quite lost and miserable. Something seemed taken away out of one's life. Then there did n't seem much to do, and some of the old set looked me up and I have been racketing about town a good bit.”

"I thought you'd got over all that, Harold; because, putting it on no other grounds, you know the game is not worth the candle."

"So I had, Basil, before "-he swallowed something in his throat-" before this happened. I did n't believe in it at first, of course, or, at least, not properly, when I got Hands's letter. But when I got out East-and you don't know and won't be able to understand how the East turns one's ideas upside down even at ordinary times-when I got out there and saw what Hands had found, then everything seemed slipping away. Then the Commission came over and I was with them all and heard what they had to say. I know the whole private history of the thing from first to last. It made me quite hopeless-a terrible feeling-the sort of utter dreariness that Poe talks of that the man felt when he was riding up to the House of Usher. Of course, thousands of people must have felt just the same during the past weeks. But to have the one thing one leaned upon, the one hope that kept one straight in this life, the hope of another and happier one, cut suddenly out of one's consciousness! Is it any wonder that one has gone back to the old temptations? I don't think so, Basil."

His voice dropped, an intense weariness showed in his face. His whole body seemed permeated by it, he seemed to sink together in his chair. All the mental pain he had endured, all the physical languor of fast living, that terrible nausea of the soul which seizes so imperiously upon the vicious man who is still conscious of sin; all these flooded over him, possessed him, as he sat before his friend.

An enormous pity was in Basil's heart as he saw this concrete weakness and misery. He realised what he had only guessed at before or seen but dimly. He would not have believed this transformation possible; he had thought Harold stronger. But even as he pitied him he marvelled at the Power which had been able to keep the man pure and straight so long. Even this horrid débâcle was but another, if indirect, testimony to the power of Faith.

And, secondly, as he listened to his friend's story, a deep anger, a righteous wrath as fierce as flame burned within him as he thought of the two men who, he was persuaded, had brought this ruin upon another. In Spence he was able to see but a single case out of thousands which he knew must be similar to it. The evil passions which lie in the hearts of all men had been loosened and unchained; they had sprung into furious activity, liberated by the appalling conspiracy of Schuabe and Llwellyn.

It is noticeable that there was by this time hardly any doubt in Gortre's mind as to the truth of his suspicions. "I understand it all, old man," he said, "and you need n't tell me any more. I can sympathise with you. But I have much to tell you-news, or, at least, theories, which you will be astounded to hear. Listen carefully to me. I believe that just as you were the instrument of first bringing this news to public notice, so you and I are going to prove its falsity, to unearth the most wicked conspiracy in the world's history. Pull yourself together and follow me with all your power. All hope is not yet gone." Basil saw, with some relief, the set and attentive face before him, a face more like the old Spence. But, as he began to tell his story, there flashed into his mind a sudden picture of the old Cornish woman in the train, and he marvelled at that greater faith as his eye fell upon the foul disorder of the room.

CHAPTER X

THE TRIUMPH OF SIR ROBERT LLWELLYN

N the large, open fireplaces of the Sheridan Club dining-room, logs of pine and cedar wood gave out a regular and well-diffused warmth. Outside, the snow was still falling, and beyond the long windows, covered with their crimson curtains, the yellow air was full of soft and silent movement.

The extreme comfort of the lofty, panelled diningroom was accentuated a hundred-fold, to those entering it, by the chilly experience of the streets.

The electric lights burnt steadily in their silk shades, the gleams falling upon the elaborate table furniture in a thousand points of dancing light.

At one of the tables, laid for two people, Sir Robert Llwellyn was sitting. He was in evening dress, and his massive face was closely scrutinising a printed list propped up against a wine-glass before him. His expression was interested and intent. By his side was a sheet of the club note-paper, and from time to time he jotted down something upon it with a slender gold pencil.

The great archæologist was ordering dinner for himself and a guest with much thought and care.

Crême d'asperge à la Reine

in his neat writing, the letters distinct from one another -almost like an inscription in Uncial Greek character, one might have fancied.

Turbot à l'Amiral promised well; the plump, powerful fingers wrote it down.

Poulardes du Mans rôties with petits pois à la Française with a salade Niçoise to follow; that would be excellent! Then just a little suprème de pêches, à la Montreuil, which is quite the best kind of suprème, then some Parmesan before the coffee.

"Quite a simple dinner, Painter," he said to the steward of the room,-the famous "small dining-room " with its alcoves and discreet corners,-"simple but good. Of course you will tell Maurice that it is for me. I want him to do quite his best. If you will send this list off to the kitchens with a message, we will go into the wines together."

They went carefully into the wines.

"Remember that we shall want the large liqueur glasses," he said, "with the Tuileries brandy.

I think I'll take a little now, as an apéritif."

In fact,

The man bowed confidentially and went away. He returned with a long bottle of curious shape with an imperial crown blown in the glass. It was some of the famous brandy which had been lately found bricked up in a cellar close to the Place Carrousel, and was worth its weight in gold.

On the tray stood one of the curious liqueur glasses lately introduced into the club by Sir Robert. It was the shape of a port-wine glass, but enormously large, capable of holding a pint or more, and made of glass as thin as tissue paper and fragile as straw. The steward poured a very little of the brandy into the great glass and twirled it round rapidly by the stem. This was the most epicurean device for bringing out the bouquet of the liqueur.

Llwellyn sipped the precious liquid with an air of the most intense enjoyment. His face glowed with enthusiasm.

"Wonderful, wonderful!" he said in a hushed voice. "There, take it away and bring me an olive.

Then I will go down-stairs and wait for my friend in the smokingroom. You will serve the soup at five minutes past eight."

He got up from the table and moved silently over the heavy carpet to the door.

It was about seven o'clock. At eight Constantine Schuabe was coming to the Sheridan Club to dine.

Sir Robert sat in the smoking-room with a tiny cigarette of South American tobacco, wrapped in maize leaf and tied round the centre with a tiny cord of green silk. His face expressed nothing but the most absolute repose. His correspondence with life was at that moment as complete as the most perfect health and discriminating luxury could make it.

He stretched out his feet to the blaze and idly watched the reflection in the points of his shining boots.

The room was quite silent now. A few men sat about reading the evening papers, and there was a subdued hum of talk from a table where two men were playing a casual game of chess, in which neither of them seemed much interested. A large clock upon the oak mantelshelf ticked with muffled and soothing regularity.

Llwellyn picked up a sixpenny illustrated paper, devoted to amusements and the lighter side of life, and lazily opened it.

His eye fell upon a double-page article interspersed with photographs of actors and actresses. The article was a summing-up of the year's events on the lighter stage by an accepted expert in such matters. He read as follows:

"The six Trocadero girls whom I remember in Paris recently billed as 'The Cocktails,' never forget that