ed the soft, languorous
strains of a waltz, the murmur of voices, the laughter of some of the
people in the conservatory. Stafford sat, his head still upon his
hands, as if her were half stupefied. And indeed he was. He felt like a
man who has been seized by the tentacles of an octopus, unable to
struggle, unable to move, dumb-stricken, and incapable even of protest.
Sir Stephen had spoken of fate: Fate held Stafford under its iron heel,
and the mockery of Fate's laughter mingled with the strains of the
waltz, the murmur of voices. Unconsciously he rose and looked round as
if half dazed, and Sir Stephen came to him and laid both hands on his
shoulders.

"I must not keep you any longer, my dear boy!" he said, with a fond,
proud look. "I must not forget I am keeping you from--her! She will be
missing you--wanting you. You have kept your secret well,
Stafford--though once or twice I have fancied, when I have seen you
together--but it was only a fancy!--Are you going to announce the
engagement tonight? It is rather a good opportunity, isn't it? It will
make the night memorable."

The music danced madly through Stafford's brain as his father waited,
looking at him smilingly. What should he say?

"Not to-night, sir!" he answered. "I should like to speak to Miss
Falconer first."

Sir Stephen nodded and smiled.

"I understand, my boy," he said. "This kind of thing is not done now as
it was in my time. We used to take the girl of our choice by the hand
and throw back our heads, and announce the fact that we have secured
the prize, with all the pride imaginable. But that's all altered now. I
suppose the new way is more delicate--more refined. At any rate, you
belong to the new age and have a right to follow its manners and
customs; so you shall say nothing to-night, unless you like. And, if I
am asked why I look so happy, so free from care, I must say that it is
because the great Railway Scheme is settled and that I have won all
along the line."

As he said the last words there came a knock at the door, and Murray
entered with an injured look.

"Mr. Griffenberg and Baron Wirsch, would like to see you, Sir Stephen,"
he said, significantly.

Sir Stephen sprang to the table almost with the alertness of a boy, and
caught up the papers lying on his desk.

"All right, Murray!" he cried. "Sorry I'm late! Been having a talk with
Mr. Stafford. Come on!"

With a nod, a smile, a tender look of love and gratitude to Stafford,