ked it, Jack--it was no go. I painted like a blooming Turk--hired a
studio--filled it with jimcrackery--got the best-looking models--wore a
velvet coat and grew long hair. But it was all useless. I earned
twenty-five dollars in three years. I had a picture in a dealer's
shop--his place burnt down--I made him fork over. Then a deceased
relative left me $150,000--said I deserved it for working so hard in
Paris. A good one, eh? I leased the studio to the Salvation Army, and
here I am, a poor devil of an artist out of work."

Jack laughed heartily.

"Art never _was_ much in your line," he said, "though I remember how you
kept pegging away at it. And no one can be more pleased than myself to
learn that you've dropped into a fortune. Stick to it, Jimmie."

"There will be another one some day, Jack--when this is gone. By the
way, I met old Nevill last night--dined with him. And that reminds me--"

He turned to his companion, the fresh-faced boy, and introduced him to
Jack as the Honorable Bertie Raven. The two shook hands cordially, and
exchanged a few commonplace words.

"Come on; we've held up this corner long enough," exclaimed Drexell.
"Let's go and lunch together somewhere. I'll leave it to you, Raven.
Name your place."

"Prince's, then," was the prompt rejoinder.

As they walked along Piccadilly the Honorable Bertie was forced ahead by
the narrowness of the pavement and the jostling crowds, and Drexell
whispered at Jack's ear:

"A good sort, that young chap. I met him in New York a year ago. His
next eldest brother, the Honorable George, is over there now. I believe
he is going to marry a cousin of mine--a girl who will come into a pot
of money when her governor dies."

* * * * *

Nine o'clock at night, and a room in Beak street, Regent street; a back
apartment looking into a dingy court, furnished with a sort of tawdry,
depressing luxury, and lighted by a pair of candles. A richly dressed
woman who had once been extremely handsome, and still retained more than
a trace of her charms, half reclined on a couch; a fluffy mass of
coppery-red hair had escaped from under her hat, and shaded her large
eyes; shame and confusion, mingled with angry defiance, deepened the
artificial blush on her cheeks.

Victor Nevill stood in the middle of the floor, confronting her with a
faint, mocking smile at his lips. He had not taken the trouble to remove
his hat. He wore evening dress, with a lig