you don't say so!
Why, that mine is the talk of Wall Street, and if you own any part in
it, you must be a millionaire!"

"Not quite that," laughed Peveril, "though I am not exactly what you
might call poor."

"I should say not, and only wish I stood in your shoes; but, you
see--" Here Langdon plunged into a long account of his own affairs, to
which Peveril listened patiently. Finally the former said:

"By the way, what have you on hand for to-night?"

"Nothing in particular. Was thinking of going to some theatre."

"Don't you do it! Beastly shows, all of them. Nothing but vaudeville
nowadays. Come with me and I'll take you to a place where you will not
only have a pleasant time, but will meet old friends as well. You
remember old Owen?--'Dig' Owen, we used to call him."

"Yes."

"Well, he is here in New York, and has made a pot of money--no one
knows how. Shady speculations of some kind, and, between ourselves, it
is liable to slip through his fingers at any moment. But that's
neither here nor there. He married, about a year ago, a nice enough
girl, who has apparently lived abroad all her life. Rather a
light-weight, but entertains in great shape. Always has something good
on hand--generally music. They give a blow-out to-night, to which I am
going to drop in for a while, and, of course, they will be delighted
to see you. So don't utter a protest, but just come along."

In accordance with the programme thus provided, Peveril found himself
an hour later entering the drawing-room of a spacious mansion on upper
Fifth Avenue. It was already so well filled that it was some time
before the new-comers could approach their hostess.

When they finally reached the place where she was talking and laughing
with a group of guests, her face was so averted that Peveril did not
see it until after Langdon had said:

"Good-evening, Mrs. Owen. You have gathered together an awfully jolly
crowd, and I have taken the liberty of adding another to their number.
He is an old college friend of your husband's, and quite a lion just
now, for he is the owner of the famous Copper Princess that every one
is talking about. May I present him? Mrs. Owen, my friend Mr. Richard
Peveril." With this Langdon stepped aside, and Peveril found himself
face to face with Rose Bonnifay.

For an instant she was deadly pale. Then, with a supreme effort, she
recovered her self-possession, the blood rushed back to her cheeks,
and, extending her hand with