ASHMEAD accompanied Mademoiselle Klosking to her apartment. It was lighted, and the cloth laid for supper under the chandelier, a snow-white Hamburg damask. Ashmead took the winnings out of his pocket, and proudly piled the gold and crumpled notes in one prodigious mass upon the linen, that shone like satin, and made the gold look doubly inviting. Then he drew back and gloated on it. The Klosking, too, stood and eyed the pile of wealth with amazement and a certain reverence. “Let me count it,” said Ashmead. He did so, and it came to four thousand nine hundred and eighty-one pounds, English money. “And to think,” said he, “if you had taken my advice you would not have a penny of this!”

“I'll take your advice now,” said she. “I will never gamble again.”

“Well, take my advice, and lock up the swag before a creature sees it. Homburg is full of thieves.”

She complied, and took away the money in a napkin.

Ashmead called after her to know might he order supper.

“If you will be so kind.”

Ashmead rejoiced at this unguarded permission, and ordered a supper that made Karl stare.

The Klosking returned in about half an hour, clad in a crisp peignoir.

Ashmead confronted her. “I have ordered a bottle of champagne,” said he. Her answer surprised him. “You have done well. We must now begin to prove the truth of the old proverb, 'Ce qui vient de la flute s'en va au tambour.'”

At supper Mr. Ashmead was the chief drinker, and, by a natural consequence, the chief speaker: he held out brilliant prospects; he favored the Klosking with a discourse on advertising. No talent availed without it; large posters, pictures, window-cards, etc.; but as her talent was superlative, he must now endeavor to keep up with it by invention in his line—the puff circumstantial, the puff poetic, the puff anecdotal, the puff controversial, all tending to blow the fame of the Klosking in every eye, and ring it in every ear. “You take my advice,” said he, “and devote this money, every penny of it, to Publicity. Don't you touch a single shiner for anything that does not return a hundred per cent. Publicity does, when the article is prime.”

“You forget,” said she, “this money does not all belong to me. Another can claim half; the gentleman with whom we are in partnership.”

Ashmead looked literally blue. “Nonsense!” said he, roughly. “He can only claim his fifty pounds.”

“Nay, my friend. I took two equal sums: one was his, one mine.”

“That has nothing to do with it. He told me to bet for him. I didn't; and I shall take him back his fifty pounds and say so. I know where to find him.”

“Where?”

“That is my business. Don't you go mad now, and break my heart.”

“Well, my friend, we will talk of it tomorrow morning. It certainly is not very clear; and perhaps, after I have prayed and slept, I may see more plainly what is right.”

Ashmead observed she was pale, and asked her, with concern, if she was ill.

“No, not ill,” said she, “but worn out. My friend, I knew not at the time how great was my excitement; but now I am conscious that this afternoon I have lived a week. My very knees give way under me.”

Upon this admission, Ashmead hurried her to bed.

She slept soundly for some hours; but, having once awakened, she fell into a half-sleepless state, and was full of dreams and fancies. These preyed on her so, that she rose and dispatched a servant to Ashmead, with a line in pencil begging him to take an early breakfast with her, at nine o'clock.

As soon as ever he came she began upon the topic of last night. She had thought it over, and said, frankly, she was not without hopes the gentleman, if he was really a gentleman, might be contented with something less than half. But she really did not see how she could refuse him some share of her winnings, should he demand it. “Think of it,” said she. “The poor man loses—four hundred pounds, I think you said. Then he says, 'Bet you for me,' and goes away, trusting to your honor. His luck changes in my hands. Is he to lose all when he loses, and win nothing when he wins, merely because I am so fortunate as to win much? However, we shall hear what he says. You gave him your address.”

“I said I was at 'The Golden Star,'” growled Ashmead, in a tone that plainly showed he was vexed with himself for being so communicative.

“Then he will pay us a visit as soon as he hears: so I need give myself no further trouble.”

“Why should you? Wait till he comes,” said crafty Ashmead.

Ina Klosking colored. She felt her friend was tempting her, and felt she was not quite beyond the power of temptation.

“What was he like?” said she, to turn the conversation.

“The handsomest young fellow I ever saw.”

“Young, of course?”

“Yes, quite a boy. At least, he looked a boy. To be sure, his talk was not like a boy's; very precocious, I should say.”

“What a pity, to begin gambling so young!”

“Oh, he is all right. If he loses every farthing of his own, he will marry money. Any woman would have him. You never saw such a curled darling.”

“Dark or fair?”

“Fair. Pink-and-white, like a girl; a hand like a lady.”

“Indeed. Fine eyes?”

“Splendid!”

“What color?”

“I don't know. Lord bless you, a man does not examine another man's eyes, like you ladies. However, now I think of it, there was one curious thing I should know him by anywhere.”

“And what was that?”

“Well, you see, his hair was brown; but just above the forehead he had got one lock that was like your own—gold itself.”

While he said this, the Klosking's face underwent the most rapid and striking changes, and at last she sat looking at him wildly.

It was some time before he noticed her, and then he was quite alarmed at her strange expression. “What is the matter?” said he. “Are you ill?”

“No, no, no. Only a little—astonished. Such a thing as that is very rare.”

“That it is. I never saw a case before.”

“Not one, in all your life?” asked she, eagerly.

“Well, no; not that I remember.”

“Excuse me a minute,” said Ina Klosking, and went hurriedly from the room.

Ashmead thought her manner very strange, but concluded she was a little unhinged by yesterday's excitement. Moreover, there faced him an omelet of enormous size, and savory. He thought this worthy to divide a man's attention even with the great creature's tantrums. He devoted himself to it, and it occupied him so agreeably that he did not observe the conduct of Mademoiselle Klosking on her return. She placed three photographs softly on the table, not very far from him, and then resumed her seat; but her eye never left him: and she gave monosyllabic and almost impatient replies to everything he mumbled with his mouth full of omelet.

When he had done his omelet, he noticed the photographs. They were all colored. He took one up. It was an elderly woman, sweet, venerable, and fair-haired. He looked at Ina, and at the photograph, and said, “This is your mother.”

“It is.”

“It is angelic—as might be expected.”

He took up another.

“This is your brother, I suppose. Stop. Haloo!—what is this? Are my eyes making a fool of me?”

He held out the photograph at arm's length, and stared from it to her. “Why, madam,” said he, in an awestruck voice, “this is the gentleman—the player—I'd swear to him.”

Ina started from her seat while he spoke. “Ah!” she cried, “I thought so—my Edward!” and sat down, trembling violently.

Ashmead ran to her, and sprinkled water in her face, for she seemed ready to faint: but she murmured, “No, no!” and soon the color rushed into her face, and she clasped her hands together, and cried, “I have found him!” and soon the storm of varying emotions ended in tears that gave her relief.

It was a long time before she spoke; but when she did, her spirit and her natural strength of character took the upper hand.

“Where is he?” said she, firmly.

“He told me he was at the 'Russie.'”

“We will go there at once. When is the next train?”

Ashmead looked at his watch. “In ten minutes. We can hardly do it.”

“Yes, we can. Order a carriage this instant. I will be ready in one minute.”

They caught the train, and started.

As they glided along, Ashmead begged her not to act too hurriedly, and expose herself to insult.

“Who will dare insult me?”

“Nobody, I hope. Still, I cannot bear you to go into a strange hotel hunting this man. It is monstrous; but I am afraid you will not be welcome. Something has just occurred to me; the reason he ran off so suddenly was, he saw you coming. There was a mirror opposite. Ah, we need not have feared he would come back for his winnings. Idiot—villain!”

“You stab me to the heart,” said Ina. “He ran away at sight of me? Ah, Jesu, pity me! What have I done to him?”

Honest Ashmead had much ado not to blubber at this patient cry of anguish, though the woman herself shed no tear just then. But his judgment was undimmed by passion, and he gave her the benefit. “Take my advice,” said he, “and work it this way. Come in a close carriage to the side street that is nearest the Russie. I'll go in to the hotel and ask for him by his name—what is his name?”

“Mr. Edward Severne.”

“And say that I was afraid to stake his money, but a friend of mine, that is a bold player, undertook it, and had a great run of luck. 'There is money owing you,' says I, 'and my friend has brought it.' Then he is sure to come. You will have your veil down, I'll open the carriage-door, and tell him to jump in, and, when you have got him you must make him hear reason. I'll give you a good chance—I'll shut the carriage-door.”

Ina smiled at his ingenuity—her first smile that day. “You are indeed a friend,” said she. “He fears reproaches, but, when he finds he is welcome, he will stay with me; and he shall have money to play with, and amuse himself how he likes. I kept too tight a rein on him, poor fellow! My good mother taught me prudence.”

“Yes, but,” said Ashmead, “you must promise me one thing: not to let him know how much money you have won, and not to go, like a goose, and give him a lot at once. It never pays to part with power in this wicked world. You give him twenty pounds a day to play with whenever he is cleaned out. Then the money will last your time, and he will never leave you.”

“Oh, how cold-hearted and wise you are!” said she. “But such a humiliating position for him!”

“Don't you be silly. You won't keep him any other way.”

“I will be as wise as I can,” sighed Ina. “I have had a bitter lesson. Only bring him to me, and then, who knows? I am a change: my love may revive his, and none of these pitiable precautions may be needed. They would lower us both.”

Ashmead groaned aloud. “I see,” said he. “He'll soon clean you out. Ah, well! he can't rob you of your voice, and he can't rob you of your Ashmead.”

They soon reached Frankfort. Ashmead put her into a carriage as agreed, and went to the Russie.

Ina sat, with her veil down, in the carriage, and waited Ashmead's return with Severne. He was a long time coming. She began to doubt, and then to fear, and wonder why he was so long.

At last he came in sight.

He was alone.

As he drew nearer she saw his face was thoroughly downcast.

“My dear friend,” he faltered, “you are out of luck to-day.”

“He will not come with you?”

“Oh, he would come fast enough, if he was there; but he is gone.”

“Gone! To Homburg?”

“No. Unfortunately, he is gone to England. Went off, by the fast train, an hour ago.”

Ina fell back in silence, just as if she had been struck in the face.

“He is traveling with an English family, and they have gone straight home. Here are their names. I looked in the visitors' book, and talked to the servant, and all. Mr. Vizard, Miss Vizard—”

“Vizard?”

“Yes—Miss Maitland, Miss Dover. See, I wrote them all down.”

“Oh, I am unfortunate! Why was I ever born?”

“Don't say that, don't say that. It is annoying: but we shall be able to trace him now; and, besides, I see other ways of getting hold of him.”

Ina broke in upon his talk. “Take me to the nearest church,” she cried. “Man's words are vain. Ah, Jesu, let me cry to thee!”

He took her to the nearest church. She went in, and prayed for full two hours. She came out, pale and listless, and Ashmead got her home how he could. Her very body seemed all crushed and limp. Ashmead left her, sad at heart himself.

So long as she was in sight Ashmead could think only of her misery: but the moment she was out of sight, he remembered the theater. She was announced for Rosina that very night. He saw trouble of all sorts before him. He ran to the theater, in great alarm, and told the manager she had been taken very ill. He must change the bill.

“Impossible!” was the reply. “If she can't sing, I close.”

Ashmead went back to “The Star.”

Ina was in her bedroom.

He sent in a line, “Can you sing tonight? If not he says he must close.”

The reply came back in rather a trembling hand. “I suffer too much by falsehood to break faith myself. I shall pray till night: and then I shall sing. If I die on the stage, all the better for me.”

Was not this a great soul?