rew dark as Erebus.

Lewis rode home in the late afternoon to Etterick in a haze of golden
weather with an abstracted air and a slack bridle. A small, dainty
figure tripped through the mazes of his thoughts. This man, usually
oblivious of woman's presence, now mooned like any schoolboy. Those
fresh young eyes and the glory of that hair! And to think that once he
had sworn by black!

CHAPTER V

A CONFERENCE OP THE POWERS

It was the sultriest of weather in London--days when the city lay in a
fog of heat, when the paving cracked, and the brow was damp from the
slightest movement and the mind of the stranger was tortured by the
thought of airy downs and running rivers. The leaves in the Green Park
were withered and dusty, the window-boxes in Mayfair had a tarnished
look, and horse and man moved with unwilling languor. A tall young man
in a grey frockcoat searched the street for shadow, and finding none
entered the doorway of a club which promised coolness.

Mr. George Winterham removed his top-hat, had a good wash, and then
sought the smoking room. Seen to better advantage, he was sufficiently
good-looking, with an elegant if somewhat lanky frame, a cheerful
countenance, and a great brown moustache which gave him the air
military. But he was no soldier, being indeed that anomalous creature,
the titular barrister, who shows his profession by rarely entering the
chambers and by an ignorance of law more profound than Necessity's.

He found the shadiest corner of the smoking room and ordered the coolest
drink he could think of. Then he smiled, for he saw advancing to him
across the room another victim of the weather. This was a small, thin
man, with a finely-shaped dark head and the most perfectly-fitting
clothes. He had been deep in a review, but at the sight of the wearied
giant in the corner he had forgotten his interest in the "Entomology of
the Riviera." He looked something of the artist or the man of letters,
but in truth he had no taint of Bohemianism about him, being a very
respectable person and a rising politician. His name was Arthur
Mordaunt, but because it was the fashion at the time for a certain class
of people to address each other in monosyllables, his friends invariably
knew him as "John."

He dropped into a chair and regarded his companion with half-closed
eyes.

"Well, John. Dished, eh? Most infernal heat I ever endured! I can't
stand it, you know. I'll have to go away."

"Think," said the