nner with a pedigree that nearly reached to
Adam, and as rich and miserly as Shylock. He bid high for the girl, I
can tell you that, but I believe our friend Saul had a tough job to get
her to marry him."

"He is a greater brute than I thought him," returned Malcolm in a
disgusted tone. "That poor girl!" Then Hugh Rossiter looked grave.

"It was a bit rough on her, but Jacobi was in Queer Street just then,
and the old fellow gave him a helping hand."

"Jacobi is an Italian Jew, is he not?" Mr. Rossiter nodded.

"Yes, his father was an artist model in Rome--a fine-looking old
fellow, I believe--and his mother sold flowers in the market. Some one
told me she had been a model too, and that they were rather a shady
couple; but peace to their manes! They have joined the majority long
ago."

"And Saul Jacobi was a billiard-marker?"

"Yes, till they turned him out; and then he became valet to a young
millionaire who had more dollars than brains. I was shooting grizzlies
in the Rockies then, and did not come across him again until eighteen
months ago. The millionaire was dead then; he never had any
constitution worth mentioning, and he was evidently graduating for the
idiot asylum. You bet, he would have taken a first class there, for he
had fits, poor beggar; so it was a mercy that he went where the good
niggers go."

"May I ask where you met Jacobi, Mr. Rossiter?"

"To be sure you may, and I have no objection to answer. It was the
Hotel de Belleville at Paris. He was sitting opposite to me at
table-d'hote, and his clothes were so new and glossy that I
contemplated them with admiration, not unmixed with awe. He had a
valuable ring on his finger, and a superb orchid in his buttonhole, and
looked like a millionaire himself; things had improved with him, and
the billiard-marker and valet were safely shunted. Miss Jacobi was with
him"--and here Hugh paused a moment--"and she was handsomer than ever."

"Miss Jacobi--I suppose you mean the Contessa Ferrari?"

"No, Mr. Herrick, the marriage had worked badly. Count Antonio was an
infernal brute--excuse my strong language. After a few months his
behaviour was so atrocious that the poor thing left him and fled to her
brother for protection. It would have been difficult, nay impossible,
for her to obtain a divorce. Count Antonio was a wily old rascal, and
he had too much influence at court. There had been no proper
settlements; he had cheated them all through. Some people say