st friends.
I had the good-fortune to save his life in a row at Santa Fe, and from
that hour poor Jack sang my praises in and out of season. I knew that if
Miss Rossano had gained any opinion of me from Jack Rollinson it would
not be a bad one. Indeed, my only fear was that Jack had probably
praised me so far beyond my merits that nobody who had seen the portrait
would have the slightest chance of recognizing the original. But when
I had once heard my old comrade's name I was able to identify this
charming young lady. Rollinson had more than once spoken of his
beautiful cousin, Violet Rossano, and I knew a little of her history.
I learned more of it that night, and myself became concerned in it in a
very surprising manner.

Miss Rossano and I talked of Jack and of our common adventures, and to
my delight, and the great easing of my embarrassment, she treated me
almost like an old friend. She was swept off by the crowd at last;
but in going she bade me call upon her at her aunt's house-Lady
Rollinson's-where I might have news of my friend; and it need scarce be
said that I promised eagerly to accept her invitation.

When I saw that I had seen the last of her for that evening I had no
desire to stay in the crush which filled the rooms; and finding Brunow
in the same mind as myself, I went away with him. Brunow lived off
Regent Street, in a garret handsomely furnished and tenantable, but
stuffy and confined to my notions, used as I had been to the open-air
life of a soldier on active service. We threw the windows wide open, and
sat down beside them with a tumbler of cool liquor apiece, Brunow with
his cigar, and I with my pipe-which I was glad to get back to after
a regimen of those beastly South American cigarettes--and we made
ourselves comfortable. My mind was so full of my beautiful new
acquaintance that I must needs approach her in my talk, and I used Jack
Rollinson as a sort of stalking-horse. Brunow, as I found out later on,
was in love with her-after his fashion--which, as I shall have to show
you, was not very profound or manly; but, at any rate, he was glad of a
chance to talk about her, and I was glad to listen.

"That beautiful girl you met to-night," he told me, "has a strange
history. She is one-and-twenty years of age, and her father is still
living, but she and he never saw each other in their lives."

I said something to the effect that this was strange, and I asked the
reason of it.

"I dare say," B