his girl with whom he has an engagement. How then?"

Pierre was silent for a moment; a troubled look puckered his face, then
a keen sudden gleam of surprise and intelligence seemed to shoot across
it. "You said supper at nine, did you not?" he said quietly.

"Yes--the nights are dark."

"Make it ten, nevertheless."

"Agreed, but why? and what is there working in your brain, Dobree?"

"Never mind, monsieur, but lend me one, two, three sovereigns."

"Pierre, you are extravagant. What can you want with them? There will be
no company; your dress is good enough."

"There will be Master Antoine, perhaps a lady, but that I cannot tell;
there may even be two ladies."

"Pierre, it is ill-jesting," said Dormeur, turning pale and with an
angry glance; "do you remember what day it is?"

"Good Heaven! Master, forgive me. I had quite another thought than of
the day; pardon me a thousand times--pardon me. I could cut out my
thoughtless tongue; and yet, believe me, I meant--never mind what I
meant."

They had reached the passage leading to Dobree's queer little
oak-panelled room, and as the door was open, both the old men entered;
Dormeur walking up to the mantel-piece, and fiddling about there with
some old china cups, and other little ornaments with which it was
adorned. Turned with its face to the wall was a small trumpery frame,
containing as it seemed some common-looking picture; and quite
absently, and as though he scarcely knew what he was doing, the old man
placed his fingers on it to turn it face outwards. Anton Dormeur gave a
low cry, and placed his hand upon his companion's arm.

"Where did you get this?" he said slowly, looking his old foreman in the
face. "It is not old, it cannot have been painted more than a year; and
yet, as a mere likeness from memory, it is wonderful. Who could have
done it?--not you, Pierre, that is impossible."

Dobree had recovered himself. "You know that I came from Paris," he
said, with his eyes cast down; "you know, too, how a picture may be
retouched and made to look like new."

"But you are deceiving me; this is no retouching; it is clumsy--coarse;
and, except in the evidence that the face itself must have been
beautiful, not a good likeness. You wonder I can talk so calmly of this,
a poor resemblance of the bright fair girl--of my Sara--mine
although--Dobree, tell me how you came by this."

"I will tell you to-night," muttered the old man; "I swear to you that I
will tell you