace, certainly," rejoined the millionaire, leaning forward and
linking his hands together, while he stared at the ground. "I am proud
of having the gentle Romany blood. All the same I prefer the West Indian
legend, for I don't want any of my civilized friends to know that I am
Ishmael Hearne, born and bred in a tent."

"Well, that's natural, Pine. What would Garvington say?"

"Oh, curse Garvington!"

"Curse the whole family by all means," retorted Miss Greeby coolly.

Pine looked up savagely, "I except my wife."

"Naturally. You always were uxorious."

"Perhaps," said Pine gloomily, "I'm a fool where Agnes is concerned."

Miss Greeby quite agreed with this statement, but did not think it worth
while to indorse so obvious a remark. She sat down in her turn, and
taking Lambert's cigarette case, which she had retained by accident, out
of her pocket, she prepared to smoke. The two were entirely alone in the
fairy dell, and the trees which girdled it were glorious with vivid
autumnal tints. A gentle breeze sighing through the wood, shook down
yew, crisp leaves on the woman's head, so that she looked like Danae in
a shower of gold. Pine gazed heavily at the ground and coughed
violently. Miss Greeby knew that cough, and a medical friend of hers
had told her several times that Sir Hubert was a very consumptive
individual. He certainly looked ill, and apparently had not long to
live. And if he died, Lady Agnes, inheriting his wealth, would be more
desirable as a wife than ever. And Miss Greeby, guessing whose wife she
would be, swore inwardly that the present husband should look so
delicate. But she showed no sign of her perturbations, but lighted her
cigarette with a steady hand and smoked quietly. She always prided
herself on her nerve.

The millionaire was tall and lean, with a sinewy frame, and an oval,
olive-complexioned face. It was clean-shaven, and with his aquiline
nose, his thin lips, and brilliant black eyes, which resembled those of
Kara, he looked like a long-descended Hindoo prince. The Eastern blood
of the Romany showed in his narrow feet and slim brown hands, and there
was a wild roving look