n his
shirt-front, and a woman who leaned forward more prominently than her
companion. She was richly dressed, and--at least by gaslight--strikingly
beautiful, with great eyes of a purplish hue, and a mass of golden-red
hair that might or might not have been natural; only at close range
could one have detected the ravages of an unfortunate and unbridled
life--the tell-tale marks that the lavish use of powder and rouge could
not utterly hide.

The vehicle very nearly ran Victor Nevill down--he had been about to
cross the street--and as he dodged back to the sidewalk his face was
for an instant close to the woman's, and he saw her distinctly. He
uttered an exclamation of surprise, and started as though an unseen hand
had dealt him a blow. He hesitated briefly, seemingly dazed, and then
started in pursuit. But he ran into a couple of men at the outset, and
by the time he had stammered an apology, and was free to look about him
again, the swift-moving hansom was lost to sight in a maze of similar
vehicles.

"It's no use to follow in a cab," muttered Nevill. "And I must be
mistaken, anyway. It can't be she whom I saw--she is dead."

He stood at the edge of the pavement, staring undecidedly up the curve
of the street. When a brace of painted women, emboldened by his
attitude, shot covert remarks at him, he turned on them sharply. But,
seeing a policeman approaching, he walked on.

"By heavens, I was _not_ mistaken!" he said to himself. "The papers must
have blundered--such things often happen. She is much altered, but they
were her eyes, her lips. To think that her peerless beauty should have
brought her so low! She is nothing to me now, though I nearly broke my
heart over her once. But she may serve as a useful tool. She will be a
trump card to play, if need be. She has probably come to London recently,
and if she stays any time it would not be a difficult matter for me to
find her. I daresay she drained the Russian's purse, and then served
him as she served me. The heartless vampire! But I am glad I saw her
to-night. With her aid it will be easier than I hoped, perhaps, to win
Madge."

* * * * *

Since ten o'clock an unexpected visitor had been waiting in Victor
Nevill's rooms on Jermyn street. In a big basket-chair, drawn close to
the light, sat Sir Lucius Chesney. He had helped himself to cigars and
brandy-and-soda, and had dipped into half a dozen late novels that were
scattered abo