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was taken up again.

      Bertie was in the midst of an eloquent defense of a favorite artist, of whom Lady Ethel did not quite approve, when Lord Fitz again appeared.

      "What an eel you are, Bert! I've been everywhere for you. I say, we're going down to Coombe Lodge; it's so beastly hot up here in town, and we're going to make a little summer picnic party; you know, just a nice number. Cecil Carlton, Leonard Waltham and his sister, and two or three more. My sister is going, ain't you, Ethel? Will you come?"

      "Thanks," said Bertie, with something like a flush, and certainly a sparkle in his light eyes. "But I am booked to Leicester Dodson."

      "Oh, yes, the Cedars; what a bore for us. Never mind, the Lodge isn't far off, and, if you go down, we shall all be together."

      "Yes," said Bertie, glancing at the fair face beneath him, which was turned, with a quiet look of interest, to her brother; "yes. When do you go?"

      "Next week, if Ethel can get herself away from this sort of thing."

      "I shall be very glad to go," said Ethel; "I am longing for the green trees and a little country air."

      "It's done, then; all the odds taken," said simple Lord Fitz.

      At that moment came up Ethel's next partner.

      Bertie relinquished her, with a smothered sigh. He knew that he should not see her again that night, for her programme was full.

      "We may meet in a country lane next week," he said, softly.

      "We may," she said, with a smile that parted her lips bewitchingly, and then she was called away.

      Bertie looked after her, then slowly descended the broad stairs, got his crush hat and strolled into the open street.

      "That's the most sensible thing you've done for the last two hours," said Leicester Dodson's voice, behind him. "I'll follow your example," and he took out his cigar case. "Here, my man," he added, as his neat brougham drove up.

      "Let us walk," said Bertie.

      And they started slowly for the club.

      It was very hot there, however, and the pair were soon in Leicester's chambers, which were in the same inn and only one floor below Bertie's.

      Leicester Dodson was a wealthy man, and quite able to afford luxurious apartments in the Albany, or at Meurice's, but he preferred a quiet set of chambers near those of his fast friend, Bertie.

      He did not work in them, but he read a great deal, and he enjoyed half an hour now and then spent in watching his hard-working friend.

      He would sit in Bertie's armchair, with his legs extended before him, watching Bertie engaged on some article or poem or drawing, and, as he watched, would almost wish that he also had to work for his living.

      So Mr. Leicester was somewhat of a philosopher and a cynic, as Bertie had said, and at times found life rather wearisome.

      To-night he drew himself a chair – Bertie was extended upon an ancient, but comfortable, sofa, and, lighting a fresh cigar, rang for claret and ice.

      "Dreadfully hot, Bert. What on earth makes us hang about this horrible town, in this terrible weather? Fancy staying in London when all the green fields are holding out their hands and shouting, 'Come, and roll on us'! Fashion is a wonderful thing – so are you. Why on earth don't you speak? I never knew you so silent for so many minutes together, in my life. Are you asleep?"

      "No," said Bertie. "Push the claret across the table with the poker, will you? When did you say you were going down to the Cedars, Les?"

      "When you like," said Leicester Dodson, coloring slightly and turning his face away from his companion. "To-morrow, if you like; I was going to say I wish I'd never left it, but I came up this week because – "

      "Because what?" asked Bertie, as he stopped.

      "Because," said Leicester Dodson, looking hard at the fire, in his grave, sedate way, "discretion is the better part of valor."

      "What on earth do you mean?" exclaimed Bertie Fairfax. "You never mean to tell me you were afraid of a man?"

      "No," said Leicester, with his cynical smile; "of a woman. There, don't ask me any more. I am not going to make a fool of myself, Bert, but while we're on the subject, I'll say that it would never do for either of us to do that."

      "No," said Bertie Fairfax, with an unusual bitterness. "We can never marry, Les. You, because you are too – "

      "Selfish," interrupted Mr. Dodson, placidly.

      "And I, because I am too poor – "

      "You will be rich enough some day, you clever dog," said Mr. Dodson, sententiously.

      "Yes, when I'm an old man, gray-headed and bent double. Never mind."

      "I won't. Don't you, either," said Leicester; "and now for the Cedars. Suppose we say the end of the week?"

      "Yes, that will do," said Bertie. "The Lacklands – at least, some of them – are going down to Coombe Lodge next week."

      "Oh," said Leicester, significantly, glancing at the frank, pleasant face of his friend.

      "Yes," retorted Bertie, "and the Mildmays are still at the Park, I suppose?"

      "Yes," said Leicester, shrugging his shoulders with an air of indifference he was far from feeling. "So that we shall be all together – like moths round a candle," he added, cynically, as Bertie rose, with a yawn, to mount to his own chambers.

      Yes, all together, and near the meshes of that web which a skillful, cunning spider was weaving for them.

      Captain Murpoint had laid his delicate web ready for his flies.

      CHAPTER VI

      "LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG."

      Captain Howard Murpoint had not exaggerated his powers of pleasing when making that important communication and revelation to his accomplice, Jem, under the Portland cliffs.

      He had not been in possession of the marvelously comfortable suite of rooms at Mildmay Park many days before young and old, mistress and servants, were ready to pronounce the captain a most agreeable man, and his servant, Jem, a most amusing and obliging fellow.

      The morning after his arrival the captain came down to breakfast elegantly attired in a loose velvet shooting-coat, which set off his strong, well-made figure to advantage.

      His smooth face was set with a pleasant smile, and his voice was toned to a half-affectionate interest as he shook hands with Mrs. Mildmay.

      "I hope you slept well, Captain Murpoint?" she murmured.

      The captain declared that he had never slept better, and that his quarters were all that could be wished.

      "Violet is not down yet," said Mrs. Mildmay. "She is late, but we were rather later than usual last night, and, I dare say, the excitement of your arrival made her feel tired. Ah, there she is."

      And Violet entered at the moment, and came up to give her aunt the morning kiss.

      Then she turned to the captain, and once again his bold, watchful eyes shrank for a moment before the clear, calm gaze of her pure ones.

      His salutation was a finished piece of acting, so reverential, so paternally affectionate, and so respectful.

      Violet shook hands with him, and tripped to her seat.

      "And did the ghosts annoy you?" she asked, as the captain spoke of his night's rest.

      "No; they were considerate to their guest. Perhaps when we are more familiar they may be more troublesome. You have had a good night's sleep, 'tis evident," he continued, glancing admiringly at her fair, fresh, blooming face.

      "I always sleep well," said Violet, simply. "Neither ghosts nor indigestion disturb me."

      "I thought perhaps that our little party had tired you, my dear," said Mrs. Mildmay.

      "No, aunt," replied Violet. "It was a very pleasant one," she added, musingly.

      "Very, the pleasantest I have participated

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