A city law court is not exactly the place in which to spend a happy day—unless you happen to be a lawyer engaged in a profitable case there—and Yorke, as he entered the stuffy, grimy, murky chamber, looked round with a feeling of surprise and grim interest.

Upon the bench sat the judge in a much-worn gown and a grubby wig. A barrister was drowsing away in the 'well' of the court, and his fellows were sleeping or stretching and yawning round him.

The public was represented by half a dozen seedy-looking individuals who all looked as if they had not been to bed for a month and had forgotten to wash themselves for a like period. There was an usher, who yawned behind his wand, one or two policemen with wooden countenances, and two or three wretched-looking individuals, who were, like Yorke, defendants in various suits.

The entrance of this stalwart, well-dressed and decidedly distinguished and aristocratic personage created a slight sensation for a moment or two; then he seemed to be forgotten, and he stood and looked on, and wondered how soon his case would be heard, and whether he would be carried away to jail forthwith.

He waited for a half hour or so, feeling that he was growing dirty and grimy like the rest of the people round him, and gradually the sense of the disgrace and humiliation of his position stole over him.

Great heavens, to what a pass he had come! He had lost Leslie. He was now to lose good name and honor—everything! Would it not be better for himself and everybody connected with him if he went outside and purchased a dose of prussic acid?

The suspense, the stuffy court, the droning voice of the counsel began to drive him mad.

He went up to the usher. "Can you tell me when my case comes on?" he said.

The man looked at him sleepily.

"Your case—what name?" he asked, without any 'sir,' and with a kind of drowsy impertinence, which seemed to be in strict harmony with the air of the place.

"Auchester!" said Yorke. "I am the—the defendant."

"Horchester? Don't know. Ask the clerk," said the man.

With a sick feeling of shame Yorke went up to the man pointed out by the usher and put the same question to him.

"Auchester? Duncombe versus Auchester; Levison versus Auchester; Arack versus Auchester?" said the clerk, in a dry, business-like way.

"Yes, I dare say that's it," said Yorke, hating the sound of his own name.

The clerk looked down a list, then raised his eyes with the faintest of smiles.

"Scratched out," he said, curtly.

"Scratched out?" echoed Yorke, blankly.

"Yes, sir—my lord," said the clerk, who, while looking at the list, had come upon Yorke's title. "The cases have been removed from the list. Settled."

"Settled? I don't understand," said Yorke, staring at him. "I've only just come down—I've paid nothing."

"Some one else has, then, my lord," said the clerk. "Wait a moment till this case is heard; it will be over directly, and I'll explain."

Yorke, feeling like a man in a dream, stepped into a corner and waited. Presently the court adjourned for luncheon, and the clerk came toward him.

"This way, my lord." He led Yorke into an office. "Now, my lord. Yes, all the cases have been discharged from the list—been settled this morning."

"This morning?" echoed Yorke, mechanically, still with a vast amazement. "But—but who—I don't know who could have done this. I have not, for the best of all reasons. I came down here prepared to go to prison, or wherever else you sent me."

The clerk raised his brows and shook his head gravely.

"Yes, you would have been committed, my lord, for a certainty," he said. "You see, you let things slide too long. But there is no fear now. The money, all of it, has been paid. You are quite free, quite. I congratulate your lordship."

"But—but"—stammered Yorke, and he put his hand to his brow—"who can have done it—paid it? Is it the Duke of Rothbury?"

Could Dolph have heard of it in some extraordinary way and sent the money?

The clerk went into the inner office for a few minutes, then he came back with a slip of paper in his hand.

"I don't know whether I am doing right, my lord," he said, gravely, and even cautiously. "Perhaps I ought not to give you this information, but I trust to your lordship's discretion. You won't get me into a scrape, my lord?"

"No, no!" said Yorke, "who is it?"

The clerk handed him the slip of paper.

It was a check on Coutts' for a large—a very large—sum, and it was signed "Eleanor Dallas."

"Eleanor!"

The name broke in a kind of sigh from Yorke's lips, and his face reddened. But it was pale again as he handed the check back to the clerk.

"Thank you," he said.

He stood and looked vacantly before him as if he had forgotten where he was; then he woke with a start.

"Then I can go?" he said.

"Certainly, my lord," said the clerk. "As I said, you are quite free. There are no actions against you now; everything is squared—paid."

Yorke thanked him again, wished him good-day, and got outside.

Everything paid—and by Eleanor!

He repeated this as he walked from the city to the west; as he tramped slowly, with downcast head, across Hyde Park.

He told himself that he ought to be grateful; that he could not feel too grateful to the woman who had come to his aid and saved him from ruin and disgrace.

But he knew why she had done it, and he knew what he ought to do in return. The least he could do would be to go and kneel at her feet, and ask her to accept the life which she had snatched from disgrace. And why shouldn't he? The only woman he had ever loved had proved false, and mercenary, and base, and there was nothing now to prevent him asking Lady Eleanor to be his wife; and yet, alas! he could not get that other face out of his mind or heart.

He thought of her—she haunted him as he walked along; the clear gray eyes, so tender one moment, so full of fire and humor the next; the dark hair, the graceful figure, the sweet voice. "Oh, Leslie, Leslie! if you had but been true!" was the burden of his heart's wail.

He looked up and found himself close upon Palace Gardens; unconsciously his feet had moved in that direction. He rang the bell of Lady Eleanor's door.

Yes, her ladyship was at home, the footman said, and said it in that serene, confident tone which a servant uses when he knows that his mistress will be glad to see the visitor.

Yorke followed the man to the small drawing-room.

Lady Denby was there tying up some library books.

She started slightly as she saw his altered appearance, but she was too completely a woman of the world to let him see the start.

"Why, Yorke!" she said, "what a stranger you are! We were only speaking of you this morning at breakfast, and wondering where you were. Have you been away? Sit down—or tie up those tiresome books for me, will you? They slip and slide about in the most aggravating way. I'll go and tell Eleanor; I fancy she was going out."

She met Lady Eleanor in the hall, and drew her aside.

"Yorke is in there, Eleanor," she said.

"Yorke!"

Lady Eleanor repeated the name and started almost guiltily, almost fearfully.

"Yes, I came to tell you, and—well, yes—prepare you. I don't want you to do as I did—jump as if I'd seen a bogey man. He has been ill, or up to some deviltry or other, and he looks—well, I can't tell you how he looks. It gave me a shock. I thought I'd prepare you."

Lady Eleanor touched her hand.

"Thank you, dear. No, I won't look shocked. He looks very ill?"

"Very ill, oh! worse than ill. Like a man who has robbed a church and been found out, or lost everything he held dear."

Lady Eleanor put her handkerchief to her lips. They were trembling.

"I don't mind what he has been doing," she said.

"Oh, my dear Eleanor!"

"No, I don't. I'll go in now. Don't let any one disturb us. He—he may have come to see me to talk about something."

She went into the room, and Yorke turned to meet her. It was well that she had been forewarned of the change in his appearance. As it was, she could scarcely suppress the cry that rose to her lips.

"Well, Yorke," she said, with affected lightness, "tying up aunt's books? That is so like her. No one can come near her without getting employed. What a shame to worry you!"

"It doesn't worry me," he said.

He leaned against the table and looked down at her. There is a picture of Millais's—it is called, I think, 'A Hot-house Flower'—which Lady Eleanor might have sat for that morning, so delicate, so graceful, so refined and blanche was her beauty. She wore a loose dress of soft cashmere, cream in color, almost Greek in fashion. Her hair was like gold, her eyes placid yet tender, with a touch of subdued sadness and anxiety in them. A charming, an irresistible picture, and one that appealed to this man with the storm-beaten heart aching in his bosom.

She glanced up at him, saw the haggard face, the dark rings round the eyes, that indescribable look which pain and despair and utter abandonment produce as plainly as the die stamps the hall-mark on the piece of silver, and her heart yearned for him, for his love—yearned for the right to comfort and soothe him. Ah! if he would only have it so—if he would only let her, how happy she would make him! All this, and much more, she felt; but she looked quite placid and serene—like a dainty lily unstirred by the wind—and said in her soft voice:

"We were thinking of advertising for you Yorke. Have you been away?"

He might have answered: "Yes, I have been in the Valley of Sorrow and Tribulation, on the Desert of Dead Love and Vain Hope," but instead he replied:

"No, just here in London; but I have been busy."

She looked up and smiled.

"Busy! That sounds so strange, and so comic, coming from you!"

"And yet it is true," he said. "I have been busy thinking." If there was a touch of bitterness in his voice she did not notice it. "And that's hard work for me—it's so new, you see."

There was silence for a moment. He held the string with which he had been tying up the books in his hands, and fidgeted with it restlessly. Lady Eleanor dropped into small-talk. Had he been to the chrysanthemum show at the Temple? Had he noticed that the Duchess of Orloffe was not going to give her autumn ball? Did he—

He broke in suddenly as if he had not been listening, his voice hoarse and thick:

"Eleanor, why did you do it?"

"Why did I—do what, Yorke?" she said.

"Why did you fling so much money away upon a worthless scamp?" His face went white, then red.

"Who told you?" she breathed.

"They told me down at the court where I had gone to be disgraced," he said, "and you saved me! How can I thank you, Eleanor? How can I? And you would have done it in secret, would have kept it from me?"

"Yes, oh, yes," she murmured, her head drooping. "Don't—don't say anything about it. It was nothing—nothing!" She looked up at him eagerly, pleadingly. "Yorke, you will not think badly of me because I did it? Why shouldn't I? I am rich—you don't know how rich—and what better could I do with the stupid money than give it to a—a friend who needed it more—ten thousand times more—than I do or ever shall! Don't be angry with me, Yorke."

"Angry!" The blood flew to his face and his eyes flashed. He drew nearer to the chair in which she sat, he knelt on one knee beside her.

"Eleanor, I am utterly worthless—you know that quite well. I was not worth the saving, but as you have saved me, will you accept me? Eleanor, will you be my wife?"

Her face went white with the ecstasy which shot through her heart. Ah, for how long had she thirsted, hungered for these words from his lips! And they had come at last!

"Will you be my wife, Eleanor? I will try to make you happy. I will do my best, Heaven helping, to be a good husband to you! Stop, dear! If you act wisely you will send me about my business! There are fifty—a hundred better men who love you; you could scarcely have a worse than I, but if you will say 'yes,' I will try and be less unworthy of you. All my life I will never forget all that I owe you—never forget that you saved me from ruin and disgrace. Now, dear, I—"

She put out her hand to him without a word; then as he took it her passion burst through the bonds in which she thought to bind it, and she swayed forward and dropped upon his breast.

"Yorke, Yorke, you know"—came through her parted lips—"you know I love you—have always loved you!"

"My poor Eleanor!" he said, almost indeed, quite pityingly. "Such a bad, worthless lot as I am!"

"No, no!" she panted. "No, no; the best, the highest to me! And—and if you were not, it—it would be all the same. Oh, Yorke, be good, be kind to me, for you are all the world to me!"

They sat and talked hand in hand for some time, and once during that talk he said:

"By the way, Eleanor, how did you hear I was in such a mess—how did you come to know?"

It was a very natural question under the circumstances; but Lady Eleanor started and turned white, absolutely white with fear.

"No, no; not one word will I ever say or let you say about this stupid money business!" she exclaimed. Then she took his hand and pressed it against her cheek. "Why, sir, what does it matter? It was only—only lending it to you for a little time, you see. It will all be yours soon."

Lady Denby came in after a discreet cough outside; but Lady Eleanor did not move or take her hand from Yorke's.

"Oh!" said Lady Denby.

"Eleanor has made me very happy, Lady Denby," he said, rising, but still holding Lady Eleanor's hand.

"Oh!" said Lady Denby again. "What do you want me to say? That you deserve her? No, thank you, I couldn't tell such an obvious fib. What I'm going to say in the shape of congratulation is that she is much too good for you."

"That is so," he said with a grim smile.

"You'll stay to dinner?" murmured Lady Eleanor. "You will stay, Yorke?"

"Yes," he said, bending down and kissing her—"yes, thanks. But I must go and change my things. I'm awfully dirty and seedy."

She went with him to the door, as if she begrudged every moment that he should be out of her sight, and still smiled after he had left her and had got half-way down the Gardens. Then suddenly he stopped and looked round him with a ghostly look.

And yet it was only the face of Leslie that had flashed across his mental vision. Only the face of the girl who had jilted him!

"My God! shall I never forget her?" he muttered, hoarsely. "Not even now!"