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sore with indignant protest against him who had so changed her face, her life, her surroundings. He looked at her tired thin face, still so pretty, in spite of the grief that had aged and the want that had pinched it, and found it hard to believe that this was indeed the Alice with whom he had raced through the pastures at Firth Vale—the Alice who had taken the place in his boyish heart of a very dear little sister. Ah, if she had only been his sister really, then their friendship would not have grown less and less during his school and college days, and his protection would have saved her, perhaps, from this. These foster-relationships are uncomfortable things. They inflict the sufferings of a real blood tie, and give none of the rights which might mitigate or avert such suffering.

      'How's mother and father?' she said, breaking in among his sad thoughts.

      'They were well when I saw them, but I've not seen them lately. We've been in great trouble.'

      'Yes. I saw in the papers. I was so sorry.'

      'Then you read the papers?'

      'I always try to see a weekly paper,' she said a little confusedly. 'Then you don't know how they are at home?'

      'I only know they're grieving after you still.'

      'They know I'm not dead. I let them know that, and I should think that's all they care to know.'

      'You know better than that. My dear child, why not go home to them? I believe the misery you have cost them—forgive me for saying it—will shorten their lives unless you do go back.'

      'Go back? No! I've sowed and I must reap. I must go through with it. I live just down here. Good-night.'

      It did not look a very inviting residence—a narrow street, leading into a court which was too dark and too distant to be seen into from the corner where she had stopped.

      'I sha'n't say good-night till you say when I shall see you again.'

      'What's the use? It only makes me more miserable to see you, though I can't help being glad I have seen you this once.'

      'But I must try to do something for you. I think I've some sort of right to help you, Alice.'

      'But I've no right to be helped by you. Besides, I really don't need help. I have all I want. I'd much better not see you again.'

      'Well, I mean to see you again, anyway. I shall be in London for some time. When shall I see you?'

      'Not at all.'

      'Nonsense!' he said, authoritatively. 'You must promise to write, at any rate, or I shall come down here and wait from eight to eleven every evening till I see you.'

      'Very well. I'll write, then. Good-bye!'

      'But how can you write? You don't know my address. Here's my card;' and he scribbled the address in pencil. 'It's a promise, Alice. You'll write and you'll see me again?'

      'Yes, yes; good-bye;' and she turned to leave him.

      'Why, you're forgetting your parcel.'

      'So I am. Thank you!' As she took it from him, he said suddenly, watching her keenly the while,—

      'Roland is in town now. Shall I bring him to see you?'

      'No, no; for God's sake, don't tell him you've seen me!'

      And she left him so quickly as to give no time for another word. As she sped down the street a loitering policeman turned to look sharply at her, and two tidy-looking women who were standing at the opposite corner exchanged significant glances.

      'I never thought she was one of that sort!' said one.

      'Ah!' said the other, 'bad times drives some that way as 'ud keep straight enough with fair-paid work.'

      CHAPTER VI.

      BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS

      DICK did not feel inclined to go to Morley's after this rencontre, so he turned back towards his hotel. The problem was not actually solved, certainly; but he was disposed to take all that had passed as a confirmation of his worst suspicions—so much so, that he felt he could not meet his brother just then, as if nothing had happened. He took two or three turns up and down that festive promenade, the Euston Road, thinking indignantly that his position ought to have been Roland's, and Roland's his—that he was suffering for his brother's misdeeds, while his brother was enjoying bright glances from eyes that would hardly look so kindly on him could their owner have known how Dick was spending the evening. For the first time, too, he saw, though only dimly, a few of the difficulties that would lie in his way. It would be harder than ever to keep on any sort of terms with his brother now that he could no longer respect him, and to respect a man who had brought misery into a family which he was bound by every law of honour to protect was not possible to Dick. As his rival he had almost hated Roland; as the man who had ruined Alice Hatfield he both hated and despised him, and he knew well enough that between partners in business these sort of feelings do not lead to commercial success. He did not care to follow out all the train of thought that this suggested; but the remembrance of his father's strange will was very present with him as he went to bed.

      In the morning things looked different. It is a way things have.

      Colours seen by candle light

      Will not look the same by day.

      After all, was it proved? When he came to think over what the girl had said there seemed to be nothing positively conclusive in it all. It was a strange contradiction—he had been very eager to trace the matter out—to prove to himself that Roland was utterly unworthy to win Clare Stanley; and yet now he felt that he would give a good deal to believe that Roland had not done this thing. And this was not only because of the grave pecuniary dilemma in which he must involve himself by any quarrel with Roland. Perhaps it was partly because blood is, after all, thicker than water.

      It did not seem to Dick that his knowledge was much increased by his conversation with Alice. The blackest point was still that mysterious holiday trip, taken at such an unusual time, and about which his brother had been so strangely reticent. And that might be accounted for in plenty of other ways. Alice's disappearance at that particular time was very likely only a rather queer coincidence.

      Dick had thought all this, and more, before he had finished dressing, and he was ready to meet his brother at breakfast with a manner a shade more cordial than usual—the reaction perhaps from his recent suspicions. Roland was in particularly high spirits.

      'Wherever did you get to last night?' he asked. 'I was quite uneasy till I heard you were safe in your bed.'

      'What time did you get home?'

      It seemed that Roland's uneasiness had been shown by his not turning in till about two.

      'Good heavens!—you didn't stay there till that time?' asked Dick, with an air of outraged propriety that would have amused him very much in anyone else. 'How old Stanley must have cursed you!'

      'Oh, no; we left there at eleven.'

      'We? You didn't take Miss Stanley for a walk on the Embankment, I presume?'

      'No such luck. Didn't I tell you? I met an awfully jolly fellow there—a Russian beggar—a real Nihilist and a count, and we went and had a smoke together.'

      'My dear fellow, all exiled Russians are Nihilists, and most of them are counts.'

      'Oh, no; he really is. I only found out he was a count quite by chance.'

      'What's made old Stanley take up with him? Not community of political sentiments, I guess?'

      'Oh, no; he saved the old boy from being smashed by some runaway horses, and of course he's earned his everlasting gratitude. I didn't like him much at first, but when you come to talk to him you find he's got a lot in him. I'm sure you'll like him when you see him.'

      'Am I sure to have that honour?' asked Dick, helping himself to another kidney. 'Is he tame cat about the Stanleys already.'

      'Why, he'd never been there before; what a fellow you are! I've asked him to come and have dinner with us to-night. I want you to see him. I'm sure you'll get on together. He seems to have met with all sorts of adventures.'

      'A

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