I

"What the--blazes!"

George Coventry sat with an open envelope in his hand. It was an ordinary white envelope--"business" size--of not too fine a quality. It was addressed: "George Coventry, Esq., HÔtel Metropole, Brighton." The address was type-written.

"Dun!"

That was the one word which had crossed his mind when he first glanced at the exterior of this missive. When he took it up his suspicions were strengthened. It was fat and bulky.

"Contains either a writ or a bill in several volumes."

He laid it down again. He looked at it ruefully as he puffed at his pipe. Then, gathering together his courage with a sigh, he opened it. It was at this point he emitted the above exclamation,--"What the--blazes!"

The envelope was full of crinkly pieces of paper--bank-notes. There were ten of them. Each was for a thousand pounds. Mr Coventry stared at them with bewildered amazement.

"Someone is having a joke with me! Bank of Elegance, for a fiver!"

But they were not on the Bank of Elegance. Mr Coventry fancied that he knew a genuine bank-note when he saw one. After examination, he concluded that if these were forgeries, then he was not so good a judge as he thought he was. He took a five-pound note from his pocket-book for the purpose of comparison.

"Right uns, as I'm a sinner! Then, in that case, it strikes me they've been sent to the wrong address."

In his desire to establish the genuineness of the notes, he had temporarily overlooked a sheet of paper which he had drawn with them from the envelope. This he now examined. It was a single sheet of large post. On it these words were typewritten,--

"The accompanying bank-notes (£10,000) are forwarded to Mr George Coventry, to enable him to pay the losses which he has experienced during the Brighton races."

When Mr Coventry read this, his bewilderment, instead of being diminished, was considerably increased. There was no signature, no address, no clue to the sender. One type-writer is like another, so that there was no clue in the words themselves. Someone, of infinite faith, had entrusted £10,000 to the guardianship of a flimsy envelope and of a penny stamp. Mr Coventry had flattered himself that no one knew--as yet--of the particularly tight place that he was in. Here was proof positive that he had been guilty of self-deception indeed.

He stuffed the notes into his pocket-book. He put on his hat. He went across the road to the pier. He had a problem to solve. Who had chosen so curious a method of sending him so princely a gift? He was prepared to stake his little all--that was left--that it was none of his relations. If the donor was one of his "friends," how basely had he libelled the large and miscellaneous circle of his acquaintances! And yet, a stranger? It would needs be an eccentric stranger who would send an anonymous gift of £10,000 to an unknown person, to enable that unknown person to pay his bets. This thing might have happened in the days of the fairies, but surely the wee folk are gone!

"Would--would you lend me your arm? I--I am afraid I have hurt my foot."

Mr Coventry was standing at the head of the flight of steps which led to the landing-stage. The Worthing boat was just gone. There was a crowd of people to see it start. Although he was one of them, Mr Coventry had not the faintest appreciation of what the small excitement was about. The sound of a voice apparently addressing him recalled him to himself. He looked down. On the step immediately beneath him was a little woman dressed in black.

"I--I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?"

"Would you help me to a seat? I have twisted my ankle."

The little woman was young. Her big brown eyes seemed to Mr Coventry as though they were filled with tears. She was leaning against the rail. She seemed in pain.

"Let me carry you to a seat."

Then, before all the people, in that impetuous way of his, he lifted her in his arms and bore her to a seat. She said nothing when he placed her there. Perhaps she was too surprised at his method of proceeding to be able to find, at an instant's notice, appropriate words to fit the occasion.

"I'll fetch you a bath-chair."

He fetched her one with a rapidity which did credit to his agility and to the chairman's. The little woman was placed within it. She murmured an address in the Steyne. The procession started. Mr Coventry walked beside the chair. He asked if her foot was better. She said it was. He asked if she was sure it was. She smiled, a little faintly, but still she smiled; she said that she was sure. The Steyne was reached. He saw her enter the house. He raised his hat. He walked away.

It was only when he had gone some little distance that a thought occurred to him.

"I ought to have asked her her name."

He hesitated for a moment as to whether he would not go back and supply the omission; but he perceived, on reflection, that this would be absurd. He told himself that he would call, perhaps that afternoon, and inquire how her foot went on.

That afternoon he called at the house in the Steyne. A person, evidently of the landlady type, opened the door. He handed in his card with, pencilled on it, the words: "I venture to hope that your foot is better." A reply came to the effect that he was requested to walk upstairs. He walked upstairs. He was shown into what was undeniably a lodging-house sitting-room. As he entered, someone was lying on a sofa; it was the little woman in black.

"It is very kind of you to call, Mr Coventry. I ought to have thanked you for your goodness to me this morning, but you were gone in a moment."

Mr Coventry murmured something. He hoped that her foot was better.

"Oh, it is nothing. Only I think that I had better rest it a little, and that is rather a difficult thing for me to do; rest means interference with my work." Perhaps because he seemed to hesitate, she added: "I am a teacher of music."

"Then I am afraid that your accident will be hard on your pupils."

She laughed. "The worst of it is, there are not many of them. I cannot afford to offend the few I have." She changed her tone. "I cannot think how it was I was so awkward, Mr Coventry. I was coming up the steps when my foot slipped, and--there I was. It was such a silly thing to do."

Mr Coventry explained that it was the easiest thing in the world to twist one's ankle. Further, that a twisted ankle sometimes turned out to be a serious matter. Possibly the lady knew this without his telling her, yet she seemed grateful for the information.

The gentleman's visit, considering the circumstances, extended to what seemed to be an unnecessary length, yet neither appeared particularly desirous to bring it to a close. Before they parted they were talking like old friends. She had told him that her name was Hardy--Dora Hardy. She had imparted the further information that she was an orphan--alone in the world. They talked a great deal about, it must be owned, a very little, and they would probably have had as much to say even if the subject matter had been still less. Such conversations are not dependent upon subjects.

The next day he returned to inquire after her foot. It seemed better, but was not yet quite recovered; its owner was still upon the couch. That visit was even longer than the first had been. During its progress Mr Coventry became singularly frank. He actually made a confidant of the little woman on the couch. He told her all his history, unfolded the list of his follies--a part of it that is, for the list was long. Some folks would have said that he was adding to the crowning folly of them all. He told her of his recent disastrous speculations on what, doubtless in the cause of euphony, is called "the turf." He even told of the ten thousand pounds!

It must be allowed that Miss Hardy seemed to find the young gentleman's egotistical outpourings not devoid of interest. When he spoke of the contents of the mysterious envelope she gave quite a little start.

"I don't understand. Do you mean to say, Mr Coventry, that yesterday morning you received £10,000 from a stranger?"

"I do. In ten bank-notes of a thousand pounds each."

"But it's ridiculous. They can't be genuine."

"Aren't they? See for yourself. If they're not, then I never saw a genuine bank-note yet."

He took an envelope from his pocket. He gave it to Miss Hardy.

"Is this the envelope in which they came?"

"It is."

"And are these the bank-notes?"

"They are."

She took out the rustling pieces of paper. Her eyes sparkled. She laughed; it sounded like a little laugh of pleasure.

"Bank-notes! Ten of them, for a thousand each! You beauties!" She pressed them between her little hands. "Think of all they can buy. Ten thousand pounds!" She laughed again; this time in her laughter there was the sound of something very like a sob. "Why, Mr Coventry, it's--it's like a fairy tale. Some people never dream that they will be able to even handle such a sum--just once."

"It is a queer start."

Mr Coventry rose from his chair. He stood with his back to the fireplace. The little woman followed him with her eyes.

"Come, Mr Coventry, you know very well from whom they came."

"I wish I did."

"Think! They came from that rich old uncle you have been telling me about."

"He would see me starve before he gave me a fiver. I know it is a fact."

"Is there nobody of whom you can think?"

"Not a soul! I don't believe there's an individual in the world who would give me a hundred pounds to keep me from the workhouse."

There was a pause. The gentleman looked at the lady; the lady looked at him. She kept folding and unfolding the notes between her dainty fingers; a smile parted her lips.

"Mr Coventry, I know from whom they came."

"Miss Hardy, you don't mean it! From whom?"

"They came," with a rapid glance she looked down, then up again, "from a woman."

"A woman!" Mr Coventry looked considerably startled. "What woman?"

"Ah, there it is!"

Mr Coventry still looked startled.

"I suppose, Miss Hardy, you are simply making a shot at it."

"It looks to me like the act of a woman. Think! Is there a woman possible?"

Mr Coventry looked even disconcerted.

"It--it can't be. It--it's quite impossible."

"I thought there was. Mr Coventry, here are your notes. I don't wish to intrude upon your confidence."

"But, I--I assure you, the--thing can't be."

"Still, I fancy, the thing is, and so, I see, do you. Mr Coventry, if it is not stretching feminine curiosity too far--in my case you have piqued it--might I ask who is the woman?"

"There isn't one; I assure you there isn't. But I'll tell you all about it." Mr Coventry fidgeted about the room, then sat down on the chair he had just vacated. "Have--have you ever heard of a Mrs Murphy?"

"Had she anything to do with Mr Murphy?"

"You mean the iron man? It's his widow. She's--she's stopping at the MÉtropole just now."

"Isn't she rich?"

"Awfully, horribly rich. In fact my--my uncle wrote to me about her."

"You mean Sir Frederick?"

"Yes, old rip! I wrote, asking if he could let me have a few hundreds, just to help me along. He wrote back saying that he couldn't, but that he could put me in the way of laying my hands on several hundred thousands instead. Then he spoke of the widow."

"I see; go on."

Mr Coventry had stopped. He seemed to be a little at a loss.

"Then, somehow or other, I--I got introduced to her."

"Did you, indeed? How strange!"

"Don't laugh at me, Miss Hardy. The woman's my aversion. She's old enough to be my mother, or--or my aunt, at any rate."

"One's aunt may be younger than oneself."

"She isn't, by a deal. She's a hideous, vulgar old monstrosity."

"You appear to have a strong objection to the lady."

"I have. It--it sounds absurd, but she's always after me. She must mistake me for her son."

"For her son? You look twenty-five, and I thought I saw in one of the papers the other day that Mrs Murphy was in her early thirties."

"She looks fifty, if a day. She can't have sent me all that money."

"As to that, you should know better than I. She might, if she took you for her son."

"If I thought she had, I--I'd send it back to her."

Mr Coventry had recommenced fidgeting about the room. Miss Hardy's suggestions seemed to have seriously disturbed him. That young lady continued to trifle with the bank-notes. As she trifled she continued to smile demurely.

"Hasn't another rich woman been stopping at the MÉtropole?"

"You mean the American?"

"Was she an American?"

"Rather! Sarah Freemantle. Got five millions--pounds--of her own, in hard cash."

"Has she been stopping at the hotel since you've been there?"

"I believe she has, though I wasn't aware of it till she had gone."

"Haven't you ever seen her?"

"Never; which is rather queer, because she's often been at dances which I've been at. But I hate Americans."

"Do you, indeed? How liberal-minded!"

"Don't laugh at me. You--you don't know how worried I am."

"Some people wouldn't feel worried because £10,000 fell into their lap from the skies. Here, Mr Coventry, are your precious notes."

"I'll send them back to her at once."

"Her? Whom? Mrs Murphy? Don't you think you are rather hasty in jumping at conclusions? Suppose, after all, they didn't come from Mrs Murphy?"

"I'll soon find out, and if they did--"

"Well, if they did? I thought you mentioned some rather pressing obligations which you had to meet."

"Confound it! I know I've been a fool, but I'd rather be posted than owe my salvation to a woman's money."

"All men are not of your opinion, Mr Coventry."

The lady's tone was dry. The young gentleman had a tendency in the direction of "high-falutin."

Among his morning's letters on the morrow the first which caught his eye was a missive enclosed in an envelope which was own brother to the one which had contained the notes.

"Another ten thousand pounds," he wailed.

But he was mistaken. Only a sheet of paper was in the envelope. On the sheet of paper two words were type-written:

"Buy Ceruleans."

Mr Coventry endeavoured to calm himself. Constitutionally, he was of an excitable temperament. The endeavour required an effort on his part. When he could trust himself to speak, he delivered himself to this effect:

"What in thunder are Ceruleans? And why am I to buy them?"

He examined the paper; he examined the envelope; he observed that the postmark was "London, E.C."--that could scarcely be regarded as a tangible clue.

The remainder of his correspondence was not of an agreeable tenor. Everybody seemed to be wanting money; moreover, everybody seemed to be wanting it at once. He went downstairs with, metaphorically, "his heart in his boots." On the way down he encountered an acquaintance. Mr Coventry stopped him.

"I say, Gainsford, what are Ceruleans?"

"Ceruleans?" Mr Gainsford fixed his eyeglass into his eye. "Ceruleans?" Mr Gainsford thrust his hands into his breeches pockets. "What do you know about Ceruleans?"

"I don't know anything, only some fool or other has been advising me to buy them."

Mr Gainsford eyed Mr Coventry for some moments before he spoke again.

"Coventry, would you mind stepping into my sitting-room?" Mr Coventry stepped in. "I should be obliged if you would tell me who has been advising you to buy Ceruleans. I give you my word that you shall not suffer through giving me the name of your informant. I don't know if you are aware that I am a member of the London Stock Exchange."

"I can't give you the name of my informant, because I don't know it myself. I have just had that sent me through the post. From whom it comes I know no more than Adam."

Mr Coventry handed him the paper on which were the two type-written words, "Buy Ceruleans." Mr Gainsford eyed this very keenly. Then he applied an equally keen scrutiny to Mr Coventry himself.

"Odd! Very odd! Very odd indeed!"

He paused, then continued with an air of quite judicial gravity,--

"Ceruleans, Mr Coventry, is Stock Exchange slang for an American mine which has just struck oil. The fact of its having done so is known, as yet, in England, to only one or two persons. Until you showed me that sheet of paper, I was under the impression that it was known only to one other person beside myself. Whoever sent you that piece of paper is in the know. Your correspondent has given you a recipe for a fortune."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. Get into the market before the rush begins, and--ah! you might take what some people would call a snug little fortune in less than a couple of hours. Mr Coventry, I am going up to town at once. Come with me, and I will put you in the way of doing the best day's business that ever you did in all your life."

Mr Coventry went up to town with Mr Gainsford. When the young gentleman returned that night to Brighton, he was quite a man of means. On the return journey he just got into the station as the train was starting. He made a dash at the first carriage he could reach. He was settling himself in the corner, and the train was rapidly quickening, when a voice saluted him.

"Mr Coventry!"

He turned. At the other end of the compartment was Mrs Murphy.

"How nice! I was just thinking that I was going to have the carriage all to myself, and you know that I am not fond of my own society."

At that moment, Mr Coventry could not have even hinted that he was fond of hers. The lady went on--her volubility was famous,--

"I have been dabbling on the Stock Exchange."

Mr Coventry did not heed her. He was reflecting that the train did not stop till it reached its journey's end, and how about a smoke on the way? Her next words, however, caused him to prick up his ears.

"I have done wonderfully well. In fact, I have made what to some, less fortunately circumstanced than myself, would be quite a fortune. I have been buying Ceruleans. Do you know what Ceruleans are?"

Did he? Didn't he?

"Ceruleans! Then--it was you--"

He stopped, petrified. The lady seemed amused.

"It was I what?"

Mr Coventry took out a well-stuffed pocketbook.

"Mrs Murphy, allow me to return you these."

A broad smile was upon the lady's face as she took what the gentleman gave her; but when she perceived what it was she held, the broad smile vanished.

"What is it you are returning me? I was not aware--why, they're bank-notes for a thousand pounds each! Mr Coventry! What do you mean?"

The expression of her face, the tone of her voice, were alike expressive of the most unequivocal amazement. But, disregarding these signs, Mr Coventry pursued a line of his own.

"It was very good of you to send them me--though I hardly realise what it was which could have caused you to suppose that I was a fit subject for your charity. At the same time, I hope it is scarcely necessary for me to point out that it is quite impossible for me to take advantage of your generosity."

"Mr Coventry! What on earth do you mean?"

The lady's manner was altogether unmistakable, but Mr Coventry rushed at his fences.

"I can only say that I hope that you will find a more worthy object of what I cannot but call your eccentric liberality."

Mrs Murphy, as she sat, bank-notes in hand, endeavouring to grasp the gentleman's meaning, would not have made a bad study for a comic artist.

"Mr Coventry, will you be so good as to take back your property?"

The lady held out the notes. The gentleman waved them from him.

"My property! I presume you mean your property?"

"Mr Coventry, what do you mean by giving me these bank-notes?"

"Rather, Mrs Murphy, I think I am entitled to ask what you meant by giving them to me?"

"Pray, Mr Coventry, are you mad?"

"I can only presume that you thought I was mad."

"Thought you were mad! I am beginning to think so now."

"You flatter me. And--then there's the tip for Ceruleans. I--I confess that I have taken advantage of it; but had I known what I know now, I would sooner first have died. I have not yet received the whole of my gains--indeed, I have only received a portion as a favour from a friend. Here, Mrs Murphy, is a cheque for £5,000."

Mr Coventry thrust another slip of paper into the astonished lady's hand. She kept her presence of mind admirably upon the whole.

"I suppose, Mr Coventry, that you are a gentleman?"

"I suppose I was until you taught me otherwise."

"Then, as a gentleman, perhaps you will keep silence while a lady speaks."

Mr Coventry shrugged his shoulders.

"I see that I have here ten notes of a thousand pounds each. Am I to understand that someone has made you a present of £10,000?"

"Mrs Murphy, pray don't dissemble!"

"I have not the slightest intention of what you call dissembling. If you suppose I was the donor, you are under a great delusion. I don't think I ever gave any living creature even ten thousand pence; I have far too just a sense of the value of money."

It was Mr Coventry's turn to look astonished.

"Then if--if it wasn't you--"

"Who was it? That I cannot tell you. Someone, I should say, with more money than sense."

"But--but the tip for Ceruleans?"

"I have not the least notion what you're talking about. But I may tell you this: I myself only received what you call a 'tip' for Ceruleans this morning."

"The--the deuce you did!"

"Possibly you are aware that one of the chief holders of Ceruleans is a lady?"

"A lady!"

"That lady happens to be my friend. This morning she called on me while I was having breakfast. During that call she gave me the information on which I acted."

"Who--who is this lady?"

"I don't know that it is a secret; the lady is Sarah Freemantle."

"Sarah Freemantle!"

"She is staying in Brighton, you know--or perhaps you don't know--because she has actually gone and hidden herself away in one of the back streets, as if, as I tell her, she were hiding from her creditors. Her creditors! Why, she's worth untold millions!"

Mr Coventry was silent. Mrs Murphy sat and watched him. He was quite worth looking at. George Coventry has been pronounced by a high authority to be the handsomest man in England. Oddly enough, he was not only handsome, but he looked good and honest too; and he was without an atom of conceit. In the eyes of some people it was an extra recommendation that he was not exactly wise.

When Mrs Murphy had looked at the young gentleman quite two minutes, she moved up to his end of the carriage.

"Mr Coventry, here is your property. You are fortunate in having such a friend."

Without a word Mr Coventry placed the cheque and the notes within his pocket-book.

"After all, I am not sure that I would not have liked to have been that friend myself."

Mr Coventry fidgeted.

"You--you are very good."

"Do you think so? I should like to be good--to you."

Mr Coventry shivered. Was this woman making love?

"I married my first husband, Mr Coventry, to please my mother. When I marry again I mean to please myself."

"What--what time is this train due in Brighton?"

"Never mind what time the train is due in Brighton." She smiled.

Some men, who are about to pop the question, delight in the shyness of the maiden. Was it possible that she delighted in the shyness of the youth?

"George--I may call you George. Mayn't I call you George?"

"Have you any objection to my smoking a pipe?"

"Smoke if you please. Do what you please. My only desire is to give you pleasure."

She laid her gloved hand softly on his arm.

"You haven't such a thing as a match about you?"

"George, before you begin to smoke, turn round and look at me."

Mr Coventry's head was turned round the other way; he was blowing through the stem of his pipe.

"George!"

If the lady had been a gentleman we should have written that he put his arm about her waist.

"Thunder! my pipe won't draw!"

The gentleman sprang to his feet with startling suddenness; but the lady was equal to the occasion. Before he knew it she had taken him with both her hands, and drawn him on to her knee.

"You silly thing!"

While Mr Coventry was wondering if the skies had fallen, she had kissed him on the lips.

Just then the train reached Brighton.

II

Mr Coventry chartered a fly to the Steyne. He drew up at the house in which lived the little woman with the foot. The person who opened the door informed him that Miss Hardy was in. He rushed upstairs without waiting to be announced. The little woman was seated writing at a table. At his entrance she rose with a start--as well she might.

"Miss Hardy, I--I want to speak to you."

"Mr Coventry."

As the lady stood facing the gentleman she turned a little pale, or perhaps it was a curious effect of the lamplight shining in her face. As for the gentleman's complexion, any suggestion of pallor was ridiculous. A ripe tomato was the best comparison which could have been applied to him.

"I beg ten thousand pardons, but I--I've been with that Murphy woman in the train!"

The girl said nothing. Her big brown eyes were fixed upon her visitor's countenance. In them was a look of not unjustifiable inquiry.

"I--I daresay you think that I'm mad; but I'm not. The fact is, Miss Hardy, I've had a stroke of luck!"

"I am glad to hear it."

"Is that all?"

"What else would you have me say?"

The intensity of the gaze which the gentleman kept fixed upon the lady she must have found a little trying. All at once he went forward. He brought his hand down heavily on the little table at which she was standing.

"Dora, I love you!"

The remark was sudden. The girl for a moment was silent, as if she could scarcely believe her ears. Then a wave of vivid red went up all over her, so that it even dyed the roots of her hair. In her eyes were tears.

"Mr Coventry!"

"Dora, I love you!" If she had had eyes to see, which may be doubted, she might have seen that he was trembling. His words came from him like a flood. "I don't ask you to say that you love me; I know you can't; but I do ask you to say that one day you will try!"

The girl was trembling too.

"Mr Coventry, I--I cannot think you are in earnest."

"You know I am."

As she looked into his eyes--and she did look, as though there was fascination in his glance--she could scarcely doubt that at least he thought he was. She tried to smile; the effort was a failure.

"But it's--it's so absurd. You know nothing of me. We are strangers. You only saw me the day before yesterday for the first time in your life."

"What does that matter? I know a man who met a girl upon the Friday and married her upon the Monday."

"Absurd!"

"Some men would be able to do this sort of thing in style; I can't. I know that this sort of thing comes to a man once in his life, and then in an instant. I know that I love you; I know that there will never be another woman to me like you. Some men do not take long to find out these things, you see!"

There was a pause. Then she at last looked down.

"I thought you mentioned something about pecuniary complications."

"This morning I had a hint from a friend; it has brought me in a fortune! There will be enough to settle up with, and something over to start again. And, Dora, I can work."

"Mr Coventry, do you clearly understand that I am a nameless nobody, who has to give music lessons for a living?"

"I understand that you are the woman whom I love!"

She turned her back to him. She moved across the room; she stood trifling with the fringe of the curtains.

"This is the maddest thing of which ever yet I heard."

He could hear that her voice was trembling.

"You know, Dora, I'm not asking you to say at once that you will be my wife. I daren't, and that's the fact; but I'm asking you one day to try to say you will. I want something to keep me going. I want something to save me from that woman Murphy."

"I believe 'that woman Murphy,' as you politely term the lady, is at the bottom of the compliment--I suppose I must call it so--which you have paid to me."

There was a curious intonation in the voice from the curtains.

"She has been making love to me. I couldn't stand that when I loved you, Dora!" The gentleman was creeping round the table. "Say that you will try!"

"Suppose I do?"

"Dora!"

She would not let him stay. They parted, this queer pair! He dined, not at his hotel, but at a restaurant on the Front; dined well! When he left it was with that good digestion which waits on appetite. He walked as if he walked on air. He certainly had the gift of making history quickly.

When he reached the hotel, an acquaintance stopped him at the door.

"The great Sarah is here."

"The great who?"

"Sarah! Miss Freemantle! The five-times millionaire."

Mr Coventry looked a trifle bored.

"I'm not interested in the lady."

"The deuce you aren't! I am; and, by Jove, I wish she were in me!"

"I'm sorry for you. Come in and have a smoke."

As they crossed the hall, someone was coming down the stairs. The acquaintance drew Mr Coventry a little aside.

"Here she is!" Mr Coventry glanced up. "That's Miss Freemantle, the little woman in black. She's not a bad-looking little thing."

Mr Coventry looked at the lady referred to. It was Dora Hardy! As she descended the staircase, she leant on Mr Gainsford's arm. On the gentleman's other side was Mrs Murphy. As he saw her, she saw him. The young lady dropped the gentleman's arm. She ran down the stairs with her hand stretched out.

"Mr Coventry!"

"Dora!"

She laughed--and blushed. She turned to her companions.

"I don't think I need trouble you after all, Mr Coventry will see me home."

Before Mr Coventry had realised the situation he found himself in the open air with the lady. They turned, perhaps instinctively, towards Hove. It happened, that night, that that part of the Front was almost deserted. They walked some little distance before the gentleman recovered the use of his tongue.

"Dora--what--what cock-and-bull story was that fool telling me?"

"I really cannot say."

"He--he said that you--you were the great Sarah."

"So I am. Don't I look it?"

The gentleman stopped dead. He groaned.

"What--what a fool I've been!"

"You flatter me."

They resumed their promenade. Her hand stole towards his.

"George, are you sorry you said you loved me?"

"Dora, is--is it a joke?"

"No, George, it's not a joke, it's a romance."

"What--what have I done?"

"Made me happy. Isn't that enough to do?"

They stopped again, under a gas-lamp. It was fortunate so few persons were about.

"George, I have a confession to make. It was not you who fell in love with me, it was I who fell in love with you."

"Dora!"

"It is true. It was at Lady Brentford's ball. I saw you there for the first time. I fell in love with you--at sight. You see, when your turn came, you did not make up your mind more rapidly than I had done. It was a case of Goethe's mutual affinity! I saw you at other houses. I went to them on purpose to see you, but I took care never to be introduced to you."

"Why?"

"You know that I am the great Sarah, George. But when I found that you had come to the very hotel at which I was stopping, I formed a little plot. I changed my quarters, I dropped the Freemantle, and became Miss Hardy. Then--then I thrust myself right into your path, and--and it was all soon over. Are you sorry, George?"

"Sorry! But--but about those notes?"

"You goose! They came from me. I knew you had been betting, and I knew that you had lost. I didn't want to lose you for a pound or two. But when you told me that you would not owe your salvation to a woman's money--not knowing who the woman was--why, then I sent you the 'tip' for Ceruleans instead. It was the best thing that I ever did, for it brought me you."

Mr Coventry took off his hat. He wiped his brow. He seemed to be turning matters over in his mind.

"I shall always call you Dora."

"Call me what you please."

"Darling!"