recognize me."

So after promising Hugh to remain discreet, she told him they were
returning to London in a few days.

"Look here!" he said suddenly. "We must meet again very soon, darling.
I daresay I may venture out at night, therefore why not let us make an
appointment--say, for Tuesday week. Where shall we meet? At midnight at
the first seat on the right on entering the part at the Marble Arch? You
remember, we met there once before--about a year ago."

"Yes. I know the spot," the girl replied. "I remember what a cold, wet
night it was, too!" and she laughed at the recollection. "Very well.
I will contrive to be there. That night we are due at a dance at the
Gordons' in Grosvenor Gardens. But I'll manage to be there somehow--if
only for five minutes."

"Good," he exclaimed, again kissing her fondly. "Now I must make all
speed to Kensington and there go once more into hiding. When--oh, when
will this wearying life be over!"

"You have a friend, as I have, in the mysterious white cavalier," she
said. "I wonder who he really is?"

"The Sparrow--without a doubt--the famous 'Il Passero' for whom the
police of Europe are ever searching, the man who at one moment lives
in affluence and the highest respectability in a house somewhere near
Piccadilly, and at another is tearing over the French, Spanish, or
Italian roads in his powerful car directing all sorts of crooked
business. It's a strange world in which I find myself, Dorise, I assure
you! Good-bye, darling--good-bye!" and he took her in a final embrace.
"Good-bye--till Tuesday week."

Then stepping on to the grass, where his feet fell noiselessly, he
disappeared in the dark shadow of the great avenue of beeches.

SIXTEENTH CHAPTER

THE ESCROCS OF LONDON

For ten weary days Hugh Henfrey had lived in the close, frowsy-smelling
house in Abingdon Road, Kensington, a small, old-fashioned place, once a
residence of well-to-do persons, but now sadly out of repair.

Its occupier was a worthy, and somewhat wizened, widow named Mason, who
was supposed to be the relict of an army surgeon who had been killed at
the Battle of the Marne. She was about sixty, and suffered badly from
asthma. Her house was too large for one maid, a stout, matronly person
called Emily, hence the place was not kept as clean as it ought to have
been, and the cuisine left much to be desired.

Still, it appeared to be a safe harbour of refuge for certain strange
persons who came there,