erson entering the room by the hall
door. He had secured his papers in the dispatch-box, and had just closed
and locked it, when he heard the door cautiously opened.

The instant afterward the rustling of a woman's dress over the carpet
caught his ear. Other men might have walked out of the recess and shown
themselves. Father Benwell stayed where he was, and waited until the
lady crossed his range of view.

The priest observed with cold attention her darkly-beautiful eyes and
hair, her quickly-changing color, her modest grace of movement. Slowly,
and in evident agitation, she advanced to the door of the picture
gallery--and paused, as if she was afraid to open it. Father Benwell
heard her sigh to herself softly, "Oh, how shall I meet him?" She turned
aside to the looking-glass over the fire-place. The reflection of her
charming face seemed to rouse her courage. She retraced her steps, and
timidly opened the door. Lord Loring must have been close by at the
moment. His voice immediately made itself heard in the library.

"Come in, Stella--come in! Here is a new picture for you to see; and a
friend whom I want to present to you, who must be your friend too--Mr.
Lewis Romayne."

The door was closed again. Father Benwell stood still as a statue in
the recess, with his head down, deep in thought. After a while he roused
himself, and rapidly returned to the writing table. With a roughness
strangely unlike his customary deliberation of movement, he snatched a
sheet of paper out of the case, and frowning heavily, wrote these lines
on it:--"Since my letter was sealed, I have made a discovery which must
be communicated without the loss of a post. I greatly fear there may be
a woman in our way. Trust me to combat this obstacle as I have combated
other obstacles. In the meantime, the work goes on. Penrose has received
his first instructions, and has to-day been presented to Romayne."

He addressed this letter to Rome, as he had addressed the letter
preceding it. "Now for the woman!" he said to himself--and opened the
door of the picture gallery.

CHAPTER IV.

FATHER BENWELL HITS.

ART has its trials as well as its triumphs. It is powerless to assert
itself against the sordid interests of everyday life. The greatest book
ever written, the finest picture ever painted, appeals in vain to minds
preoccupied by selfish and secret cares. On entering Lord Loring's
gallery, Father Benwell found but one person who was not looking