rthodoxy and respectability. It seemed monstrous that these women, who
had so far defied all the efforts of official Christianity to redeem
them, should be bribed--as many put it--bribed back into the way of
virtue, if that were possible, with the millions which had been coaxed
out of the pockets of sentimental Christians by this Mad Missionary of
Mayfair--as one of the smartest of Society journals had named him.

But, for all that, the Mad Missionary said very quietly to Ernshaw a few
hours before he intended to marry him to Dora:

"These good Christians, as they think themselves, are wofully wrong. It
seems absolutely impossible to get them to see this matter in its proper
perspective. They can't or won't see that in ninety-nine cases out of a
hundred it is one of absolute necessity--the choice between that and
misery and starvation. They don't see that this accursed commercial
system of ours condemns thousands of girls----"

"Yes," interrupted Dora, "I know what you are going to say. I was a
shop-girl myself once, a slave, a machine that was not allowed to have
a will or even a soul of its own, and I----"

Before she could go on, the door of the Den at Warwick Gardens--where
the conversation had taken place--opened, and Sir Arthur came in with
some letters in his hands.

"I just met the postman on the doorstep," he said, "and he gave me
these.

"Here's one for you, Vane. There's one for me, and one for Miss
Russell--almost the last time I shall call you that, Miss Dora, eh?"

Vane tore his envelope open first. As he unfolded a sheet of note-paper,
a cheque dropped out. The letter was in Carol's handwriting. His eye ran
over the first few lines, and he said:

"Good news! Rayburn and Carol are coming home next week and bringing a
fine boy with them--at least, that is what the fond mother
says--and--eh?--Rayburn has made another half million out there, and,
just look, Ernshaw--yes, it is--a cheque for a hundred thousand pounds,
to be used, as she says here in the postscript, 'as before.'"

"Oh, I'm so glad," exclaimed Dora, as she was opening her own envelope.
"Fancy having Carol back again. Mark, I won't marry you till she comes.
You must put everything off. I won't hear of it and--oh--look!" she went
on, after a little pause, "Sir Arthur, read that, please. Isn't it
awful?"

"The mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceeding small," said Sir
Arthur when he had looked over the sheet of note-paper. "Shal