intly
smiling.

"Go ahead, sir," he said. "Won't you sit down?"

But Dinghra preferred to stand.

"I am presuming that you are the Mr. Cecil Mordaunt Rivington whose
engagement to Miss Ernestine Cardwell was announced in this morning's
paper," he said, speaking quickly but very distinctly.

"The same," said Rivington. He added with a shrug of the shoulders, "A
somewhat high-sounding name for such a humble citizen as myself, but it
was not of my own choosing."

Dinghra ignored the remark. He was very plainly in no mood for
trivialities.

"And the engagement really exists?" he questioned.

The Englishman's brows went up.

"Of course it exists."

"Ah!" It was like a snarl. The white teeth gleamed for a moment. "I had
no idea," Dinghra said, still with the same feverish rapidity, "that I
had a rival."

"Are we rivals?" said Rivington, amiably regretful. "It's the first I
have heard of it."

"You must have known!" The green glare suddenly began to flicker with a
ruddy tinge as of flame. "Every one knew that I was after her."

"Oh yes, I knew that," said Rivington. "But--pardon me if I fail to see
that that fact constitutes any rivalry between us. We were engaged long
before she met you. We have been engaged for years."

"For years!" Dinghra took a sudden step forward. He looked as if he were
about to spring at the Englishman's throat.

But Rivington remained quite unmoved, all unsuspecting, lounging on the
edge of the table.

"Yes, for years," he repeated. "But we have kept it to ourselves till
now. Even Lady Florence had no notion of it. There was nothing to be
gained by talking. It was a case of--" He dug his hands into his
trousers pockets and pulled them inside out with an eloquent gesture.
"So, of course, there was nothing for it but to wait."

"Then why have you published the engagement now?" demanded Dinghra.

Rivington smiled.

"Because we are tired of waiting," he said.

"You are in a position to marry, then? You are--"

"I am as poor as a church mouse, if you want to know," said Rivington.

"And you will marry on nothing?"

"I dare say we sha'n't starve," said Rivington optimistically.

"Ah!" Again that beast-like snarl. There was no green glare left in the
watching eyes--only red, leaping flame. "And--you like poverty?" asked
the Indian in the tone of one seeking information.

"I detest it," said Rivington, with unusual energy.

Dinghra drew a step nearer, noiselessly, like a cat.