and stalls, galleries and boxes, into the crowded,
tumultuous, clamoring Strand, blazing and flashing like a vast, long
furnace, echoing to the roar of raucous throats, and throbbing to
the rumble of an endless invasion of cabs and private carriages. A
fascinating scene, and one of the most interesting that London can show.

The uniformed commissionaire of the Ambiguity, reading the wishes of a
lady and gentleman who pressed across the pavement to the curb, promptly
claimed a hansom and opened the door. Stephen Foster helped his daughter
into it and followed her. Madge looked fragile and tired, but her sweet
beauty attracted the attention of the bystanders; she drew her fluffy
opera-cloak about her white throat and shoulders as she nestled in a
corner of the seat. Nevill, who had been separated from them by the
crush, came forward just then.

"I'm sorry you won't have some supper," he said. "It is not late."

"It will be midnight before we get home," Stephen Foster replied. "We
are indebted to you for a delightful evening."

"Yes, we enjoyed it _so_ much," Madge added, politely.

"I hope you will let me repeat it soon," Nevill said.

The girl did not answer. She held out her hand, and it was cold to
Nevill's touch. He bade them both good-night, and stepped aside to give
the cabby his directions. He watched the vehicle roll away, and then
scowled at the commissionaire, who waited expectantly for a tip.

"As beautiful as a dream," he thought, savagely, "but with a heart of
ice--at least to me. Will I never be able to melt her?"

It is no easy matter to cross the Strand when the theaters are dismissing
their audiences, and five minutes were required for Nevill to accomplish
that operation; even then he had to avail himself of a stoppage of the
traffic by a policeman. He bent his steps to the grill-room of the Grand,
and enjoyed a chop and a small bottle of wine. Lighting a cigar, he
sauntered slowly to Jermyn street, and as he reached his lodgings a man
started up suddenly before him.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said humbly, "but ain't you Mr. Victor Nevill?"

CHAPTER XXIV.

A FATEFUL DECISION.

Nevill paused, latch-key in hand; a cautious impulse checked the
admission of his identity. The individual who had accosted him, seen by
the glow of a distant street-lamp, was thickset and rakish-looking, with
a heavy mustache. He repeated his question uneasily.

"If I've made a mistake--" he went on.

"No, you a