taken his new
studio at Ravenscourt Park, in the west of London. It was a big place,
with a splendid north light, and with an admirable train service to all
parts of town; in that respect he was better off than artists living in
Hampstead or St. John's Wood. He had a couple of small furnished rooms
at one end of the studio, in one of which he slept. He usually dined in
town, Paris fashion, but his breakfast and lunch were served by his
French servant, Alphonse, an admirable fellow, who had lodgings close by
the studio; he could turn his hand to anything, and was devoted to his
master.

Jack had achieved success, and he deserved it. His name was well known,
and better things were predicted of him. The leading magazines displayed
his black-and-white drawings monthly, and publishers begged him to
illustrate books. He was making a large income, and saving the half of
it. Nor did he lose sight of his loftier goal. His picture of last year
had been accepted by the Academy, hung well, and sold, and he had just
been notified that he was in again this spring. Fortune smiled on him,
and the folly of his youth was a fading memory that could never cloud or
dim his future.

* * * * *

It was two days after the adventure on the river, late in the afternoon.
Jack was reading over the manuscript of a book, and penciling possible
points for illustration, when Alphonse handed him a letter. It was
directed in a feminine hand, but a man had clearly penned the inclosure.
The writer signed himself Stephen Foster, and in a few brief sentences,
coldly and curtly expressed, he thanked Mr. Vernon for the great and
timely service he had rendered his daughter. That was all. There was no
invitation to the house at Strand-on-the-Green--no hope or desire for a
personal acquaintance.

Jack resented the bald, stereotyped communication. He felt
piqued--slightly hurt. He had been trying to forget the girl, but now,
thinking of her as something out of his reach, he wanted to see her
again.

"A conceited, crusty old chap--this Stephen Foster," he said to himself.
"No doubt he is a money-grubber in the city, and regards artists with
contempt. If I had a daughter like that, and a man saved her life, I
should be properly grateful. Poor girl, she can't lead a very happy
life."

He lighted a pipe, read a little further, and then tossed the sheaf of
manuscript aside. He rose and put on a hat and a black coat--he wore
eveni