The two men sat beside the fire almost in silence. Jack was trying to get over his reluctance to go to the Hurst, and wondering what would become of him if he did not, and Una left him all alone in town; and Stephen was wondering whether it was time to strike the blow he meditated.

Very soon Jack jumped up.

“If you’ve had enough wine, let us join the ladies,” he said, and went toward the door.

Stephen followed him, but turned back to fetch his pocket handkerchief.

Lying beside it, on the table, was a rose which had fallen from the bosom of Una’s dress. He took it up, and looked at it with that look which a man bestows on some trifle which has been worn by the woman he loves, and then, as if by an irresistible impulse, raised it to his lips, kissing it passionately, and put it carefully in his bosom. As he did so, he raised his eyes to the glass, which reflected one side of the room, and saw the slight figure of a woman standing in the open door and watching him.

The light from the carefully shaded lamp was too dim to allow him to see the face distinctly, but something in the figure caused him to feel a sudden chill.

He turned sharply and walked to the door; but the hall was empty and there was no sound of retreating footsteps.

“Some servant maid waiting to come in to clear the table,” he muttered.

But he returned to the dining-room, and drank off a glass of liquor before going to the drawing-room, from which ripples of Jack’s frank laughter were floating in the hall.

Lady Bell was seated at the piano, playing and singing in her light-hearted, careless fashion; Jack and Una were seated in a dimly-lit corner, talking in an undertone.

Stephen went up to the piano and stood apparently listening intently, but in reality watching the other two under his lowered lids.

The presence of the rose in his bosom seemed to heighten the passion which burned in his heart; and the sight of Jack bending over Una, and of her rapt, up-turned face as she looked up, drinking in his lightest word as if it were gospel, maddened him.

It was with a start that he became conscious that Lady Bell had ceased playing, and that she, like him, was watching the lovers.

“Miss Una and Mr. Newcombe seem very good friends,” she said, with a forced smile.

“Do they not?” said Stephen, in his softest voice. “Too good.”

Lady Bell looked up at him quickly.

“What do you mean?”

Stephen looked down at her gravely.

“Can you keep a secret, Lady Bell?” he said, hesitatingly.

“Sometimes,” she said. “What is it?”

Stephen glanced across at Jack and Una.

“I’m rather anxious about our young friends,” he said, his voice dropped still lower, his head bent forward with such an insidious smile that Lady Bell could not, for the life of her, help thinking of a serpent.

“Anxious!” she echoed, her heart beating. “As how?”

“Can you not guess?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“You—you mean that they may fall in love with each other. Well, they are not badly matched,” said Lady Bell, bravely, though her heart was aching.

“Not badly, in one sense,” said Stephen, after a pause; “but as badly as two persons could be in all others. They are a match as regards their means. They are both penniless.”

Lady Bell looked up with a start.

“Is—is Mr. Newcombe so badly off? I thought—that is, I fancied he had a wealthy uncle——” She paused.

“You mean Mr. Ralph Davenant,” said Stephen, calmly, and with an air of sadness. “I am sorry to say that he left everything which he possessed to a less worthy person—to me.”

Lady Bell looked at him inquiringly.

“To me,” he repeated, “and poor Jack was—well, disinherited, and left penniless. It is of him I think when I say that I am anxious about them; naturally, I think of him. Miss Rolfe is a friend of my mother’s, and has been used to a straitened life; but poor Jack does not know what poverty means, and in his ignorance may drift into an entanglement which may embitter her life. No man in the world is less fitted for love in a cottage, and nothing to pay the rent, than Jack Newcombe. You, who have seen something of him, must have remarked his easy-going, careless nature, his utter ignorance of the value of money, his unsuitableness for a life of poverty and privation.”

Lady Bell’s heart beat fast.

“But—but—” she said, “you have plenty.”

“Of which Jack will not take one penny. You see he is as proud as he is poor.”

“I like him for that,” murmured Lady Bell.

“Yes, so do I; though it pains and grieves me. If Jack would permit me to help him, Lady Bell, he might marry Una Rolfe tomorrow; but as it is, I fear, I am anxious. Another man would be wiser, but Jack has no idea of prudence, and would plunge head first into all the misery of such a union without a thought of the morrow.”

“And you—you think he loves her,” murmured Lady Bell; and she waited for an answer as a man on his trial might wait for the verdict of the jury.

Stephen smiled. He could read Lady Bell’s heart as if it were an open book.

“Loves her! No, certainly not—not yet. He is amused and entertained, but love has not come yet.”

“And she?” asked Lady Bell, anxiously, her eyes fixed on Una’s face.

Stephen smiled again.

“No, not yet. She is ignorant of the meaning of the word. I have taken some trouble to arrive at the truth, and I am sure of what I say. It is well for her that she is not, for anything like a serious engagement would be simply madness. Poor Jack! His future lies so plainly before him, and if he would follow it, the rest of his life might be happiness itself.”

“You mean that he should marry for money,” said Lady Bell, coldly.

“No, not for money alone,” murmured Stephen. “Jack is too high-minded to be guilty of such meanness; but is it not possible to marry for love and money, too, Lady Bell?”

Lady Bell turned her head aside; her heart beating fast. The voice of the tempter sounded like music in her ear. Why should not he marry for love as well as money? She had both. She loved him passionately, and she would pour her money at his feet to do as he liked with; to squander and make ducks and drakes of, if he would but give her a little love in return.

As she looked across the room at him, that awful, wistful longing which only a woman who loves with all her heart can feel, took possession of her and mastered her.

“Why do you tell me this?” she asked, sharply turning her face, pale and working.

“Because,” murmured Stephen, “because I have Jack’s interest so much at heart that I am bold enough to ask for aid where I know it can be of avail.”

“Do you mean that you ask me?” she said, tremulously. “What can I do?”

“Much, everything,” he whispered, his head bent low, almost to her ear. “Ask yourself, dear Lady Bell, and you will understand me. Let me be plain and straightforward, even at the risk of offending you. There was a time, not many months ago, when I and his best friends thought Jack had made a choice at once happy and wise.”

Lady Bell rose and moved to and fro, and then sank down again trembling with agitation.

“You mean that—that he was falling in love with me?”

Stephen inclined his head with lowered eyes.

“It is true,” he said. “You cannot fail to have seen what all observed.” And he went on quickly—“And but for this fancy—this passing fancy—all would have been well. Lady Bell, I am speaking more openly than I ever have spoken to woman before. I am risking offending you, but I do so from the affection which I bear my cousin. Lady Bell, I implore you to help me in saving him from a step which will plunge him into life-long misery. He is totally unfitted to battle with the world; married wisely and well, he would be a happy and contented man; married unwisely and badly, no one can picture the future.”

Lady Bell rose, her face pale, her eyes gleaming under the strain which she was enduring.

“Don’t say any more,” she said; “I—I cannot bear it. You have guessed my secret; I can feel that. Yes, I would save him if I could, and if you are sure that—that there is no engagement——”

“There is none,” said Stephen, lying smoothly. “There can be none; the idea is preposterous.”

Lady Bell moved away as he spoke, and turned over some book on the table to conceal her agitation, and Stephen, humming a popular hymn tune, crossed the room and looked down at Jack and Una with a benedictory smile, as if he was blessing them.

“Are you aware of the time, and that Lady Bell’s hall porter is uttering maledictions for our tardiness?” he said, playfully.

Jack looked at his watch.

“By Jove! No idea it was so late. Are you ready, Mrs. Davenant?”

Mrs. Davenant woke from a sleep, and she and Una went upstairs.

“I see you have a new maid,” she said, when they came down again. “What a superior-looking young girl.”

“Is she not?” said Lady Bell, absently. “She is more than superior, she is interesting. She has a history.”

Stephen, standing by, folding and unfolding his opera hat, smiled.

“Very interesting; but take care, Lady Bell; I am always suspicious of interesting people with a history.”

As he spoke, a pale, dark face looked down upon him from the upper landing for a moment, then disappeared.

“You will come with us, Stephen?” said Mrs. Davenant, nervously.

“No, thanks. I should like the walk. Good-night,” and he kissed her dutifully, and shook hands with Jack and Lady Bell.

“Going to walk?” cried Mrs. Davenant. “It is very chilly, and you’ve only that thin overcoat.”

“I’ve a scarf somewhere—where is it?” said Stephen.

Una stooped, and picked up a white scarf.

“Here it is,” she said, laughing, and all innocently she threw it round his neck.

“Will you tie it, please?” said Stephen, in an ordinary tone, and Una, laughing still, tied it.

Stephen stood motionless, his eyes cast down; he was afraid to raise them lest the passion blazing in them should be read by all there.

“Thanks. I cannot catch cold now,” he said, as he took her hand and held it for a moment.

He put them into the brougham, and under the pretext of arranging her shawl, touched her hand once again; then he stood in the chilly street and watched the brougham till it disappeared in the distance.

Then he turned and walked homeward.

“One step in the right direction,” he muttered. “Take care, Master Jack; I shall outwit you yet.”

As he ascended the stairs of his chambers, Slummers came out to meet him.

“There is a—person waiting for you, Mr. Stephen,” he said.

Stephen stopped, and his hand closed on the balustrade; his thoughts flew to Laura Treherne.

“A—woman, Slummers?”

“No, sir, a man,” said Slummers.

“Very good,” said Stephen, with a breath of relief. “Who is it—do you know?”

Slummers shook his head.

“A rough sort of man, sir; says he has come on business. He has been waiting for hours.”

“I am very sorry,” said Stephen, aloud and blandly, for the benefit of the visitor. “I am sorry to have kept anyone waiting. But it is rather late——”

He entered the room as he spoke, and started slightly, for standing in the center of the apartment was Gideon Rolfe.

Notwithstanding the start Stephen came forward with outstretched hand and a ready smile of welcome.

“My dear Mr. Rolfe, I am indeed sorry that you should have been kept so long. If I had only known that you were coming——”

Gideon Rolfe waived all further compliment aside with a gesture of impatience.

“I wished to see you,” he said. “Time is no object to me.”

Stephen shut the door carefully and stood in a listening attitude. He knew it was of no use to ask his visitor to sit down.

“You have come to inquire about your daughter?”

“No, I have not,” said Gideon Rolfe, calmly. “I know that she is well—I see her daily. I came to remind you of our contract—I came to remind you of your promise that no harm should come near her.”

Stephen smiled and shook his head.

“And I trust no harm has come near her, my dear Mr. Rolfe.”

“But I say that it has,” said Gideon Rolfe, coldly. “I have watched her daily and I know.”

“To what harm do you allude?” asked Stephen, bravely.

“Do you deny that the young man Jack Newcombe is near her?”

“Oh,” said Stephen, and he drew a long breath.

Then he commenced untying the scarf, his acute brain hard at work.

Here was an instrument ready to his hand, if he chose to use it properly.

“Oh, I understand. No, I do not deny it; I wish that I could do so, for your sake and for Una’s,” he said gravely.

“Speak plainly,” said Gideon Rolfe, hoarsely.

“I will,” said Stephen. “Plainly then, Mr. Newcombe has chosen to fall in love with—your daughter! That accounts for his constant attendance upon her.”

Gideon Rolfe’s face worked.

“I will take her back,” he said, grimly.

Stephen smiled.

“Softly, softly. There are two to that bargain, my dear Mr. Rolfe. For Miss Una to go back to a state of savagery in Warden Forest is impossible. You, who have seen her in her new surroundings, and the change they have wrought in her, must admit that.”

Gideon Rolfe wiped the perspiration from his brow.

“I know that she is changed,” he said. “She is like a great lady now. I see her dressed in rich silks and satins, and coming and going in carriages, with servants to wait upon her, and I know that she is changed, and that she has forgotten the friends of her childhood—forgotten those who were father and mother to her——”

“You wrong Miss Una,” said Stephen, smoothly. “Not a day passes but she inquires for you and deplores your absence——”

“But,” went on Gideon, as if he had not been interrupted, “I have not forgotten her, nor my promise to her mother. In a weak moment, moved by your threats more than your persuasions, I consented to part with her, but I would rather she were dead than that should happen—which you say will happen.”

“Pardon me,” said Stephen, blandly, and with an evil smile. “I said that Mr. Newcombe had fallen in love with her; I did not say that he would marry her. I would rather she were dead than that should happen,” and he turned his face for one moment to the light.

It was pale even to the lips, the eyes gleaming with resolute purpose.

Gideon Rolfe looked at him in silence for a moment.

“I do not understand,” he said, in a troubled voice.

“Let me make it clear to you,” said Stephen. “Against my will and wish these two have met and become acquainted. Against my will and wish that acquaintance has ripened into”—he drew a long breath as if the word hurt him—“into love, or what they mistake for love. Thus far it has gone, but it must go no further. I am at one with you there. You and I must prevent it. You cannot do it alone, you know. You have no control over Miss Una; you who are not her father and in no way related to her.”

Gideon Rolfe set his teeth hard.

“You see,” said Stephen, with a haggard smile, “alone you are helpless. Be sure of that. If you move in the matter without me, I will declare the secret of her birth. Stop! be calm! But you and I can put an end to this engagement.”

“They are engaged?” muttered Gideon Rolfe.

Stephen smiled contemptuously.

“My good friend, this matter has passed beyond your strength. Leave it to me. Yes, they are engaged; the affair has gone so far, but it must go no further. While you have been lurking outside area gates and behind carriages I have been at work, and I will stop it. I am not too proud to accept your aid, however. When the time comes I will ask your aid. Give me an address to which to write to you.”

Gideon Rolfe, with a suspicious air, drew a piece of paper from his pocket and wrote an address.

“This will find you?” said Stephen. “Good. When the time comes I will send for you; meanwhile”—and he smiled—“you can go on haunting area gates and watching carriages, but be sure of one thing, that this marriage shall never take place.”

Gideon Rolfe watched the pale face grimly.

“I must know more,” he said. “How will you put an end to this?”

Stephen smiled. It was not a pleasant smile.

“You want to see the modus operandi? How the conjurer is going to perform the wonderful feat? Well, it is very simple. My friend and somewhat cousin, for all his romance, will not care to marry a girl whose name is stained with shame. If I know my dear Jack, he will not care to make an illegitimate child of Gideon Rolfe, the woodman, Mrs. Newcombe.”

Gideon Rolfe started.

“You will tell him?” he said, hoarsely.

“Yes,” said Stephen; “I shall tell him the truth, of course concealing the proper names, and you must be here to confirm my statement. That is all you have to do. Mind! not a word of my uncle’s connection with the matter, or all is lost. You understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” said Gideon, hoarsely. “I care not by what means so that the marriage is prevented.”

“Nor I,” said Stephen, coolly; “and now we are agreed on that point. When I want you I will write to you. Until then—will you take any refreshment?”

Gideon Rolfe waved his hand by way of negative, and Stephen rang the bell. “Show this gentleman out, Slummers. Mind the lower stairs, the gas has been put out. Good-night, good-night.”