I am not going to apologize for our hero, nor am I going to gloss over his faults with any specious special pleading. No man is either wholly good or wholly bad; certainly Jack was not wholly good; he was human, very human, and blessed, or cursed, with a hot, passionate blood, which made him more liable to trip than most men. But, at the same time, this in justice must be said of him, that he very rarely sinned in this way.

Tonight his blood was at full heat; the love which had sprung up like a tongue of flame in his heart burned and maddened him, and to this newly-born love was added the disappointment and bewilderment of Una’s sudden disappearance. Add, too, that he had been overstrained and upset, and—well, there are the excuses and apologies, after all.

Somewhere about two o’clock, when the club was full with men who had dropped in from theater and ball-room, and amidst the popping of corks and click of pool balls, a certain feeling came over poor Jack that he had taken quite as much, and more, of the sparkling juice than was good for him; and with that consciousness came the resolution to go home.

The game was just over, and without a word he put up his cue, motioned to a footman to bring him his hat, and, scarcely noticed in the crowd and bustle, slowly descended the broad and indeed magnificent staircase for which and its palatial hall the club was famous.

He descended very slowly, with his hand on the balustrade, and having reached the bottom, he filled a glass with water from the crystal filter that stood on a side table in the porter’s box, and sallied out.

The night air struck upon his hot brow in a cool and welcome fashion, and Jack stood for a moment or two, fighting with the hazy and stupefying effects of the night’s work.

“I won’t go home yet,” he muttered. “Len will be cut up; he always is. He’s as bad as a father—almost as bad as a mother-in-law. Well, I didn’t touch the cards, anyhow. And if it had not been for those two idiots, Ark and Dally, I shouldn’t have got so far into the champagne. How bright the stars shine—an unaccountable number of them tonight.” Poor Jack! “Never saw such a quantity! No, I won’t go home yet. I’ll walk it off if I have to walk till tomorrow morning. Where am I? Ah! where is she? Thank Heaven, she isn’t near me now! I’m glad she’s gone; I’m glad I shall never see her any more. I’m not fit to see her; not worthy to touch her hand. But I did touch it,” and, with a kind of wonder at his audacity, he stretched out his hand and stared at it under the gas-lamp.

Then he walked on perfectly indifferent to the direction, perfectly indifferent to the weariness which was gradually—no, rapidly—coming on him.

Just at this time, while he was walking off the drowsy dream that had got possession of him, a stream of carriages was slowly moving down Park Lane, taking up from one of the best known houses in town—Lady Merivale’s.

Lady Merivale was one of the leaders of ton and had been one as long as most middle-aged people could remember. To be seen at Lady Merivale’s was to be acknowledged as one of that small but powerful portion of humanity known as “the upper ten.”

It was one of her ladyship’s grand balls, and not only were the ball and drawing-rooms full, but the staircase also, and any one wishing to enter or exit had to make his way down a narrow line flanked on either side by the youth and nobility of the best kind of society.

That it had been a great success no one who knows the world—and Lady Merivale—needs to be told. It had, perhaps, been one of her greatest, for in addition to two princes of the blood royal, she had secured the great sensation of the day, the young millionairess, Lady Isabel Earlsley.

And this was no slight achievement, for Lady Bell, as she was generally called, was a wilful, uncertain young personage, from whom it was very hard to procure a promise, and who, not seldom, was given to breaking it when made, at least, so far as acceptation of invitations went.

But she was there tonight; as the next issue of the Morning Post would testify.

Jack had been really too careless and scornful in his indifference. Lady Bell was not only beautiful, she was—what was more rare than beauty—charming. She was rather short than tall; but not too short. She had a beautiful figure; not a wasp waist by any means, but a natural figure, full of power and grace. Her skin was, well, colonial; delicately tinted and creamy; and her eyes—it is difficult to catalogue her eyes, because their lights were always changing—but the expression which generally predominated was one of half-amused, half-mocking light.

With both expressions she met the open admiration of the gilded youths who thronged round her, amused at their foppery, mocking at their protestations of devotion.

Tonight she was dressed neither magnificently nor superbly, but with, what seemed to the women who gazed at her with barely concealed envy, artful simplicity.

Her dress was of Indian muslin, priceless for all its simplicity; and she wore glittering in her hair, on her arms, and on her cream-white bosom, pearls, that, in quantity and quality would have made the fortune of any enterprising burglar.

By her side stood—for they were moving toward the door, on their way to an exit—an elderly woman, with an expressionless face, simply and plainly dressed. She was generally spoken of as the watch dog; but she scarcely deserved that name, for Lady Bell was quite capable of watching over herself; and Mrs. Fellowes, the widow of the Indian colonel, was too mild to represent any sort of dog whatever.

Surrounded by a crowd of devoted courtiers, the great heiress and her companion moved toward the door where the hostess stood receiving the farewells and thanks of her guests; and when one thinks of the many hundred times Lady Merivale had stood by that door, and undergone that terrible ordeal, one is filled with amazement and awe at her courage and physical strength.

For forty years she had been standing at doors, receiving and meeting guests; yet she stood tonight as smiling and courageous as ever.

At last Lady Bell reached her hostess, and Lady Merivale, tired and done up as she was, gave her special recognition.

“Must you go, Lady Bell? Well, good-night. And thank you for making my poor little dance a success. Thank you very much.”

Lady Bell said nothing, but she smiled “in her old colonial” way, as they called it, and threaded through the lane of human beings on the stairs.

“Lady Earlsley’s carriage!” shouted the footman in the gorgeous Merivale livery, and a little brougham drove up.

Lady Bell hated show and magnificence.

Her stables and coach-houses were crowded with horses and carriages, her wardrobes filled to repletion with Worth’s costumes and Elise’s “confections,” as bonnets are called now-a-days, but a plain little brougham was her favorite vehicle, and the simplest of costumes pleased her best.

All the way down the stairs she had to nod and smile and exchange farewells, and at the bottom, in the hall, on the stone steps themselves, she was surrounded by men eager to secure the privilege of putting her into her little brougham.

But she avoided them all, and sprang in as if she had not been dancing for four hours, and throwing herself back into the corner, exclaimed:

“Thank goodness, that is over. Poor old Fellowes! you are worn out. Confess it.”

“I am rather tired, my dear,” said Mrs. Fellowes, who had been sitting against a wall all the evening.

“Tired! of course you are; it’s ever so much more tiring looking on than dancing, and joining in the giddy round. I don’t feel a bit tired; I’m a little bored.”

“Bored! what a word, my dear Bell,” murmured Mrs. Fellowes, sleepily.

“It’s a good word—it’s an expressive word—and it just means really what I feel.”

“And yet you received more attention than any woman—any girl—in the room, my dear,” murmured Mrs. Fellowes.

“My money-bags may have done so,” said Lady Bell, scornfully; “not I. Do you think that if I were as penniless as one of Lady Southerly’s daughters, I should receive as much attention? Fellowes, don’t you take to flattering me. I couldn’t stand that.”

“I don’t want to flatter you, my dear Bell; but when the prince himself dances twice with you——”

“Of course he did. I am a celebrity. I am the richest young woman in the kingdom, and he would have done it if I had been as ugly as sin—which isn’t ugly, by the way.”

“What strange things you say,” murmured Mrs. Fellowes, with mild rebuke. “I’m sure no girl received more attention than you have tonight. I sat and watched you, my dear, and a spectator sees more of the game than a player.”

“You are right, it is all a game, a gamble,” retorted Lady Bell. “All those nice young men were playing pitch and toss who should make the hardest running with the great heiress. Do you think I am blind? I can see through them all, and I despise them. There isn’t a man among them but would pay me the same court if I were as plain as Lucifer——”

“My dear Bell——”

“But it is true,” said Lady Bell. “I can read them all. And if they knew how I despised them, even while I smile upon them, they would keep at arm’s length for very shame. I wish I hadn’t a penny in the world.”

“My dear Bell!” ejaculated Mrs. Fellowes, really and truly shocked at such a fearfully profane wish.

“I do! I do! I should then find out if any one of them cared for me—for myself. You say I am beautiful, but you are so partial; do you think I am beautiful enough to cause any man to risk his all in life for my sake?”

“I don’t know. I don’t just follow you,” said poor Mrs. Fellowes.

“No, you are half asleep,” retorted Lady Bell. “There, curl yourself up and snooze. I shan’t talk any more.”

Lady Bell leaned forward, and looked up at the stars—the same stars that seemed so numerous to poor Jack—and pondered over the events of the evening.

It was true that a prince of the blood had danced there with her; it was true that, all through the evening, she had been surrounded by a court of the best men in London; it was true that she had sent one half the women home burning with envy and malice and all uncharitableness; but still she was not happy.

“No,” she murmured, unheard by the sleeping companion; “the dream of my life has not yet been fulfilled. I have not yet met the man to whom I could say, ‘I am yours, take me!’ Perhaps I never shall; and until I do, I will remain Lady Bell, though they buzz round my money-bags till I am deaf with their hum.”

The brougham was going at a great pace, simply because the coachman very reasonably desired to get home and to bed; and Lady Bell saw the houses flit past as if they had been part of a panorama got up for her special amusement.

But suddenly the brougham swerved, and, indeed, nearly upset, and the stillness of the night was broken by what seemed remarkably like an oath by the coachman.

Lady Bell felt that something was wrong; but she neither turned color nor lost her presence of mind.

Putting her head, with a thousand pounds of jewels on it, through the window, she said, in clear tones:

“What is the matter, Jackson?”

“I—whoa! I don’t quite know, my lady; I think it is a man. Something came right across the road. Yes, it is a man.”

Lady Bell opened the brougham door, stepped into the road—the light from the lamp flashing on her pearls—and went toward the horse.

“Keep away from her hind legs, for goodness’ sake, my lady,” ejaculated Jackson. “Keep still, will you!” this was of course addressed to the horse.

“What is it? what is it?” asked Lady Bell, peering about.

“Here, my lady, on the near side—on the left. It’s down in the road, whatever it is.”

Lady Bell went behind the brougham to the near side—she was too well acquainted with horses and their moods to cross in front of the horse’s eyes—and looked about her. For a moment she could see nothing, but presently, when her eyes had become used to the darkness, she saw a man lying, as it seemed, right under the horse’s body.

Her impulse—and she always acted on that impulse—was to pull him out. But to pull a man even an inch is a difficult task even for the strongest girl, and after a moment’s tug she was about to tell Jackson to alight while she stood at the horse’s head, when suddenly the prostrate man staggered to his feet, and leaned against the brougham as if it had been specially built and brought there for that purpose.

Lady Bell went up to him and laid her hand upon his arm.

“What has happened?” she said, anxiously. “Were you run over—are you hurt?”

Jack—for it was Jack—opened his eyes and stared at her with the gravity of a man suddenly sobered.

“No,” he said, “I am not hurt. Don’t blame the man, it was my fault. Not hurt at all. Good-night.”

And he feels for his hat, which at that moment was lying under the carriage a shapeless mass.

As he spoke Lady Bell saw something drop on to his hand, and looking at it saw that it was a drop of blood.

With a shudder—for she could not bear the sight of blood—she said:

“Not hurt! Why, you are bleeding.”

“Am I?” said Jack, gravely and curtly. “It will do me good. Don’t you be alarmed, miss. I am used to being upset, and my bones are too hard to break. Good-night.”

And he made for the pavement pretty steadily. But a hand, soft and warm, and strong also, stayed him.

“Stop,” said Lady Bell; “I am sure you are hurt. How did you come to be run over?”

“Got in the way of the horse, I suppose,” said Jack, quietly. “That is the usual way.”

“But—but,” said Lady Bell; and she looked at the handsome face scrutinizingly.

Then she stopped, for her scrutiny had discovered two facts; first, that the individual who had been run over was a gentleman; secondly, that he had been drinking.

“Wait,” she said, still keeping her hand on his arm; “you are not fit to go alone without some assistance, and I am sure you are hurt. Look, you are bleeding.”

“A mere nothing,” said Jack; “don’t trouble. Allow me to put you in—I shall get home all right.”

Lady Bell, still keeping her eyes fixed on his face, shook her head.

“I couldn’t leave you like this,” she said. “Where do you live?”

“Where do I—live?” repeated Jack. “Spider Court, Temple. It’s no distance from here.”

“The Temple!” exclaimed Lady Bell. “It must be miles away.”

“A hansom,” smiled Jack.

“But there are no cabs here, not one. I cannot leave you like this—you must get into the brougham.”

“Not for worlds! I have given you quite enough trouble,” he said. “I shall find my way home somehow.”

“No,” she said; “I cannot let you go without seeing you safe into a cab. There are none here. You do not know—I do not know—how much you are hurt. You must let me take you to your home.”

“I assure you I am all right,” he said.

“And I refuse to accept your assurance,” said Lady Bell, with a little shudder at the streak of blood which oozed from his forehead. “Come, you will not refuse to obey a lady. I wish you to enter my brougham.”

“No, I can’t refuse to obey a lady,” he said.

“Then come with me,” said Lady Bell.

“Where to, my lady?” asked Jackson, who was used to her ladyship’s willfulness, and sat, patient as Job, waiting for the issue of this strange adventure.

“To—where did you say?” asked Lady Bell.

“Spider Court,” said Jack; “but I wish you’d let me go out and walk. It must be right out of your way.”

“Spider Court, Temple,” said Lady Bell, and the brougham rolled on.

Through it all Mrs. Fellowes had remained in the deep sleep which the gods vouchsafe to good women of her age, and the two—Lady Bell and Jack—were, to all intents and purposes, alone.

Lady Bell looked at him as he sat in his corner, the thin, red stream trickling down from his forehead, and shuddered; not at him, but at the blood.

“How did you come to be run over?” she asked. “Did you fall?”

“Must have done,” he said, coolly; “anyway I’ll swear it wasn’t the coachman’s fault.”

“I am not going to blame the coachman,” said Lady Bell, with the shadow of a smile.

“That’s right,” said Jack. “It was all my fault. I’d been—been to see a favorite aunt.”

“You had been to your club,” said Lady Bell.

“How did you know that?” he said.

Lady Bell smiled again, and Jack, his eyes fixed upon her, thought the smile wonderfully fascinating.

“A little bird told me,” she said.

“The little bird was right,” said Jack, shaking his head, with penitence and remorse written on every feature. “I have been dining at my club. Perhaps the little bird told you everything else?”

“Yes; the little bird also whispered that you had——”

“Drank too much champagne? Confound those fellows! Wonderful little bird!” muttered Jack.

“It is very wicked of you,” said Lady Bell, gravely, her eyes fixed on his face, that, notwithstanding its streak of red, looked wonderfully handsome.

While she looked, she almost convinced herself that she had never seen such a handsome face, nor such frank eyes.

“It was very wicked of you,” she repeated, in a voice pitched in a low key, no doubt out of consideration for the sleeping watch dog.

“Yes,” he said, “I am a bad lot; I am not fit to be here with you. I have been dining at my club; but how you knew it, I can’t conceive. And—and——”

“Don’t tell me any more,” said Lady Bell. “I am sorry that you should have been run over, and I hope you are not hurt. That—that is blood running down your face. Why do you not wipe it off? I can’t bear it.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Jack, and he fumbled for his pocket-handkerchief, which at that moment was lying under the seat in the billiard-room.

“Here, take this,” said Lady Bell, and she put her own delicate lace-edged one in his hand.

Jack mopped his forehead diligently.

“Is it all off?” he asked.

“No, it keeps running,” replied Lady Bell, with a little thrill of horror. “I believe you are much hurt.”

“I’m not; I give you my word,” said Jack. “There—no, I’ll keep it until it’s washed.” And he thrust the delicate cobweb into his pocket.

Lady Bell leaned back, but her eyes wandered now and then to the handsome face, pale through all its tan.

Presently, wonderfully soon, as it seemed to her, the brougham came to a stop, and Jackson, bending down to the window, said:

“Spider Court, my lady.”

“Spider Court,” said Jack. “Then I’m home. I’m very much obliged to you, and I wish I didn’t feel so much ashamed of myself. Hark! who’s that?” for someone had come to the carriage door.

“It is I—Leonard. Is that you, Jack?”

“Yes,” said Jack, and he got out and closed the door. “This lady——”

Lady Bell leaned out and looked at Leonard Dagle’s anxious face earnestly.

“Your friend has met with an accident,” she said, “and I have brought him home.”

“Thank you, thank you,” sighed Leonard.

“I hope he is not much hurt,” said Lady Bell. “His forehead is cut. Will you—will you be so kind as to let me know if it is anything serious?”

“Anything serious! A mere scratch,” ejaculated Jack, carelessly.

But Lady Bell did not look at him.

“Here is my card,” she said, taking a card-case from the carriage basket. “Will you please let me know? Good-night.”

And she held out her hand.

Leonard did not see it, and merely raised his hat. But Jack, who was nearest, took the hand and held it for a moment.

“Good-night, good-night,” he said. “I shall never forgive myself for causing you trouble.”

And in his earnestness his hand, quite unconsciously, closed tightly on her white, warm palm.

Lady Bell dropped back into her seat, a warm flush spreading over her face; and Mrs. Fellowes, awakened by the stopping of the brougham, exclaimed, with a yawn:

“Home at last!”

“No, miles away,” said Lady Bell. “Go to sleep again, my dear.”

Leonard took Jack’s arm within his, though there was no occasion for it, for Jack was sober enough now, and led him upstairs.

“My dear Jack,” he exclaimed, reproachfully, “what have you been doing?”

“Falling under a cab,” said Jack, gravely.

“A cab!” retorted Leonard; “a lady’s brougham, you mean!”

And he took the card to the light.

“Why!” he exclaimed, with an expression of amazement. “Lady Isabel Earlsley! Good Heaven! that’s the heiress.”

“Eh?” said Jack, indifferently. “What’s her name? She’s a brick, if ever there was one. Oh, Jupiter, I wish I was in bed!”