and the reckless Irish lord. He had remained at the hotel,
through the long afternoon, on the chance that she might write to him
speedily by the hand of a messenger--and no letter had arrived. He was
still in expectation of news which might reach him by the evening post,
when the waiter knocked at the door.

"A letter?" Mountjoy asked.

"No, sir," the man answered; "a lady."

Before she could raise her veil, Hugh had recognised Iris. Her manner
was subdued; her face was haggard; her hand lay cold and passive in his
hand, when he advanced to bid her welcome. He placed a chair for her by
the fire. She thanked him and declined to take it. With the air of a
woman conscious of committing an intrusion, she seated herself apart in
a corner of the room.

"I have tried to write to you, and I have not been able to do it." She
said that with a dogged resignation of tone and manner, so unlike
herself that Mountjoy looked at her in dismay. "My friend," she went
on, "your pity is all I may hope for; I am no longer worthy of the
interest you once felt in me."

Hugh saw that it would be useless to remonstrate. He asked if it had
been his misfortune to offend her.

"No," she said, "you have not offended me."

"Then what in Heaven's name does this change in you mean?"

"It means," she said, as coldly as ever, "that I have lost my
self-respect; it means that my father has renounced me, and that you
will do well to follow his example. Have I not led you to believe that
I could never be the wife of Lord Harry? Well, I have deceived you---I
am going to marry him."

"I can't believe it, Iris! I won't believe it!"

She handed him the letter, in which the Irishman had declared his
resolution to destroy himself. Hugh read it with contempt. "Did my
lord's heart fail him?" he asked scornfully.

"He would have died by his own hand, Mr. Mountjoy----"

"Oh, Iris--_'Mr.!'"_

"I will say 'Hugh,' if you prefer it--but the days of our familiar
friendship are none the less at an end. I found Lord Harry bleeding to
death from a wound in his throat. It was in a lonely place on Hampstead
Heath; I was the one person who happened to pass by it. For the third
time, you see, it has been my destiny to save him. How can I forget
that? My mind will dwell on it. I try to find happiness--oh, only
happiness enough for me--in cheering my poor Irishman, on his way back
to the life that I have preserved. There is my motive, if I have a
motive. Day after