unenviable one."

"And you know such a woman?"

"I think, sir, that I do."

"Well, my good Vereker, if any such attempt is in your mind, I see no
reason why I should stand between Lord Barrymore and the angry fair. As
to whether the result is worth a thousand pounds, I can make no promise."

"You shall yourself be the judge, sir."

"I will be an exacting judge, nephew."

"Very good, sir; I should not desire otherwise. If things go as I hope,
his lordship will not show face in St. James's Street for a year to come.
I will now, if I may, give you your instructions."

"My instructions! What do you mean? I have nothing to do with the
matter."

"You are the judge, sir, and therefore must be present."

"I can play no part."

"No, sir. I would not ask you to do more than be a witness."

"What, then, are my instructions, as you are pleased to call them?"

"You will come to the Gardens to-night, uncle, at nine o'clock precisely.
You will walk down the centre path, and you will seat yourself upon one
of the rustic seats which are beside the statue of Aphrodite. You will
wait and you will observe."

"Very good; I will do so. I begin to perceive, nephew, that the breed of
Tregellis has not yet lost some of the points which have made it famous."

It was at the stroke of nine that night when Sir Charles, throwing his
reins to the groom, descended from his high yellow phaeton, which
forthwith turned to take its place in the long line of fashionable
carriages waiting for their owners. As he entered the gate of the
Gardens, the centre at that time of the dissipation and revelry of
London, he turned up the collar of his driving-cape and drew his hat over
his eyes, for he had no desire to be personally associated with what
might well prove to be a public scandal. In spite of his attempted
disguise, however, there was that in his walk and his carriage which
caused many an eye to be turned after him as he passed and many a hand to
be raised in salute. Sir Charles walked on, and, seating himself upon
the rustic bench in front of the famous statue, which was in the very
middle of the Gardens, he waited in amused suspense to see the next act
in this comedy.

From the pavilion, whence the paths radiated, there came the strains of
the band of the Foot Guards, and by the many-coloured lamps twinkling
from every tree Sir Charles could see the confused whirl of the dancers.
Suddenly the music stopped. The quadrilles wer