. If only I had not persuaded you--" began
Whyte, blaming himself.

"Stay, Whyte; it is too late for praise or blame, however undeserved. I
have only one sentiment left to guide me, and that is Revenge."

* * * * *

Villiers Wyckliffe had added the fiftieth notch to his stick, and with
the air of a hero at the close of a brilliant campaign, had started on a
tour of pleasure to Australia--for, as he expressed it, he liked that
"Australian kid" so well that he must needs go to her native land to
make acquaintance with others of her sort. Little did he think that on
his track was one dominated with a relentless purpose that would never
grow weak, whose motto was--_REVENGE_.

CHAPTER VI.

REVENGE.

Reg had now fully determined to follow Wyck to Australia, and he lost no
time in making his preparations. His first step was to go to a firm of
die-sinkers, where he ordered a die to be cut in the shape of a broken
heart, exactly similar to the device on Wyckliffe's letter-paper.

"Make it of the finest steel," he said, "and have its edges as sharp as
that of a razor. Have a case made to fit it, so that it can be kept
constantly sharp and bright, and ready for use at any time."

"It will be an expensive article, sir," said the shopman.

"Never mind, have it made exactly to order. Let me know when it will be
ready, and I will call and pay the bill."

That done, he called a cab, drove to Finsbury Pavement, and got out at
a large warehouse.

"Is Mr. Bridgland in?" he asked at the Inquiry Office, and was ushered
into a small room on the door of which was painted the word "Manager."

"Good morning, Bridgland," he said, entering and shaking hands with a
man sitting at a desk.

"What, Morris!" he replied. "You look like a ghost. Are you ill, man?"

"She's dead and buried, old chap."

"Who?--not Miss Johnson," almost gasped Bridgland.

"Yes, Amy Johnson is dead. She was murdered."

"Murdered!"

"Yes, murdered." And sitting down, Reg told Bridgland everything,
omitting not the slightest detail from the day of the ball to the
present.

Joseph Bridgland was the only man in London Reg had ever called a
friend. He had met him through a business transaction shortly after his
landing, and had taken a great fancy to him. Bridgland was a self-made
man, and had started in life as the office boy to the large firm of
whose business he was now manager. He was short and stout, with a
full