"What do you say?" said Lord Blair, staring at Austin Ambrose with astonishment. "You wouldn't tell the earl?"

"No," said Ambrose, lighting a cigarette and stretching out his legs with comfortable indolence. "I certainly should not."

"But—but why not?" demanded Lord Blair.

"Well," said Ambrose slowly, "you are awkwardly placed, you see. I imagined from all you have told me that you and the earl do not get on very well together as it is."

"You are right, we don't," admitted Lord Blair shortly.

"Just so. You have led—well, not to put it too plainly—you have been engaged in that branch of agriculture which is called sowing wild oats for a considerable period, and with a great deal of energy. You have had, I believe, rather a large sum of money from the earl?"

"Yes, I have," admitted Blair with a sigh and a frown.

"Not a penny of which he would regret, if you would only oblige him by marrying the woman he has chosen for you."

"Violet Graham?"

"Exactly; Violet Graham," assented Austin Ambrose, knocking the ash off his cigarette and keeping his eyes fixed upon it. "And that, I take it, you don't care to do?"

"You know I don't. And Violet doesn't either. Why, you yourself advised me to release her, you know that she doesn't care a brass farthing for me!" exclaimed Blair, pacing to and fro.

"Oh, as to knowing, I don't go so far as that. You asked me for my opinion, and I gave it to you. I don't think she cares for you. I don't think Miss Graham is the kind of woman to care very much for any one."

"Very well, then, how the deuce could I marry her?" said Blair. "But what's the use of talking about that? Whatever I might have done before I saw Margaret, I certainly couldn't marry any one but her now, not to save a dukedom!"

"All right," assented Austin Ambrose, without permitting the slightest expression of the thrill of satisfaction that ran through him. "I quite understand, and I must say I think you are acting wisely. The man who marries one girl while he loves another is worse than wicked—he is foolish. But, all the same, the earl remains disappointed and displeased. Do you think, Blair, that his disappointment and displeasure would be lessened if you were to go to him and say, 'I can't marry Violet Graham, the woman you have chosen for me, and whose money would set me straight; but behold the girl I intend to make my wife and the future Countess of Ferrers!—she is your housekeeper's niece!'"

"Grand-daughter," said Blair. "And what if she is? I tell you, Austin, Margaret is a lady, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet!"

"I dare say. I am sure she is, if you say so. You are a very good judge. But, my dear Blair, you can't expect everybody to see her with your eyes, especially an old man who has outlived the age of romance! Miss Margaret, with all her beauty, and grace, and refinement, will be his housekeeper's granddaughter—and nothing more to him. He will, to put it plainly, be very mad, my dear Blair."

"Well!" said Blair, with the Leyton frown on his handsome face, and the firm look about his lips which when seen by his friends was understood by them to mean that he had made up his mind—"what then?"

Austin Ambrose raised his eyebrows and looked just over Blair's head with a smile.

"What then? Well, you ought to know better than I whether you can afford to quarrel right out with your uncle, the great earl."

Blair flushed.

"What can he do to me—or her?" he asked.

"He can't order you off to instant execution, as he would no doubt like to do," said Ambrose, "but he can injure your prospects very materially, my dear Blair. Oh, I know about the title and estate," he went on, as Blair opened his lips. "Those must come to you—lucky beggar that you are! But there is something more and beyond those. The earl has a large personal property, a vast sum of money, that he can leave as he pleases——"

"How do you know that?" demanded Blair, with a faint surprise.

The slightest flush rose to Austin Ambrose's face.

"Well," he replied, "I only imagine so. Like most people, I know that the earl has not lived up to a half, or a quarter of his income for years. And what an income it is! He must have saved an enormous sum of money——"

"Let him do what he likes with it!" exclaimed Blair, bluntly. "I have had more than my share already. Let him leave it to anybody he likes. It is his own."

"Whom is he to leave it to?" said Ambrose. "The Home for Lost Dogs?"

"Or Sick Cats. I don't care!" said Blair, impetuously.

"That is all very well, and very noble, and all that, my dear Blair," said the cool, quiet voice. "But—pardon me—you haven't only yourself to think about, you know. There is your wife—the fair Margaret——"

"Heaven bless her, my darling!" murmured Blair.

"Just so," retorted Ambrose, with a cynical smile. "But when you say Heaven bless her, you mean that you wish Providence to pour out the good things of this life upon her with a liberal hand, but at the same moment you declare your intention of depriving her and her children of a large sum of money. Rather inconsistent, isn't it?"

Blair stood and looked down at him.

"What a head you have, Austin!" he said. "You ought to have been a lawyer. All this never struck me. I—I—never look forward to the future."

Austin Ambrose shrugged his shoulders.

"If we don't look forward to the future, the future has an awkward knack of looking back upon us!" he said indolently. "Depend upon it, my friend, that if you let the earl's money slip, you'll live to be sorry for it, not for your own sake, I dare say; you don't care about money, but for your wife and children's!"

"We shouldn't be paupers exactly!" said Blair, with a laugh.

"No!" assented Ambrose; and he shot a glance of envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness at the frank, handsome face. "No, you will be one of the richest men in England, but all the same——"

"And—and I hate anything like concealment and deceit," Blair broke in impatiently; "especially in connection with her."

Austin Ambrose nodded.

"Well, you asked for my opinion, and you are quite at liberty to reject it as per usual," he said carelessly. "But though I am not a rich man, I don't mind betting you fifty to one—in farthings—that if you declare your purpose of marrying this young lady to the earl, that before many years are over you will come to me and wish to Heaven you had taken my advice."

Blair bit at his cigar and fidgeted in the chair he had thrown himself into.

"I hate the idea of secrecy, Austin," he said at last; "and yet—but there! ten to one Margaret would refuse a clandestine marriage."

Austin Ambrose did not sneer, but he lowered his lids till they covered the cold gray eyes.

"Yes? I think not. Not if you told her all that you would lose by an open declaration. Women—forgive me, my dear fellow, but I know a little about them, though you think I don't—women have a better idea of the value of money than we men have. I think Miss Hale will consent to a quiet wedding when she knows that by so doing she will save several score of thousands to her husband, and to her future children."

There was silence for a moment, then Blair spoke. His fate and Margaret's, and more than theirs, had hung in the balance while he had hesitated.

"I think you're right, Austin," he said. "You always are, I know, and though I hate doing it, I'll take your advice. It—it will be only for a short time."

"Yes, the earl is quite an old man——"

"I didn't mean that," said Blair, quickly, "I don't want him to die, Heaven knows! I am not at all anxious to be the Earl of Ferrers. I shouldn't make half as fine an earl as he does."

"Just so," said Austin Ambrose. "But I am glad you intend to take my advice."

"Of course it all depends upon what Margaret says," said Lord Blair, gravely. "She may tell me that she—she will not marry me"—Austin Ambrose smoothed away a smile that was more than half a sneer—"but if she should say 'Yes,' then I will ask her to marry me quietly, though I hate the idea of any secrecy."

There was silence for a moment, then Austin Ambrose said, with a meditative smile:

"And are you going to turn over a new leaf, eh, Blair? What will the gay world do without you? What will they all say?—Lottie Belvoir, for instance."

Lord Blair colored and frowned.

"What has my marriage to do with Lottie Belvoir?" he said. "I have not seen her for months."

"Oh, nothing," assented Ambrose. "But you and she were so very thick, that I expect she will be a little heart-broken, you know."

Lord Blair made an impatient movement.

"I wish to Heaven I had never seen her or any of her kind," he said, remorsefully. "What fools men are, Austin! If we could only live our lives over again—but there, I mean to begin afresh now. And you will help me, old fellow!" and he laid his hand on the other man's shoulder. "You have always been the best friend I ever had, and you will help me now!"

"Of course, I'll help you; but I don't see what I can do," said Austin Ambrose, quietly. "If Miss Hale says 'Yes,' I should beg her to marry me as soon as possible. All you have to do then is to go down to some out-of-the-way place where there is a church—and there are churches everywhere—get the bans put up, or, better still, get a special license. You can be married as snugly as possible, and no one will be any the wiser. Such marriages are managed every day. Who knew that old Fortesque was married? We all thought him a bachelor, and yet he'd had a wife seven years! I'll help you all I can. I can't do less, having given you my advice to keep the thing a secret from the earl. Of course, I'd rather not have anything to do with it, but"—he shrugged his shoulders—"you can't refuse anything to a man who saved your life, you know! Have some more wine?"

"No, thanks; no more," said Lord Blair, jumping up; "I'll take a stroll in the park. I want to think it all over. I am to see her the day after to-morrow, to know if I am to be the happiest or the most miserable of men. Ah, Austin, if you could only see her!"

"I hope I may have the honor soon," he returned. "They say that when a man marries, his wife always hates his most intimate friend. I hope it won't be so with your wife, Blair, I must confess."

"Margaret is incapable of hating any one," said Blair; "she is an angel, and angels can't hate if they try! Austin, old fellow cynic and woman-hater as you are, you will admit that I have some reason in my madness when you see the girl I love."

"I dare say," said Ambrose. "Well, good-bye! Come and tell me how it all goes."

"Of course," said Blair, getting his hat and stick.

"By the way," said Ambrose indolently; "this is quite a secret at present, isn't it? You have not told any one but me that you have ever seen this young lady?"

"It is quite a secret if you like to call it so," said Blair. "I have told no one."

"I can't help thinking you were right," said Ambrose. "If I were you I would not open my lips to any one."

Lord Blair nodded, but his face grew overcast.

"I do hate all this mystery," he said; "but I suppose you are right. What I want to do is to take her hand and stand before the world and say, 'Look here, what a prize I have got!'"

"Yes; very nice of you," said Austin Ambrose, "but as we concluded that it is your duty and policy to keep the world in the dark for the present, the best thing you can do is to say nothing to anybody."

"Yes," said Blair; "very well," and he strode out of the room.

Austin Ambrose sat and listened to the firm, decided step as it died away on the stairs, then he rose and paced the room with slow and measured tread, his hard, cold face set like stone.

"It's risky!" he muttered at last. "It may fail, and then——But it will not fail! Blair is easy enough to manage, and the girl—well, she is like the rest, I suppose and, Heaven knows, they are easy enough to deceive! I'll chance it!"

He sat down and remained in thought for another quarter of an hour, then he rose, and putting a light overcoat over his dress clothes, he took his hat and went out.

Passing up one of the small streets, he reached a short row of houses, quiet, miniature boxes of residences, called Anglesea Terrace, and knocking at No. 9, inquired if Miss Belvoir were at home.

Before the maidservant could reply, a feminine voice called out through the open door in the narrow passage:

"Yes, she is. Is that you, Mr. Ambrose? Come in," and Austin Ambrose, passing through the little passage, which was lined with large photographs of Miss Belvoir in various costumes, entered the room from which the voice proceeded.

The room was a very small one—far too small to permit of that oft-mentioned performance—swinging a cat—and it was rather shabbily, though gaudily furnished. The furniture was old and palpably rickety, the carpet was threadbare, but there was a brilliant wall paper, and a pair of gay-colored cushions. An opera cloak, lined with scarlet, lay on one of the chairs, and on the sofa were a hat and a pair of sixteen-button kid gloves.

The owner of the hat, opera cloak, and gloves, sat at the table "discussing," as the old authors say, a lobster and a bottle of stout.

She was a girl of about two-and-twenty, neither pretty nor plain, but with a sharp, intelligent face—the sort of face one sees amongst the London street boys—and a pair of dark and wide-awake eyes, which were by far her best features. She wore a light-blue dressing grown—rather frayed at the sleeves, by the way, and trimmed with a cheap and—by no means slightly—dirty lace. But for all its sharpness and the vulgarity of its surroundings, it was not altogether a bad face.

This was Miss Lottie Belvoir. She was an actress. Not a famous one by any means—only a fifth-rate one at present; but she was waiting for a favorable opportunity to become a first-rate one. Perhaps the opportunity might come, perhaps it mightn't; meanwhile, Lottie Belvoir was content to work hard and wait. Some day, perchance, she would "fetch" the town, and then she would exchange the grimy back room in Anglesea Terrace for a house at St. John's Wood, the old satin dressing-gown for a costume of Worth, and the lobster and stout for pate de foie gras and champagne. Until that happy time arrived, she was perfectly content with minor parts in the burlesques at the Frivolity Theater.

"Oh, it is you, is it?" she said, without rising or stopping at the manipulation of one of the lobster claws; "I thought I recognized your voice. Who was it said that he never forgot a voice or a face? Some great man. Well, I'm like him. You have come just in time. Have some lobster?"

"No, thank you, Lottie," said Ambrose Austin; "I have only just dined."

"Of course, you swells dine later than ever, now, and that's why you can't turn up at the theater until we have got half through the piece. Well, sit down. Make yourself at home. Take care!" she exclaimed, as he sank into an arm-chair; "that chair's got a castor off. Here, take this," and she kicked and pushed another one toward him. "Don't put your cigar out; I'm just going to have a cigarette. Have some stout? No? Too heavy, I suppose? Well, here's some whisky. And how's the world treating you? You look very flourishing; but you always do."

"I might return the compliment," he said. "You are still on the Frivolity, Lottie?"

"Still at the Friv.," she assented, lighting a cigarette and throwing herself not ungracefully on the sofa. "Why don't you drop in some evening and give me a hand? You are too busy at your club with another kind of hand—a hand at cards, I suppose?" she added with charming candor.

He smiled.

"I'll look in some night," he said; "but I suppose they will soon be going on tour."

"Yes, in another fortnight," she said with a yawn, "and precious glad I shall be. London's getting too warm even for this child."

"And yet I want you to stay in London," he said quietly.

She looked across at him and blew out a ring of smoke scientifically.

"You do, do you? What for? Are you going to take a theatre and engage me as leading lady?"

"Do I look like it?" he retorted with a smile.

"Well, not much," she said, surveying him critically. "People might take you for a good many things, Mr. Ambrose, but they wouldn't take you for a fool, or if they did they would be taken in."

"Thanks, Lottie," he said. "That is something like a compliment."

"No, I don't think you are such an idiot as to take a theater," she said, "but what do you want me to stay in London for?"

"To assist me in a little business I'm engaged in," he said.

She regarded him with sharp scrutiny as she leant back and smoked her cigarette.

"You seem rather shy in mentioning it and coming to the point," she said dryly; "is it anything very bad?"

He laughed.

"Oh, no, something quite in your line. You know, Lottie, I always said you would turn out a great actress."

"You have said so a dozen of times," she said, "but whether you meant it——"

"I was quite serious, I assure you," he responded, "and in proof of my sincerity I am going to ask you to play a very difficult part."

"Oh, you've written a play!" she said coolly; "well, that's more in your line. And when are you going to produce it? And I'm to have a big part, am I, or is it a little one as usual? The authors always try and persuade you when they are giving you a part with about five lines in it, that it's the most important in the cast."

"I haven't written a play, and yet I have, so to speak," he said. "And you have the best part, far and away, Lottie. By the way, I have a piece of news for you. Lord Blair is going to be married!"

He burst it upon her purposely to see how she would like it, and for a moment Lottie turned crimson and then white, and her eyes blazed; then the actress asserted herself over the mere woman, and taking up another cigarette she lit it before she gave vent to a cool——

"Oh, really!"

But Austin Ambrose had seen the deep red and the quick flash of the eyes and was not taken in by the nonchalant "Oh, really!"

"Yes," he said; "but it is a profound secret at present."

"And so you want me to tell everybody! I understand."

"No," he said, "I do not want you to tell anyone this time. I want it to be really kept quiet. You will see why directly."

"And the happy young lady is Miss Violet Graham, I suppose?" said Lottie, after a moment's pause. "What a funny thing it is that Fortune showers all her gifts on some persons and bestows only slaps on the face on others. Now, there's Miss Graham, the richest woman in England, and Fortune goes and gives her the nicest and handsomest young man for a husband, while I, poor Lottie Belvoir, have to struggle and struggle, and work like a nigger, and all I get is some small part in a frivolity burlesque. It is funny, isn't it?"

"Very funny," assented Austin Ambrose; "but you are a little wrong in your guess. It is not Miss Graham."

"Not Miss Graham! Who then?"

Austin Ambrose did not hesitate a moment. He had well calculated his plans, and he knew that if he meant to tell anything to the sharp Miss Lottie he must tell all. Half confidences could be of no use.

"Look here, Lottie," he said, "I am going to confide in you because I know that you are unlike most women, inasmuch as you can, if you like, hold your tongue."

"Thanks," she said, watching him closely; "that's a compliment for me. I really think you do mean business, you are so very polite."

"I told you I wanted you to help me, and you can't help me unless you know all I know. Blair is not going to marry Miss Graham, but a young woman whom I have not seen, whom I never heard of—nor any one else. She is, I believe, a kind of servant——"

Lottie sat up, open-eyed.

"What!" she exclaimed and the color came into her face again. If Lord Blair had been going to marry Miss Graham, she would have regarded it as a matter of course, but that he should be going to throw himself away upon a "kind of servant" was more than she could bear with equanimity.

"It is true," said Austin Ambrose.

"Blair—Blair, of all people!—going to make such a fool of himself as that! Why, he must be out of his mind!"

Austin Ambrose shrugged his shoulders.

"I think he is," he said, coolly. "I never saw him so mad. He simply raves about her like a schoolboy. She's everything that is beautiful and angelic. Oh! he is most completely gone, my dear Lottie."

Lottie bit her lip.

"The nicest and handsomest fellow in London," she murmured. "To be picked up by a—a slavey! What a beastly shame it is! What a fool he must be! What's her name?"

"Margaret Hale," said Austin Ambrose, instantly. "You understand, Lottie, that I am telling you what I would tell to no one else."

She nodded.

"And it's about this you came to see me?" she said.

"Yes," he said; "I want you to help me save Blair from this folly. Of course it would ruin him. He would never be able to hold up his head again."

"He'd get tired of her in a week. I know him so well," she said, in a low voice.

"Exactly. In less than a week, perhaps, and then——" he shrugged his shoulders.

"And she would be the Viscountess Leyton, and, of course, the Countess Ferrers when the old man died?" for Lottie knew her peerage pretty well.

"Yes, and we must prevent that," he said, looking at her.

She made an impatient gesture.

"I don't care about the title, and all that," she said; "why should I? If he had been going to marry Miss Graham, or any other of the swells, why—why it would be all right, and I shouldn't complain; but a servant! Blair, too! Why, he's as proud as Lucifer, really, though people wouldn't think it! He'd be wretched for life! He'd be fit to cut his throat a week afterward, and he's too good for that sort of thing."

There was a pause. She drank some of the stout, for her lips felt dry, then she said, more to herself than him:

"Yes, he's far too good! Poor Blair! Why, the very first diamonds I ever had he gave me. He'd have given me the top brick off the chimney if I'd asked for it! You won't believe it, because you don't believe anything, Mr. Ambrose, but I tell you I'd do anything for Lord Blair! I never told you when I first met him?"

"No," said Austin Ambrose.

Lottie took another draught of the stout, and her color came and went.

"It was when I was singing at the South Audley Music Hall. I wasn't much of a singer, then, and one night I sang worse than usual; I was ill too, and out of sorts, and the people—they aren't the most refined at the South Audley, you know—they cut up rough, and began to hiss and shout. I was only a slip of a girl, and I got frightened—too frightened to run off, and one brute of a fellow took up a wineglass from one of the tables, and flung it at me. I suppose I must have fainted, for the next thing I remember was finding myself in a young gentleman's arms. It was Lord Blair. He'd sprung on the stage, and caught me, and I shall never forget, till the day of my death, the look on his face as he looked down at them. 'I'll give a sovereign to anyone who'll keep that fellow in the hall till I come back!' he said, and though he didn't shout it, you could hear his voice all over the hall. Then he carried me into the greenroom, and got me some wine, and put me into a cab, as if I was a lady! Just as if I was a lady, mind! Then he went back to the hall, and it was a bad time for that brute with the glass, I expect."

She paused a minute and caught her lip between her teeth.

"We didn't meet again for three or four years, and he didn't know me. I was a woman, then, and he had grown into a man. I dare say he'd forgotten all about the girl he protected at the South Audley, and I didn't remind him. But I haven't forgotten it. No!" and she made an impatient dash at her eyes, as if ashamed of the moisture which had made them suddenly dim.

Austin Ambrose listened and watched.

"That's like Blair," he said. "He's a good fellow."

"A good fellow!" she exclaimed, almost fiercely; "that's what you say of any man who is free with his money and can make himself pleasant. Blair is more than that; he's—he's—" she paused for want of a word, then wound up emphatically, "he's a gentleman!"

"Too good a gentleman to be wasted on Miss Margaret Hale!" said Austin Ambrose, insidiously.

"Yes!" she assented, as fiercely as before. "What is to be done? I suppose you have got some plan? You generally have your wits about you." She paused a moment. "But why are you so keen about this business?" she inquired, suspiciously.

"Simply out of pure good nature," he said. "Don't look so incredulous, my dear Lottie. Permit me to possess some good nature as well as yourself. Blair and I are old and fast friends. I don't think I ever told you, but one confidence deserves another, and I will tell you now. Blair once saved my life. If it had not been for him I should have been lying at the bottom of the Thames."

Lottie nodded.

"They say it's the worst thing you can do for yourself is to save another person's life. I don't say he saved mine, but he did me a good turn, and—and—well, I expect now he wishes he had never seen me, and I dare say he'd have been all the better off if he hadn't. And as for you—well, Mr. Ambrose, I don't see why you shouldn't want to do him a good turn."

"I do," he said. "And I couldn't do him a better than by preventing this marriage. And now, Lottie, I will tell you plainly that this marriage can be prevented if you will lend me a hand."

"How?" she said.

"Lottie, you are a good actress," he said, slowly; "I always said so, and I always thought so. I want you to prove it. I have a little plot, as you surmised, and I want you to play a part in it. It's a difficult one, but you can play it if you like. And, Lottie, if you do play it well, why, I'll see what I can do in getting you an engagement at the Coronet."

Lottie's face flushed. An engagement at the Coronet was one of the dramatic prizes.

"You will? But you needn't take the trouble to bribe me. I don't want anything for helping Blair out of this mess," she said; "I'll do it for—for auld lang syne!"

"That's right, Lottie," he said; "but you shall get your engagement at the Coronet all the same. And now I'll tell you what I mean to do."

He leant forward and began to speak in a low, impressive voice, and Lottie Belvoir listened, her eyes fixed on his face. Suddenly she started, and turned pale.

"I say! Isn't that rather—rather strong?" she said.

"Rather strong?" he murmured, blandly.

"Rather risky?" she responded. "I—I don't much like it. Seems to me that it's a part which might land me—well, I don't know where."

"My dear Lottie, there is no risk, or very little," he said, with a cool laugh. "What can happen to you?"

"I don't know; a good many things if I were to be found out," she retorted. "Especially if Blair found it out!" and her face grew paler. "You don't know what Blair is when his temper is up. I've seen him, and probably you haven't."

"But there will be no need to get in his way," said Austin Ambrose. "Directly the thing is done, and your part is played, you can get away for awhile, go to Paris, or where you like. I'll find the money. You may look upon yourself as engaged to me for a term, just as if I were manager of a theater."

Still she hesitated, biting her lip softly and looking at him with evident apprehension.

"I don't like it," she said in a low voice. "It—it seems like playing it very low down on her—and him, too! And if it failed! Good Lord, Mr. Ambrose!"

"It will not fail," he said calmly and confidently. "I will take care that it shall not fail. I'm responsible for this little plot, and from mere pride in it I shall see that it comes off all right. Where is the difficulty? You have hardly a dozen lines to speak and a few others to make up, as the occasion may demand, and your woman's wit, Lottie, will supply you with those."

"Oh, that is easy enough," she said, with a wave of her hand. "I could play the part well enough! I see myself at it now!" and her face took color and her eyes began to glow. "It is a part I could do to perfection. And shouldn't be at a loss for gagging if it were needed, but——"

"But what?" he said, softly.

"But I don't fancy it all the same. It's risky and dangerous and——" she stopped for a moment and looked at his cool, set face keenly. "Mr. Ambrose, I suppose if I got found out, they could send me to prison?"

His face did not alter in the slightest.

"Nonsense!" he said. "Prison! What an absurd notion! Besides, who could find you out? I'm surprised, Lottie, you should hesitate. I thought you were a girl of spirit!"

"I've spirit enough," she said, grimly. "I've spirit enough for most things. For instance, if a man were to throw a glass at me now, I shouldn't faint, but I should throw it back at him. But this—well, this is quite a different thing."

"It is all in your line," he argued.

She remained silent, and he leaned back and shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, I suppose poor Blair will have to drift to the dogs, then? I am surprised; I must say I am surprised, Lottie. I did think that you were as good and stanch a friend of his as I am, and I thought I'd only to tell you the plight in which he stood, and show you how to help one to save him. I thought you'd jump at it. But never mind. I don't want to persuade you against your will; but I tell you plainly that if you won't help me, I shall go to no one else—I shall let things slide. I'm sorry for Blair; I am, indeed, very sorry, but——" he reached for his hat.

"Wait," she said, and her voice sounded dry and troubled, "give me a minute."

He leant back and watched her from under his lowered lids, while she leant her head on her hands, her intelligent face all puckered with thought.

Then she looked up suddenly.

"I'll do it," she said, with sharp decision.

Austin Ambrose's eyes flashed, then he smiled coolly.

"Of course you will. I can't think why you should hesitate. Why, my dear Lottie, no woman of spirit could sit down idly and see an old flame picked up by a mere nobody of a girl, a kind of servant——"

"That will do," she broke in, his words affecting her as he intended. "I've said I'll do it, and I will, let the consequences be what they may. But mind, you have promised to stand by me?"

"Certainly I will," he said, promptly, "and you shall have the engagement at the Coronet, as well as the satisfaction of feeling that you have saved Blair from ruining his life, and an old title from disgrace."

"Hang the title!" she exclaimed, carelessly, "it's Blair I'm thinking of. And—and when will you want me?"

"I can't tell you now," he said. "I may want you at any moment, so that you must hold yourself in readiness. I suppose you will dress the part carefully?"

She looked up and smiled.

"You can trust me to do that," she said. "Wait! Take another cigar; there's some more whisky there. I won't keep you ten minutes," and she got up and ran from the room.

She was scarcely gone more than ten minutes when there came a knock at the door.

"Come in," he said, and a fair-haired lady, dressed in black, with a pale face and dark hollows under her eyes, with quivering lips and shaking hands, nervously and timidly entered the room.

Austin Ambrose rose with some surprise and embarrassment.

"Do you wish to see Miss Belvoir?" he said quietly.

The lady threw up her hands to her face and broke into passionate sobs; then suddenly they changed to peals of laughter, and, whipping off her bonnet and wig, Lottie herself stood before him.

"Will that do?" she demanded.

Austin Ambrose nodded emphatic approval.

"Excellent! You nearly took me in, my dear Lottie, and I was prepared for you. Capital!"

"Oh, I can do better than that!" she said, half contemptuously, as she wiped the paint and powder from her face with her handkerchief. "But it isn't the make-up I shall rely on so much as the acting. I flatter myself that I can play the part to a nicety. It mustn't be overdone, you know; and it mustn't be taken too slowly. Oh, I know! You leave it to me, Mr. Ambrose!"

"That's just what I meant to do!" he said. "I place every confidence in you, my dear Lottie!"

"And you'll come and see me in prison on visiting days?" she said, with a smile that was rather serious.

"Yes," he said, laughing lightly, "I'll come and see you, and bring you a tract. But all that is nonsense! There is not the slightest risk of such a thing. Once you have played your part, you shall be off to Paris and take your fling for a month or two."

"All this will cost you something," she said, thoughtfully.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"It isn't a question of pounds, shillings and pence on such an occasion as this," he said; "and as to money, I dare say Blair will be only too glad to pay all the expenses when he comes to his senses, and finds who it is that has saved him from committing social suicide. He will owe us a deep debt of gratitude, Lottie."

"I hope he'll think so," she said, rather doubtfully, and with a little shudder; "if he shouldn't—well, I don't think Paris will be far enough off for me, and as for you"—and she smiled strangely and significantly—"well, I wouldn't care to insure your life, Mr. Austin Ambrose."

He laughed as he shook hands with her.

"My dear Lottie, Blair will know that we have been his best friends, and will be grateful accordingly. Good-night. Mind, not a word to a soul!"

"No," said Lottie, grimly; "I'm not likely to proclaim this business from the housetops. This is a play that it will be best not to advertise. Good-night!"