"What's wrong with you, my boy?" broke in Victor Nevill. "Have you been
dreaming?"

"I am going home," said Jack, rising. "It will be a pleasant surprise
for Diane."

Nevill looked at him curiously, then laughed. He took out his watch.

"Have another drink," he urged. "We part to-night--who knows when we
will meet again? And it is only half-past eleven."

"One more," Jack assented, sitting down again.

Brandy was ordered, and Victor Nevill kept up a rapid conversation, and
an interesting one. From time to time he glanced covertly at his watch,
and it might have been supposed that he was purposely detaining his
companion. More brandy was placed on the table, and Jack frequently
lifted the glass to his lips. With a cigar between his teeth, with
flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, he laughed as merrily as any in the
room. But he did not drink too much, and the hand that he finally held
out to Nevill was perfectly steady.

"I must be off now," he said. "It is long past midnight. Good-by, old
chap, and bon voyage."

"Good-by, my dear fellow. Take care of yourself."

It was an undemonstrative parting, such as English-men are addicted to.
Jack sauntered out to the boulevard, and turned his steps homeward. His
thoughts were all of Diane, and he was not to be cajoled by a couple of
grisettes who made advances. He nodded to a friendly gendarme, and
crossed the street to avoid a frolicksome party of students, who were
bawling at the top of their voices the chorus of the latest topical song
by Paulus, the Beranger of the day--

"Nous en avons pour tous les gouts."

Victor Nevill heard the refrain as he left the brasserie and looked
warily about. He stepped into a cab, gave the driver hurried
instructions, and was whirled away at a rattling pace toward the Seine.

"He will never suspect me," he muttered complacently, as he lit a
cigar.

With head erect, and coat buttoned tightly over his breast, Jack went on
through the enticing streets of Paris. He had moved from his former
lodgings to a house that fronted on the Boulevard St. Germain. Here he
had the entresol, which he had furnished lavishly to please his wife. He
let himself in with a key, mounted the stairs, and opened the studio
door. A lamp was burning dimly, and the silence struck a chill to his
heart.

"Diane," he called.

There was no reply. He advanced a few feet, and caught sight of a letter
pinned to the frame of an easel. He turned up the lamp, opene