lived, and who was content to labour for that
end as untiringly and steadfastly as other men
labour for honour, or freedom, or their soul's
salvation. A man who knew no law save the
law of his own will, and no restraint save the
restraint of his own judgment.

Up to this time he had regarded love as a
taste, and looked upon women much in the same
light as he looked upon fine wines, fine pictures,
costly books, or valuable horses. They were
one of the enjoyments of life—- rather more
troublesome, though perhaps not much more
expensive than some other enjoyments; needing
to be well dressed, as books to be well
bound, or pictures well framed; needing also,
like valuable horses, to be kindly treated; but,
like horses, to be held or changed at the pleasure
of their owners.

Such was the theory, and such (for the secret
may as well be told here as elsewhere) was the
practice of William Trefalden's life. He was
no gamester. He was no miser. He was no
usurer. He was simply that dangerous phenomenon
a man of cold heart and warm imagination;
a refined voluptuary.

And this was the secret which for long years
he had guarded with such jealous care. He
loved splendour, luxury, pleasure. He loved
elegant surroundings, a well-appointed table,
well-trained servants, music, pictures, books,
fine wines, fine eyes, and fine tobacco. For
these things he had toiled harder than the
poorest clerk in his employ. For these things
he had risked danger and disgrace; and yet
now, when he held the game on which he had
staked his whole life already in his hand—- now,
in the very moment of success—- this man found
that the world contained one prize to obtain
which he would willingly have given all the
rest—- nay, without which all the rest would be
no longer worth possession.

Only a girl! Only a pale, pretty, dark-haired
girl, with large, timid eyes, and a soft voice,
and a colour that came and went fitfully when
she spoke. A girl with ancient blood in her
veins, and a certain child-like purity of bearing,
that told, at the first glance, how she must be
neither lightly sought nor lightly won. A girl
who, though she might be poor to beggary,
could no more be bought like a toy, than could
an angel be bought from heaven.

It was surely madness for William Trefalden
to love such a girl as Helen Rivière! He knew
that it was madness. He had a dim feeling
that it might be ruin. He struggled against
it—- he fought with it—- he flung himself into
work, but all in vain. He was no longer master
of his thoughts. If he read, the page seemed
to have no meaning for him; if he tried to think,
his mind wandered; if he slept, that girlish
face troubled his dreams, and tormented him
with despair and longing. For the first time
in his life, he found himself the slave of a
power which it was vain to resist. Well
might he pace to and fro in utter restlessness
of mind and body! Well might he curse his
fate and his folly, and chafe against the chain
that he was impotent to break! He had known
strong impulses, angry passions, eager desires,
often enough in the course of his
undisciplined life; but never, till now, that passion
or desire which was stronger than his own
imperial will.

In the mean while the soul of Abel Keckwitch
was disquieted within him. His quick ear caught
the restless echo in the inner room, and he felt
more than ever convinced that there was "some-
thing wrong somewhere." Mr. Trefalden had
not opened his letters. Mr. Trefalden had not
read the deed which awaited him upon his desk.
Mr. Trefalden had not attended to a word of
the important bond which he, Abel Keckwitch,
notwithstanding his asthma, had laboriously
read aloud to him from beginning to end. Nor
was this all. Mr. Trefalden looked pale and
anxious, like a man who had not slept the night
before, and was obviously troubled in his mind.
These were significant facts——facts very
perplexing and tormenting; and Mr. Keckwitch
sorely taxed his ingenuity to interpret them
aright.

In the midst of his conjectures, Mr. Trefalden,
who had an appointment in the Temple
for half-past twelve, came out of his
private room, and, glancing round the office,
said:

"Where are those paintings that I brought
home the other day?"

Mr. Keckwitch tucked his pen behind his
ear, and coughed before replying.

"In the cupboard behind the door, sir," said
he. " I put 'em there—- to be out of sight."

Mr. Trefalden opened the cupboard door, saw
that the pictures were safe within, and, after a
moment's hesitation, said:

"I took them for a bad debt, but they are
of no use to me. You can have them,
Keckwitch, if you like."

"I, sir!" exclaimed the head clerk, in
accents of virtuous horror. " No, thank
you, sir. None of your heathen Venuses for
me. I should be ashamed to see 'em on the
walls."

"As you please. At all events, any one who
likes to take them is welcome to do so."

Saying which, Mr. Trefalden, with a slightly
scornful gravity, left his clerks to settle the
question of ownership among themselves, and
went on his way. The pictures were, of course,
had out immediately, and became the objects of
a good deal of tittering, tossing up, and wit of
the smallest kind. In the mean while, the head
clerk found a pretext for going to his master's
room, and instituted a rapid search for any
stray scrap of information that might turn up.

It was a forlorn hope. Mr. Keckwitch had
done the same thing a hundred times before,
and had never found anything; save, now and
then, a few charred ashes in the empty grate.
But it was in his nature to persevere doggedly.
On the present occasion, he examined the papers
on the table, lifted the lid of William Trefalden's
desk, peered between the leaves of the blotting-
book, and examined the table drawers in which