them the condition of a personal alliance?
It is enough. Henceforward I claim no
sympathy at your hands. We will at once
regulate those affairs which cannot, at least,
have been to your disadvantage. And, in the
first place, let us return to the subject whence
I started. A credit of five thousand pounds
is required for Monsieur de Grandmesnil on
the house of Van Orley and Company, of
Rotterdam. Be so good as to give the
necessary directions for that payment. We
will then go into the question of a general
settlement; after which, I shall select another
banker."

The livid hue on the face of Richard
Devaux might have prepared Monsieur
Morin for any credible announcement,
but not for the words which the former
now uttered.

"I fear," he said, "that Monsieur de
Grandmesnil must be disappointed. I have NO
funds belonging to that gentleman in my
possession."

"Are you in your right senses?"
exclaimed Monsieur Morin, starting to his feet.
"No money that belongs to the Marquis de
Grandmesnil? You hold at the least one
hundred thousand pounds. Not to speak of
the large sums which I have deposited on
my own account, and on that of others."

Richard Devaux laughed bitterly. "A
hundred thousand pounds," he echoed. "That,
indeed, is worth claiming. Other large sums,
too! Well, Monsieur Morin, when you can
show me the necessary vouchers for these
amounts, we will talk about meeting your
demands."

"Heavens!" cried Monsieur Morin, "do
you deny the deposits? Do you mean—"

"I mean exactly what I say. I have never
received a farthing from either Monsieur de
Grandmesnil or yourself."

Paralysed by the audacity of this assertion,
the refugee stood like one stricken to stone.

Richard Devaux rang a bell.

"I will satisfy you that I am speaking by
the card. Benson," he continued, addressing
the clerk who entered, "bring me the
account of the Marquis de Grandmesnil!"

"Whose, sir ?"

Devaux repeated the order.

"We have no account in that name, sir."

"I told you so," said Devaux, coolly,
turning to Monsieur Morin. "That will do,
Benson; you may go. Have you any desire,
Monsieur Morin, that I should ask for your
account also?"

"Traitor! Liar! Robber! All the world
shall ring with the report of your villainy.
But I will have justice! I will—I will—
at—Mercy! What is this at my heart?
Henri—Adel—Mon Roi!" Morin staggered
and fell.

Richard Devaux bent over him for a
moment then ran to the door.

"Come here, come here, some of you!
This unfortunate gentleman has fallen in a
fit. Run for the nearest surgeon. A most
excitable man, Benson. I have assisted him,
privately, to a great extent. A disinclination
to make further advances has completely
turned his head. He is under the strangest
delusion."

A surgeon came. He felt Monsieur Morin's
pulse, laid his hand upon his breast, and
closely examined his face.

"Sir," he said  to Devaux, "the gentleman
is dead!"

VI.

A FEW words may close this story. The
projected expedition failed for want of money.
The Marquis de Grandmesnil and his son
both fell at the bombardment of Gertruydenberg.
Adelaide Morin, taken under the
protection of another refugee family, survived
her father's death and that of Henri de
Grandmesnil, to whom she had been secretly
married; but she survived, happily for
herself, without memory, save perchance those
gleams whose visitations cannot be tracked.

Richard Devaux never again went near the
house of Monsieur Morin, which, after his
death, remained unoccupied; but to his own
house, in the city, he went day by day, year
after year. He was the most assiduous man
of business in London, and stood high in the
world's estimation. He lived to be one of
the richest men in England.

MY MODEL DIRECTOR.

MY friend Browne—Howard Plantagenet
Browne Browne, Esquire, is a director of the
Great North and South Junction Railway.
When I state that his qualifications for that
office consist in having carefully inspected the
construction of the four miles of that line
which pass through his estate (the navvies
were rather troublesome to the game at the
time), in having had three of his best hounds
killed upon it since its completion, and in
being in the yearly receipt of a handsome
income, not in any way connected with
scrip, I think I have advanced sufficient to
justify me in asserting that he is a model
director. I don't mean to go the length of
stating that H. P. B. Browne, Esquire, entertains
any particular affection for railways
himself, or cares to know much about them.
On the contrary, he was infinitely happier
when it was the fashion for people in his
station to occupy the box-seat of the True
Briton or the Tally-Ho! and, usurping the
place of the broad mottle-faced coachman, to
tool four prads along the Great North and
South turnpike, than he has ever been in his
directorial capacity. But this, I submit, is
beside the question, and does not make him
one whit less the model director.

To dissipate any lingering particles of
doubt, however, upon this subject, I will
mention a few of the board-room axioms
(invariably advanced by Mr. Browne as the