te resolved
not to perceive it, but calmly persisted in, night after night, giving
Sir Wynston, as he termed it, his revenge; or, in other words, treating
him to a repetition of his losses. All this was very agreeable to
Marston, who began to treat his visitor with, at all events, more
external cordiality and distinction than at first.

An incident, however, occurred, which disturbed these amicable relations
in an unexpected way. It becomes necessary here to mention that
Mademoiselle de Barras's sleeping apartment opened from a long corridor.
It was en suite with two dressing rooms, each opening also upon the
corridor, but wholly unused and unfurnished. Some five or six other
apartments also opened at either side, upon the same passage. These
little local details being premised, it so happened that one day Marston,
who had gone out with the intention of angling in the trout-stream which
flowed through his park, though at a considerable distance from the
house, having unexpectedly returned to procure some tackle which he had
forgotten, was walking briskly through the corridor in question to his
own apartment, when, to his surprise, the door of one of the deserted
dressing-rooms, of which we have spoken, was cautiously pushed open, and
Sir Wynston Berkley issued from it. Marston was almost beside him as he
did so, and Sir Wynston made a motion as if about instinctively to draw
back again, and at the same time the keen ear of his host distinctly
caught the sound of rustling silks and a tiptoe tread hastily withdrawing
from the deserted chamber. Sir Wynston looked nearly as much confused as
a man of the world can look. Marston stopped short, and scanned his
visitor for a moment with a very peculiar expression.

"You have caught me peeping, Dick. I am an inveterate explorer," said the
baronet, with an effectual effort to shake off his embarrassment. "An
open door in a fine old house is a temptation which--"

"That door is usually closed, and ought to be kept so," interrupted
Marston, drily; "there is nothing whatever to be seen in the room but
dust and cobwebs."

"Pardon me," said Sir Wynston, more easily, "you forget the view from
the window."

"Aye, the view, to be sure; there is a good view from it," said Marston,
with as much of his usual manner as he could resume so soon; and, at the
same time, carelessly opening the door again, he walked in, accompanied
by Sir Wynston, and both stood at the window together, lookin