Christmas was near at hand; but notwithstanding that nearly everybody who had a country house, or an invitation to one, was away in the shires, London was by no means empty. There were still “chariots and horsemen” in the park; and the clubs were pretty well frequented. Not a few have come to the conclusion that after all London is at its best and cheerfulest in mid-winter; and that plum pudding and roast beef can be enjoyed in a London square as well, if not better, than in the country.

Among these was Lady Bell. Although she had two or three country houses which she might have filled with guests, she, for sundry reasons, preferred to remain in Park Lane.

Perhaps, like Leonard Dagle, she thought that there was no place like London. He would have his idea that there was no place in it like Spider Court. Spring, summer, autumn, and winter, with perhaps, just a short interregnum of a fortnight in summer, Leonard stuck to Spider Court; and on this winter evening he was sitting in his accustomed place, busily driving the pen.

There was a certain change about Leonard which was worthy of remark. He looked, not older than we saw him last, but younger. In place of the weary, abstracted air, which had settled upon him during the long months of the search of Laura Treherne, there was an expression of hopefulness and energy which was distinctly palpable. The room too looked changed. It was neater and less muddled; and though the boxing gloves and portraits of actresses and fair ladies of the ballet still adorned the walls, the floor and chairs were no longer lumbered with Jack’s boots and gloves, cigar boxes, and other impedimenta.

Perhaps Leonard missed these untidy objects, for he was wont to look up from his work and round the room with a sigh, and not seldom would rise and stalk into the bed-room beyond his own; the bed-room which Jack kept in a similar litter, but which now was neat and tidy—and unoccupied.

At such times Leonard would sigh and murmur to himself, “Poor Jack!” and betaking himself to his writing desk again would pull out a locket and gaze long and earnestly on a face enshrined therein, a face which strikingly resembled that of Laura Treherne, and so would gain comfort and fall to work again.

Tonight, he had wandered into the unoccupied room and had glanced at the portrait two or three times, for he felt lonely and would have given a five-pound note to hear Jack’s tread upon the stairs, and his voice shouting for the housekeeper to bring him hot water.

“Poor Jack!” he murmured, “where is he now?” For some months had elapsed since he had found a few lines of sad farewell from Jack lying on his writing desk, but pregnant with despair and reckless helplessness. And Jack had gone whither not even Mr. Levy Moss, who sought him far and wide, could discover; and not Mr. Moss alone, but Lady Bell Earlsley; fast as she had traveled from Earl’s Court to London, she arrived too late to see Jack, too late to learn from his lips the nature of the trouble which he had spoken of in his short note to her. And from Leonard even, she could not learn much. He could only tell her that Jack and Una’s engagement was broken off, and by Jack himself, but for what reason he could not tell or guess. And with that Lady Bell had to be, not content, but patient.

“You were his dearest friend,” she said to Leonard, “can you not guess where he has gone?”

And Leonard had shaken his head sorrowfully. “I cannot even guess. He was utterly miserable and reckless; he once spoke, half in jest, of enlisting. He was in great trouble.”

“Money trouble?” Lady Bell had asked.

“Money trouble,” assented Len, and Lady Bell had sunk into Leonard’s chair and wrung her white hands.

“Money! money! how I hate the word! and here I am with more of the vile stuff than I know what to do with!”

“That would make no difference to Jack,” Leonard said, quietly; and Lady Bell had sighed—she almost sobbed—and gone on her way as near broken-hearted as a woman could be.

And then she had sought for him as openly as she dared, but with no result, save discovering that there were hundreds of young men who answered to Jack’s description, and who were all indignant when they applied in response to the advertisements and found that they were not the men wanted.

And so the months had rolled on, and the “Savage” was nearly forgotten at the Club, excepting at odd times when Hetley or Dalrymple remembered how well he used to tool a team to the “Sheaves,” or row stroke in a scratch eight. My friend, if you want to find out of how little importance you are in your little world, disappear for a few months, and when you come back you will find that your place has been excellently well filled, excepting in the hearts of the one or two faithful men and women who loved you.

The world went on very well without Jack, and only two or three hearts ached, really ached, at his absence—Len, honest Len, in his den in Spider Court; Lady Bell, in Park Lane; and that other tender, loving, and tortured heart in the old new house at Hurst.

Leonard often thought of that tender heart, and sighed over it as he sighed for Jack. It was still a mystery to him, their separation; he knew that Una was still at the Hurst, but that was all. No news of her ever reached him. At times he ran across Stephen in London, and exchanged a word or a bow with him, and had noticed that he was looking better and sleeker, and less pale—more flourishing in fact, than he had done for some time.

He, too had come to Spider Court, and expressed profound grief at Jack’s disappearance, and had gone away after wringing Leonard’s hand sympathetically.

Leonard sat thinking over this far more than was good to the work he had in hand, when he heard the door open, and half starting, said absently:

“Nothing more wanted tonight, Mrs. Brown.”

But a step, certainly not Mrs. Brown’s, crossed the room, and a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and looking up, he saw Jack’s face above him.

“Jack!” he exclaimed, clutching him as if he expected to see him disappear again. “It is you, really you? Great Heaven!”

There was reason for the exclamation; for though it was Jack, he was so altered as to have rendered the description of him in the advertisements quite useless. Thin, pale, careworn, it was no more the old Jack than the living skeleton is Daniel Lambert.

“Great Heaven! Is it really you, Jack?”

“Yes, it is I! what is left of me, Len. You—you are looking well, old man. And the old room; how cheery it seems.”

And he laughed—the shadow of the old laugh—even more pitiable than tears.

“For Heaven’s sake be quiet; don’t speak just yet,” said Len, with a husky voice. “Sit down. You’ve frightened me, Jack. Have you been ill?”

“Slightly,” said Jack, with a smile.

“And where have you been? Tell me all about it—no, don’t tell me anything yet.”

And he went to the cupboard, and brought out the whisky, and mixed a stiff glass.

“Now, then, old man, where’s the cigars? here—here’s a light. Now then—no; take off your boots. I’ll tell Mrs. Brown to air the bed and get your dressing-gown. And what about supper?”

And with a suspicious moisture in his eyes, Len turned from the room.

“Staunch as a woman, tender as a man.” It was a wise saying, whoever wrote it.

Jack sipped his whisky and water, and smoked his cigar, and pulled himself together, which was just what Len wanted to get him to do; and then Len came back.

“Now then, old man, out with it. Where have you been?”

“I’ve been to America,” said Jack. “Don’t ask me any particulars, Len; I wouldn’t tell you much if you did. I’ve been nearly out of my mind half the time, and down with one of their charming fevers the remainder. You won’t get enough information out of me to write even a magazine article, old man.”

And he smiled, with a faint attempt at badinage.

“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Len, again; “and—and is that all?”

“That’s all it amounts to,” said Jack, wearily. “You want to know how I came back, and why? Well, I can scarcely tell why. I got so sick of trying to get knocked on the head, and failing miserably, that I got disgusted with the country, weary of wandering about, and resolved that it would be better to come and give Levy Moss his revenge. He’s still alive, I hope?”

“And you got back?” said Len.

“I worked my passage over,” said Jack, curtly. “I was a bad hand, and caught cold on the top of the last affair, and just managed to pull myself together to reach London, and here I am. Not very lucid, Len, is it? But there’s no more to tell.”

Leonard looked at him with infinite pity, and mixed another glass of whisky.

“Poor old Jack,” he murmured.

“And now it’s your turn,” said Jack, lighting another cigar. “Tell me all the news, Len, about yourself first. How are Hetley, and Dalrymple, and the rest of them? But yourself first, Len. You look well—better than when I left. Things have gone right with you.”

“Then you have not forgotten?” said Len, gratefully.

“It is not likely,” he said, quietly. “I have thought of you many a night as I lay burning with that confounded fever. Are you married?” and he looked round the room as if he expected to see Mrs. Dagle in some dim corner.

Leonard blushed.

“Nonsense! No, Jack, I’m not married. But—I’m very happy, old man—should have been quite happy, but for missing you.”

Jack nodded.

“I’m glad of that. Glad it has all worked round, and that you have missed me, too. Where is she—Laura Treherne? You see I remember her name.”

Leonard hesitated, and looked troubled.

“I—I’m afraid I mustn’t tell you. You see, Jack, there’s still some kind of mystery hanging about this love affair of mine. It is Laura’s wish that I should keep silent as to her whereabouts. I give you my word I don’t understand why. But I don’t want to talk of myself and my affairs, Jack. There is something and someone else you want to hear about.”

Jack looked up with a sudden start, and held up his hand.

“No, not a word!” he said. “Don’t tell me a word. I—that affair is over—dead and buried. Don’t speak her name, Len, for Heaven’s sake. Let that rest forever between us.”

Len sighed.

“Tell me more about yourself,” said Jack, impatiently, as if anxious to get away from the other subject. “There is some mystery, secret, you say.”

“Yes,” said Leonard, humoring him, “there is a mystery and secret, which, much as I love her, and I hope and believe she loves me, Laura will not trust—well, I will not say ‘trust’—which she does not feel authorized to confide to me.”

“I remember,” said Jack, “your telling me that she had some task, or mission, or something to accomplish—sounds strange.”

“Yes,” said Leonard, with a sigh, “and that mission is still unaccomplished, and blocks the marriage. But I am content to wait and trust, and I am happy.”

Jack sighed.

“You deserve to be, old fellow!” he said.

“No, I don’t!” exclaimed Leonard, remorsefully, “for flaunting my happiness in your face, Jack. And now, here’s the supper,” he added, as a waiter from a neighboring chop-house brought in a tray.

Jack sat down, and Leonard waited upon him, hanging over him, and watching him as if every mouthful he ate did him, Leonard, good; meanwhile chatting cheerfully.

“London pretty full, Jack; lots of people up this year.”

“Yes,” said Jack, then he looked up. “I suppose I shan’t be able to show up, because of Moss, Len?”

“Oh, he won’t know you are here! And we’ll cut it. We’ll go down to the country somewhere, Jack, before anyone sees you. You haven’t met anyone, have you?”

“Met them, no. But I have seen Stephen.”

“Stephen Davenant?”

“Yes, I saw him, but I don’t think he saw me. He is looking well.”

Leonard nodded.

“He did not see you—but it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“No,” said Jack, with a sigh. “Len, this is the first ‘square meal,’ as they say over the sea, that I’ve enjoyed since I left. I’m very tired.”

“I can see that,” said Leonard. “Go off to bed, old man. We’ll have no more questions tonight.”

Jack rose and took his candle.

“Yes, one more,” he said, as he held Leonard’s hand, tightly. “Is—is she well, Len?”

Leonard nodded.

“Yes, I think so——”

“That’s all,” said Jack, resolutely. “Good-night, Len, good-night,” and he turned away quickly.

Leonard stole into Jack’s room several times that night and looked down upon the tired, weary face, still handsome for all its lines and haggardness, handsomer some might have thought, for suffering sets a seal of dignity upon a man’s face if there be sterling stuff in him. Leonard looked down at it pityingly.

“Poor old man; he has had a hard time of it if any man has.”

Jack turned up at breakfast time looking much refreshed.

“First good night’s rest I’ve had since—oh, too long to remember, Len. Dreamed that all that has happened was only a dream, and that I was waking up and going to see——” he broke off suddenly and sighed.

Leonard was delighted to see him so much better.

“We’ll leave town directly, Jack,” he said. “I’ve just done my usual batch of work, and am free. We’ll spend our Christmas at some old inn——”

Jack looked at him gratefully.

“You’re a staunch old man, Len,” he said, quietly. “You’d sacrifice your sweetheart to your friend.”

Len colored.

“I’m sure she’d be the first to urge us to go,” he said. “Laura is so unselfish.”

“She shan’t be sacrificed for me,” said Jack. “No, Len, I’ll go off by myself, before anyone knows I’m back—hallo! what’s that?”

It was a footstep on the stairs, Len motioned for Jack to retreat into the bedroom, and only just in time, for, barely stopping to knock, Mr. Levy Moss opened the door.