TAP-TAP.

       "Come in."

       Miss Thorne, my head reception clerk, entered the small study where I was sitting, busily thinking about everything except photography. (There are times when one feels so utterly weary of one's own occupation!)

       "A lady — Miss Maud Rondel — wants a panel vignette taken, immediately if possible, please," she said, standing tall, elegant, silk-trained, and chilling in the doorway.

       "Ask her to make an appointment for to-morrow," I replied, feeling that I had had enough of human physiognomy for one day.

       "I have done so, Miss Hannel, but she is particularly persistent. Perhaps it would be as well to take her to-day, if you are not feeling very tired?"

       My receptionist's voice so clearly reminded me of the facts that the rent of my studio was somewhat alarmingly high, that electric light bills have an awkward knack of always being, at least, £10 more than is expected, and that I had hardly been established long enough to put oft the earning of useful yellow guineas; so, feeling the justness of her unspoken reproof, I replied that I would be with Miss Rondel in five minutes.

       When I entered the artificially-lit inner waiting-room — the sea-green decorations of which Lady Bessamy had just been condescending enough to copy in her boudoir — it was to find a tall and singularly beautiful girl sitting in a shady corner by the high mantelpiece, where only the light from the fire played on her exquisite features. She was gowned in black, and though none of bear garments were particularly good or particularly fashionable, everything she were seemed stylish and distinctive. She was undoubtedly one of those women who invest clothes with an exclusive personal charm.

       "Good afternoon. You wish for a panel picture of yourself?" I began, inhaling with pleasure the faint odour of some Eastern perfume which clung about her last season's furs.

       "Yes, please, and — and I want you to do the very best with me you possibly can," she replied, in a voice that was very sweet, but just a little tired.

       "I don't think much effort on my part will be required to make an eminently artistic picture," I answered, with sincerity as well as diplomacy.

       My prospective sitter smiled, and as one daring gleam of firelight flashed across her face I felt an enthusiastic pleasure in the task before me.

       Miss Maud Rondel certainly ought to make a "show" picture — one of those productions which decoy snub-nosed women by the score, and cause them to feel convinced that the photographer's art is omnipotent!

       But when we reached the studio, where brutal high lights tell nothing but the truth, I saw that the one I had regarded as a girl, was a woman — a woman several years older than myself.

       Her figure, eyes, and smile were all that they had seemed in the gentle, shaded gloaming; but fine networks of wrinkles were visible here and there; liberal application of powder supplied the lost bloom of youth; and about the beautiful features there was a certain definiteness and sharpness which is only left by the years that have gone.

       "You'll have to make more effort than you thought at first to produce an eminently artistic picture, won't you?" she said suddenly, with a whimsical bitterness in her voice.

       I turned away and adjusted a curtain in order to hide the fact that I was blushing. It was so humiliating to feel that my thoughts had been read in this embarrassingly accurate fashion.

       "I — I don't quite understand, Miss Rondel," I replied with brisk untruthfulness.

       But my sitter only smiled kindly — a smile of disbelief.

       "Do you wish to be taken in a hat or without?" was my next remark.

       A moment's pause, then Miss Rondel moved nearer and, with an impulsive gesture that was hardly English, laid her hand upon my arm.

       "I came to you instead of going to one of your masculine colleagues because I somehow felt that, being a woman, you would understand — and now that I've seen you, I know you will understand!" she cried.

       This recognition of my sympathetic temperament pleased me, and I hastened to show appreciation of the undeveloped compliment.

       "Thank you — yes, I believe that matters of sentiment are within my comprehension," I answered, feeling a sudden resentment towards the years that had robbed my companion of the immaturity which is a woman's best asset.

       "Then I will tell you all. I want my portrait made to look as I looked eight years ago, because it is going to be sent out to India — to a man who loved me and parted from me when I was twenty-two. It was impossible for me to join him out there, and his return has been delayed season after season; but when he does come home we shall marry, because — almost impossible to credit it! — we have both kept faithful!"

       "That is beautiful!" I murmured, feeling an involuntary envy of this happy woman who could, hold a man's heart across the seas for ninety-six long months!

       "Yes, it is beautiful," she repeated, "but sometimes I am almost afraid how it will be when he sees me again! I — I have altered so much — so pitifully much! There are days when I look in the glass and wonder what he will say — what he will think! But," resolutely abandoning her tone of dreamy retrospection, "I must not waste any more of your time in the luxury of detailing my own sensations. What I want, Miss Hannel, is this — a portrait taken to-day and touched up — 'faked' I believe is the correct term — to make me look like this!" Here she produced a portrait of herself dressed in the fashions of seven years ago — the portrait of a girl who, at that time, had not learnt to be a woman!

       "There won't be a great deal of faking needed," I began, but the lie was feeble, so I gave it up and promised to do my best.

       "I shall send it to him in reply to a letter I have just received — a letter saying that he longs for a photograph of me as I am to-day," she went on, almost seeming as if she were speaking to herself, after the fashion of people who are forced to live companionless lives. "Of course when he does return to England he must see all - all there is to see — but it will not be yet, so let him believe me to be what I am not for just a little while longer!"

       How I longed to warn her against this dangerous game of deception! But being a photographic artist, and not a moral mentor, I busied myself with selecting a suitable background and arranging my plates.

       At last everything was ready; then I began to pose this woman with the gorgeous hair and tired eyes, and before I arranged the first position I realised that an artistic treat was in store for me.

       Maud Rondel couldn't help falling into absolutely graceful attitudes, while "the self-conscious mouth" (which is a photographer's greatest trial) was entirely absent in her case.

       Her lips parted naturally, her eyes gazed steadily without the customary glacial stare, her hands knew what to do with themselves, and her figure seemed specially adapted for leaning against hollow sun-dials, or bending over fragmentary balustrades.

       The too many years did not matter — my re-toucher could banish those with the skilfulness of death!

       "Now, Miss Rondel," I said, when I had pressed the pneumatic ball for about the tenth time, "I think I can set you at liberty, and if you will call in about two o'clock the day after to-morrow, I quite hope that a finished picture will be ready for you to send by that day's mail — Friday, is it not?"

       "Yes, Friday," she replied. "Thank you very much, Miss Hannel, for all the pains you have taken. If — if you are interested I will let you know what Mr. Dufresyne writes about the picture. I ought to have an acknowledgment in about a couple of months," she concluded, with that wistful hesitation which denotes a craving for human sympathy.

       "Please do tell me, I shall be more than interested." And for once I absolutely meant what I said. (I wish I could always do so, but with photography as a profession it isn't possible! Human vanities, as well as human features, require such very judicious treatment!)

       Punctually at two o'clock on Friday Miss Rondel made her appearance, and when I handed her the finished panel portrait she gazed at it without a word, while a strange expression of agony entered her eyes.

       It was a picture of a girl, young with youth's illusions, and glad with the hopes of life's possibilities. Every line, every trace of weariness and hardness, had been erased by the magic touch of the "spotter's" brush.

       An exquisite photograph, and one which might have been aptly termed "A study of girlish springtime."

       "It is a beautiful — a beautiful, beautiful lie!" whispered Maud Rondel in a low, sob-thrilled voice. Then, with a desperate gesture that meant all a woman's vain regrets, she put the picture from her and laid it face downwards on the table.

       "I — I can't look at it any more. Miss Hannel — I — th—think you understand!" she said, a short little laugh ending the sentence.

       I only nodded. Professional disclaimers would not have fitted the situation.

       "I shall send this off to-night," she went on resolutely, putting her emotions on one side, "and then, later on, I'll let you know how — how your most artistic production is received across the seas. Thank you very much — good-bye!"

       And instead, of the usual client-to-photographer bow, we shook hands and smiled into each other's eyes.

       I always have had immense sympathy with romance, and I suppose this trait drew us together.

       A fortnight later, when I had just been very busy with a hideous débutante in a delicious presentation gown, I was told that Miss Rondel was asking to see me. Quickly I entered the sea-green waiting-room and found my most satisfactory "sitter" standing by the fire in an attitude of strained impatience; and when she turned towards me I was horrified at the pallor of her face and at the dark rings beneath her eyes.

       "Could you please let me see a copy of the portrait like — like the one I sent away? (You knew I only had that one taken). Do you happen to have another copy?" she said in short, jerky accents.

       "Yes, the picture was much too successful for me not to have kept a duplicate — here is one," I replied, stepping towards a small, draped easel which had evidently escaped her attention

       Almost roughly she seized the photograph and devoured it with her eyes, and without any warning she broke into a passion of unrestrained sobs.

       "Oh! it is even worse than I thought," she moaned. "I have been hoping against hope that perhaps it was not quite so — so false, but it is — it is!"

       "My dear Miss Rondel, do please tell me the cause of your distress," I answered, putting an arm about her quivering shoulders (we were just women — not merely client and photographer — at that moment!)

       "Yes, I'll tell you," she replied, leaning back with the weariness that follows spent emotions. "Yesterday I received a letter fr—from India, saying that in a week from that date th—the writer would sail for England! — which means that within a month of the time he receives the photograph he will see the original! Miss Hannel, I don't know how to bear it — to bear his expression of consternation when he sees my face!"

       "But he, too, will have changed and grown older!"

       "Yes, but he has not sent me a pictured lie! He will be expecting to see the girl whose photograph will have reached him by now, and in a day or two he will sail — sail towards the woman who will disillusion all his hopes and beliefs!"

       "But if he loves you — as his fidelity proves — Time's inevitable touches will not matter," I murmured.

       "No, perhaps they would not have done — but my miserable lie will matter! If only I had not succumbed to the pitiful vanity of a passée woman he wouldn't have returned full of expectation. Ah! If only he need never see that portrait! But it is no good lamenting. It is done — he has seen, and he will see! Good-bye, Miss Hannel, and forgive me for wasting your time like this, good-bye."

       And as she passed between the sea-green plush curtains I felt that I would give much to hear the end of the story — the story of a man's disillusionment and of a woman's broken heart.

*       *       *       *      *

       Three months later, when many days and many events had almost erased the memory of Maud Rondel, I received the following letter:

8 Birchfield Gardens,      
W.                  

DEAR MISS HANNEL,
       I have so often hoped we should meet again. I have not forgotten your sympathy — which is the greatest of human needs. Will you come to tea with me to-morrow afternoon? I so much want to introduce my husband to you.
              Yours ever sincerely,

MAUD DUFRESYNE (née Rondel).       

       "Maud Dufresyne!"

       So the picture-falsehood had not mattered after all! A man's love had forgiven — er — a a woman's wrinkles! How noble!

       Feeling mingled sentiments of romance and cynicism, I rang the bell at No. 8 Birchfield Gardens; but it was not long before the latter emotion was destined to hide its ignoble head.

       With outstretched hands Mrs. Dufresyne came towards me, and I was startled at the change which had taken place in her.

       It was the girl of my picture returned from Time's realms of long ago!

       "I am so glad to see you," she said. "I have only just come back from Genoa, where our honeymoon was spent. And now I may introduce my husband. Roy, this is Miss Hannel!"

       A tall man stepped out of the shadow, and then his wife guided — yes, he seemed unable to find his way alone — guided him towards me!

       "Forgive my clumsiness," he said, with a smile that was almost bewildering in its charm, "but my affliction is so recent that I haven't yet got used to it — ah! but perhaps Maud has not told you that she has consented to take a poor blind beggar for better or worse?"

       "My husband lost his sight by means of an accident in India just three days before he received my portrait," she answered.

       Our eyes met — and then I understood.

       "Yes, and I can't quite say that I — I altogether regret my loss," continued Mr. Dufresyne, "because if it had not been for the accident I shouldn't have been pensioned off and sent home, and there's no knowing if Maud would have waited any longer! It's better to be without one's eyes than without one's heart," he concluded, pressing the slender hand that guided his arm.

       For a second I could not answer. I was remembering those words uttered by Maud Rondel on the occasion of her last visit to my studio!

       "If only he could never see that portrait!"

       Well, her wish had been granted, and, like many fulfilled longings, there was pain in the fulfilment.

       Then I looked towards them as they stood side by side in the early spring sunlight, and as I gazed all sadness left my heart.

       They were happy; they were together, and to him she would always be a girl!

       Fate had hidden the despoiling work of Time, and love did the rest.

(Next month will appear the strange story of
"The Poet of West Hampstead.")

"HOW shall this be answered, please, Miss Hannel?" inquired my receptionist, handing me a business letter which had arrived that morning.

       "Haven't you replied?" I said, returning query for query.

       Miss Thorne's lips grew particularly thin, as they always did when I ventured to question her on the inartistic subject of duty.

       "I could scarcely take it upon myself to do so in this case without your instructions. The request contained in the letter is somewhat unusual — I didn't know how to deal with it!" was her respectfully crushing rejoinder.

       "Sorry, Miss Thorne — another of my many mistakes!" I answered, taking the letter, and commencing to read its peculiar contents, which ran as follows:—

10 Rumbalt Mansions,            
West Hampstead, N.W.      

       DEAR MADAM, — As I have been assured on every side how specially successful you are in all lines of artistic photography, I cannot think of anyone more fitted to help me in my present requirements. Although I have never troubled to break into verse, I am at heart a poet, and only the mystic, fantastic, unconventional, and unusual appeal to me.

       Now, to come to the point, I want my portrait taken in company with one of my own whimsical fancies — as though the fancy were watching over me from the recesses of my own mind, as it were. Probably you will find it difficult to understand what I mean, but if you would kindly call here any morning you may core to appoint, and have your apparatus brought at the same time, I will explain while you operate.

       Naturally, I know that for an artist of your repute to consent to take pictures at a bachelor's humble flat is a great concession, but if you could see your way to oblige me I shall be quite prepared to pay any specially high fees you may think desirable to charge.

       A reply by return making an appointment will greatly oblige. — Yours truly,

J. HAMILTON.      

       Twice I read over this weird effusion, and then with a third perusal made up my mind that I would "oblige."

       For one thing, it was rather appealing for a photographer to be called an "artist of repute"; and, for another, there was quite a pleasing ring about that phrase "specially high fees." Besides which two considerations, I really felt very curious to know how a man could be "taken in company with his own whimsical fancies"!

       "You might write and appoint the first morning that you know I have free, please, Miss Thorne," I said, handing her back Mr. Hamilton's letter.

       "That will be Thursday, then," replied my receptionist.

       "Thank you — then Thursday will do very nicely."

       But, instead of taking her departure, Miss Thorne still waited.

       "Any other letters that require attention, Miss Thorne?" I inquired.

       "Oh! no, not any. But — er —–"

       "Yes?"

       "I — er — I suppose you will require me to accompany you on Thursday, will you not! The — er — the gentleman is a bachelor, you see, and in going to his flat, naturally you will need a — er — chaperon!"

       "As Harris will take the camera and wait to bring it back, there is no fear of my being without the companion which Mrs. Grundy demands. But if it is that you are as inquisitive as I am about this business, and want to see the photograph taken, come by all means, Miss Thorne," I replied, infusing quite a nasty tone into my voice.

       When we reached Mr. Hamilton's flat on Thursday morning we were shown into the drawing-room, while Harris waited in the hall with the camera and other paraphernalia.

       It was a well-furnished apartment, but did not in any way suggest the poetic temperament of its owner.

       What would be the personality of this gentleman who wished to be photographed "in company with his own whimsical fancies"? I wondered.

       Flowing locks, deep, mystic eyes, full of all the romances of the East, a pale, spiritual face, and —–

       "Ah! good-morning, Miss Hannel. This is awfully good of you to come, don't you know!" And with these words, which broke in upon my picturesque imaginings, I found myself confronted by a fine specimen of English manhood!

       His hair was fair, and short as national prejudice demands; his ruddy, healthy face went surety for unimpaired honour and appetite; and his figure held out suggestions of fresh-air games and cold tubs, while his clothes — well, really there was a hint of sporting cheerfulness about the raiment of this individual who professed a taste for the mystic, fantastic, unconventional, and unusual!

       "Yes, it really is awfully good of you to come, but — er — I — er — don't think I could get all those — er — er — poetic notions that come into my head photographed in a proper studio! What?" he blundered on, shuffling his feet about on the carpet.

       "Oh! no, I daresay not. And do you wish to be taken in this room?" I replied, anxious to get to work.

       "No, no, I haven't fixed it up in here — besides, the light isn't so good. Do you mind stepping into my study?"

       Then Miss Thorne and I crossed the cosy hall and passed through a door which Mr. Hamilton was politely holding open.

       "Oh!"

       I really couldn't help a gasp of astonishment, and for once Miss Thorne was completely bereft of her refined faculty for never seeming surprised.

       The study — which evidently in its normal condition would have been a nice, solidly-furnished apartment — presented a most weird appearance.

       A long rope was fastened from wall to wall — high up and near the ceiling — from which hung yards and yards of gauze and net draperies, reaching right down to the floor. This paraphernalia was fixed just behind the desk, so that anyone seated in the revolving chair was faced by this extraordinary contrivance.

       "It — it looks a bit queer, d-doesn't it?" stuttered Mr. Hamilton. "But, you see," he went on desperately," we — we poetic chaps have got such jolly odd notions and nothing'll satisfy us till they're carried out. What?"

       "I daresay — yes," I responded weakly.

       "And my latest idea is to be photographed sitting at my desk here, deep in thought, with my thoughts photographed, too, as it were."

       "But does this gauze represent your thoughts, then, Mr. Hamilton?" I asked, wondering if any symbolical meaning were intended by the transparency of the net!

       "Oh! by Jove, Miss Hannel, not quite so bad as that," lie answered, with a good-natured guffaw. "No, there's a bit more to come, so if you're ready I'll — I'll — call my friend in" — and with this last extraordinary remark he went to the door and shouted "Polson" in somewhat imperative tones.

       A moment's delay, then "Polson" appeared, and as he did so both Miss Thorne and I uttered shrill, feminine squeaks of alarm.

       Polson was a man, as we discovered when he mumbled about feeling "tied up," but at first he presented the appearance of a ghost dressed up to look like Shakespeare.

       His face was whitened, his hair and false pointed beard were floured, and his mediæval get-up seemed to be sprinkled with some fine white powder that gave a general visionary aspect — and particularly so when he stepped behind the thick folds of gauze and pointed one lank forefinger at my client, who was by this time seated at the desk and trying to assume a somewhat rapt expression.

       "Will this pose do, d'you think?" he said, addressing me in sheepish tones.

       I pulled back the window curtains and put my head on one side.

       "Yes, I think I can get the entire picture in if Mr. Shakes— er — if Mr. Polson will step a little closer this way," I replied, dragging the mediæval ghost a few paces forward.

       "Rather effective? What?" queried Mr. Hamilton, with a touch of pride.

       "Oh! very — yes, very. I conclude you wish to convey the impression that you are drawing inspiration from the works of Shakespeare, do you not?"

       "Er — er — yes, that's it, that's it! Good idea. What?"

       "Excellent! (No, a little more to the left, Harris. Miss Thorne, would you kindly pass me those plates? Thanks!) Yes, excellent — as you say, quite a 'whimsical fancy'! Raise your head, please — a shade more forward, Shak— er — Mr. Polson — that's right. Now, steady, please — one — two — three!"

       When the picture was drily taken Mr. Hamilton insisted that a few more should be done to insure perfect success, and he was most anxious in his queries concerning the probable result.

       "Do you think it will give the impression of a hazy, intangible, half-transparent figure floating about in space, don't you know?" he inquired anxiously.

       "I should say so. But, of course, I've never done anything of this kind before, so I can't guarantee the result," I responded, while Harris busied himself with packing up my properties, and Miss Thorne glanced coldly at "Shakespeare," who was now occupied with a decanter and syphon, which he had taken out of the small chiffonier.

       "Of course not — of course not; but — er — well, suppose it shouldn't look quite as I want, you could try another way — by sort of mixing two photos up — couldn't you?"

       "I don't go in for trick photography at all," I replied with hauteur.

       "No, no, of course not, I beg pardon — but you do think it'll turn out all right, don't you?" — and this queer young man looked into my face with all the ingenuous anxiety of a worried schoolboy. My heart couldn't help softening, so I left off being haughty, said I believed the pictures would be all right, and promised that if they weren't I'd try a few faking experiments!

       (How weak we women are directly a big man behaves like a schoolboy, to be sure!)

       However, there was no need for any such proceeding on my part, because the photographs turned out a complete success. Mr. Shakespeare — Polson — looked like a pale, misty wraith created out of nothing, and the unversed poet with the lively waistcoat presented a satisfactorily tense and dreamy aspect. Certainly it was a very artistic production! I was quite pleased with the effect, and when Mr. Hamilton sent his usefully plump cheque he filled in three pages with gratitude and enthusiasm.

       At first I often recalled this quaint experience, but as time went on, with that rapidity which it has a habit of doing when one is young and there is a lot to be got into life, I began to forget all about the unversed poet of West Hampstead.

       Six months later, however, I was destined to once more be brought across his path in the manner which I am now about to relate and bewail.

       I was having tea with a woman-friend who had a cosy little home inside the radius, and who, not caring to be possessed of either a husband, a parrot, or a French poodle, had taken up spiritualism as a spare-time hobby.

       "Do stay on and go with me to a private séance this evening," she said, as I began to draw on my gloves and look at the clock.

       At first I demurred and mumbled out some conscientious remarks about "work waiting to be done," but in the end said that "I should be delighted" — which was true, seeing that occultism in any form always attracts me very much. (N.B. — I don't know anything about it!)

       "This is a private séance just held among friends," explained Marion Kay, as we drove towards the regions directly east of Knightsbridge. "Mrs. Dean (a newly-married woman — pretty little thing!) holds them every Tuesday. She is perfectly crazy on spiritualism, and says that she possesses very strong mediumistic powers. I don't know whether she does or not, I'm sure!"

       "And is her husband equally gifted?" I inquired, feeling somewhat sorry for Mr. Dean.

       "He has to pretend to be, though I must say he doesn't look specially occult. He's a nice fellow, and had been madly in love with Elsa for years, but she wouldn't have him till at last he discovered that he was occult, and also possessed the power of being able to materialise spirits. This fetched Elsa on the spot, so she accepted him and — ah! here we arc! Stop cabman — stop — there — the windows with the green blinds!"

       When we entered the house a low-voiced parlourmaid showed us into a half-dark apartment where about ten ladies were sitting round in a circle, while the hostess, a daintily pretty girl, who had done her best to spoil her charms by being garbed in a hideous Oriental tea-gown, stood in their midst.

       "Ah! you are late — I was just about to call Mishywashymoo! Sit down!" was her somewhat unconventional greeting as she hustled us into two vacant chairs, and continued the proceedings, which lasted over an hour, and were carried on pretty much in the same way as small professional séances.

       The medium (Mrs. Dean) went through a series of facial contortions which culminated in a certain rigidity of countenance, after which she changed her voice and commenced speaking very rapidly and in gruff tones tinctured with a fluctuating foreign accent.

       "She is under the control of Racine," whispered a spectacled lady sitting on my right as our hostess seized Marion Kay's hand, pressed it to her brow, and commenced to tell her sundry obvious and unimportant facts about herself.

       Then she came to me, clutched me in the same fashion, and made a few startling revelations.

       "I can see one room, all glass," she crooned. "There are many brown pictures, and there is one petit ball that can be squeezed! There is aussi much money, and beautiful dames wiz décolletée gowns and hats both at ze same time! — zey sit vere still — click! Ah! I zee all zis!"

       At first I was somewhat astounded, but then when I remembered that an illustrated interview with myself had appeared in the current number of the Lady's Whirl, which was lying on a small table not far from the medium's arm-chair, my astonishment more or less abated!

       When the séance was ended lights were turned up and the medium became a particularly pretty and vivacious young woman.

       "I am so glad to see you," she said, after we had been introduced. "Forgive my not noticing you during the séance, but when I am under control of course I am quite unconscious of anything that's going on."

       "Oh! of course," I responded. "And is your husband similarly gifted?" I concluded, by way of continuing the conversation.

       "Oh! far more so, she replied, her voice dropping into a low tone of reverence. "My husband can materialise!"

       "That means — er —–"

       "Cause spirits to appear."

       "Indeed! How interesting! Have you seen him do this?"

       "No, never. He finds it takes it out of him to do it often; but I have a photograph done before we were married, which absolutely proves that he is a materialising medium!"

       "How do you mean, Mrs. Dean?"

       "I mean that he had the spirit photographed as it appeared to him! I will show you if you are interested" — and, without waiting to hear whether I was or not, she opened a small box and produced a cabinet photograph that had evidently been removed from its mount.

       "There, this is the picture! My husband you see, taken in company with the spirit of Shakespeare, and — ah! Ham, here you are! Let me introduce you to Miss Hannel — the artist Miss Hannel, you know, who's awfully interested in your spirit-photograph!"

       And as Mrs. Dean broke off and addressed a tall, breezy-looking Englishman who had just entered the room I looked up from the photograph which I myself had taken and encountered the agonised glance of an "unversed poet," who had once wanted to be taken "in company with one of his own whimsical fancies"!

       It was a poignant moment, and I was just thinking that I would positively enjoy giving this impostor away, when I remembered that Marion had told me how he had loved his wife for years, and that she had only consented to accept him when she learnt about his mediumistic qualifications.

       Mr. Dean waited in pitiful suspense, and when I replied that I was "immensely interested in spiritualism," and said what "an elevating bond I felt sure it must be between them," he looked like a big, grateful schoolboy who had just escaped a caning;

*       *       *       *      *

       The next day I received the following communication written in a caligraphy which I had seen once before.

       DEAR MISS HANNEL, — I can't thank you enough for not giving me away. I'm beastly ashamed of myself, and feel sure you must think me a rank, hypocritical outsider. My only excuse is that Elsa would never have married a blundering idiot like myself — she is so highly strung, artistic, and spiritual, you know — unless I'd seemed something a bit out of the common, and when one day she mentioned how she reverenced "mediums who could materialise," I took up the game, and put the finishing touch by getting my friend Polson to rig up as Shakespeare.

       You know the rest. I'm awfully sorry, but I have tried to make up for this rank piece of deceit by never committing any other, and by running as straight as I can. My wife is sending out invitations for a dinner next week. If you accept I shall feel that you don't altogether condemn me, but if you refuse I shall know that you consider me quite too much of an outsider to be counted among your friends. — Yours with contrition, and very truly,

J. HAMILTON DEAN.      

       P.S. — I left out the "Dean" when I wrote to you that first time, in case Elsa ever got to hear anything. One can't take too many precautions, can one?

       N.B. — Do come on the 18th.

       I did go on the 18th, and the soles à la Colbert were delicious — and so was the host's devotion to the hostess! So much so, in fact, that by the time the evening was over I felt romantically glad that Shakespeare and I had been so useful!

(Next month: "The Ruse of a Flirt.")

A MARRIAGE has been arranged and will shortly take place between Miss Klara Kellett — daughter of Colonel and Mrs. Augustus Kellett, of 52 Drinkon Square — and Sir John Prynceby, the well-known millionaire and philanthropist, who was among the recipients of recent birthday honours.

       I read the above announcement with considerable interest, and then handed the highly-glazed threepenny weekly over to my receptionist.

       "She's a clever girl, isn't she?" I remarked, infusing a lilt of sarcasm into my voice.

       Miss Thorne perused the paragraph and then looked vacant.

       "Er — who is she?" was her reply, as she laid down the paper.

       "Oh, you must remember — a dashing, red-haired girl who had her portrait taken about six months ago with that objectionable Captain Ghilk?"

       Still my receptionist retained her expression of non-comprehension.

       "My dear Miss Thorne, either your memory is failing or you are in love! Come down into the storing room and let me refresh your recollection," I said — just a little irritably, I'm afraid — as I glanced in the sitters' book to find the number of the plate.

       Then we went down, and a few moments later I had looked for No. 0181, and found it.

       "Now you remember, don't you?" I said, holding the negative sideways.

       Miss Thorne peered until at last she made out the figures of a white-gowned woman and a frock-coated man, taken in one of the most affectionate of the conventional poses adopted by Royal lovers — that is to say, she was sitting in a high-backed chair while he stood at her side resting one hand on her shoulder.

       "Oh, of course! Now I do recollect; I remember thinking how very indecorous it was for them to be taken in such a very — ahem! — intimate attitude, when they were not engaged!"

       "They were practically engaged, I believe, and Captain Ghilk induced Klara to have the portrait taken in order to win a wager. I know it was his affair, because he arranged the whole business and paid for the pictures when they were finished. It was a very silly thing to do, but as Klara Kellett is a flirt who acts on impulse (such a dangerous combination) she is always doing silly things."

       So saying, I replaced the negative and returned to the studio, while Miss Thorne attended to the pictorial wants of a Society mother who required a second impression of a photograph in which she had been taken surrounded by her seven children and five dogs.

       Then my thoughts strayed away from the red-haired flirt of Drinkon Square, only to be brought back again more quickly than I had anticipated.

       I was just thinking out the details of a study picture which I was preparing for an exhibition, when there was a knock at the studio door.

       "Come in!"

       A footman (one whom I disliked, and who was leaving my service in a fortnight) entered the room carrying a card on a silver salver.

       I took the card and felt a thrill of astonishment as I read the name inscribed thereon — "Miss Klara Kellett"

       "Show Miss Kellett into the waiting-room, and say I will be with her at once," I said, wondering if my former client had come to be photographed with her birthday-honoured millionaire.

       "Very good, madam!"

       But when I got down it was to find the frivolous Klara in the reception-room, chatting to a lady clerk, who was ticking entries in the sitters' book.

       "How do you do, Miss Hannel? I hate waiting-rooms — they always seem so dentist-y, and specialist-y! — so I insisted upon stopping here among all these lovely photographs," she began.

       What an absolutely bewitching young person she was! Not strictly beautiful, but a human artistic treat, nevertheless, with her gorgeous red hair, cream and pink skin, too-strongly-marked dark brows, daring grey eyes, and well-developed figure.

       "And what lovely pictures you've got! It does seem a shame that a photographic artist can't be 'hung' on a 'line,' like the brush-and-paint people!" she continued, while I modestly listened to this encouraging but very insincere admiration.

       At last, when preliminaries were over, I ventured to offer some suitably subdued congratulations.

       "Yes, it's an awfully good match, isn't it?" she replied frankly. "And he's such a dear thing — not a bit bald or horrid like the millionaire-bart. has every right to be! I'm awfully in love with him, and he's awfully in love with me, so we are going to be the happiest people in London, and give lots of parties (you will come, won't you?) and heaps of money to charities and things. I have been rather what people who don't understand things call a 'flirt,' but that's over now, and I'm going to settle down beautifully, and to forget that I've ever even smiled at any man except my own husband. Nice, isn't it?"

       I agreed it was very nice, and then gently steered round an insinuation likely to bring Miss Kellett to a statement of her business.

       "Well, I've come to ask if you remember a — a portrait I — I had — er — er — had taken with Captain Ghilk?" she said, twisting up the end of her long white-fox stole.

       "Of course I remember it quite well. Miss Kellett. In fact, to be absolutely candid, I must confess that when I read the announcement of your engagement about half-an-hour ago, a sort of feeling of reminiscent curiosity made me go down into my storing-room below and look at the negative," I replied.

       Instantly Klara Kellett's face lighted up; then coming closer, and laying one hand on my arm, she spoke once more with her customary fluency:

       "And it's about that negative I've come to see you, Miss Hannel — that negative which may spoil my whole life."

       "What — er — how do you mean?"

       "I mean that I believe Captain Ghilk, who is simply writhing with vengeance, will order some more copies to be printed (thank goodness, I know there are none of the original ones remaining) with a view to showing them to Sir John Prynceby!"

       "But that would not be so very serious, surely?"

       "Serious? Why, it would be blighting! Sir John's mother was a Quakeress, so you can guess his notions as to feminine decorum. And if he knew I had — er — had ever been specially friendly with a man of Captain Ghilk's reputation, why, he'd give me up at once. Fortunately, no letters are existing that have ever been exchanged between us, so this photograph is the only proof that I was ever misguided enough to half promise to be engaged to him. And I've come to ask you to give me the negative, Miss Hannel."

       I paused a moment before I replied. This last sentence savoured too much of certainty that her commands would be obeyed to please an independent photographic artist.

       "This is rather a difficult request to grant, Miss Kellett," I said at last.

       "Why difficult? You told me you had got the negative downstairs — I know the number on the portrait is 0181 — so where is the difficulty?"

       "The difficulty lies with me and my sense of professional fitness. You see the negative belongs to Captain Ghilk, as it was he who ordered, received, and paid for the photographs — therefore I have no right to part with his property, and —–"

       In an instant Klara had interrupted me with one of those bursts of sudden, impulsive temper that had made more than one man hesitate to ask for the possession of Colonel Kellett's attractive daughter.

       "You have a right to do it, or anyhow you could do it if you wanted to," she flared. "It's just a piece of nasty spite that makes you refuse — nothing else — and let me tell you, Miss Hannel, that it won't do any good to your professional reputation for you to be so disobliging; It's abominable!"

       And with this last word she actually stamped her daintily-shod foot.

       This, of course, decided me; Nothing now would make me grant her request!

       Although it would have been a culpably irregular thing to do, there is just a chance that I might have arranged something if she had pleaded gently and prettily — but this insolent display of fury quite settled matters the other way.

       "I regret that I cannot oblige you," was my only reply, as with a stately bend of my head I parted the plush curtains, passed through the green waiting-room, and entered the studio — leaving Miss Kellett to finish wreaking her anger on the lady clerk and the footman.

       For the next couple of hours I was kept busy with a ducal baby who would persist in thrusting a woolly lamb into his ducal mouth, just at the precise moment the camera was about to immortalise his unclassified little features. His future Grace was very tiring, and by the time he had been carried away, weeping lustily, I felt desperately fatigued.

       "I've a good mind not to see anyone else to-day," I remarked to myself, just as Miss Thorne entered the room with the announcement that Miss Kellett and her friend Miss Nora Dunkerly were in the waiting-room, and begged to see me.

       "Miss Kellett implores you to speak to her just for a moment — she seems very urgent about it, and is terribly upset," pleaded my receptionist, when I refused to grant the interview.

       I hesitated, then my heart softened.

       "Miss Kellett has been very rude, but still I'll come down just for a minute to see what she wants," I replied. "Only for a minute, say, please, Miss Thorne."

       After an interval sufficient to appease my own dignity, I descended, and there found a picture of beautiful penitence.

       "Oh, Miss Hannel, can you ever, ever forgive me?" cried Klara, in a passion of remorse. "I told my great friend — Miss Dunkerly — how vilely rude I had been, and she said the only thing I could, do was to come round and apologise. So we've come together, as I was really afraid to see you alone. I do beg your pardon, and can offer as my only excuse the fact that papa has a vile temper, and that I am a victim of hereditary instinct, I am — oh! I am so sorry!"

       Immediately all my resentment faded — how could it remain in the face of such an abject apology? — and then the future Lady Prynceby and I shook hands with extreme cordiality to show that the matter was quite forgotten.

       "I can't thank you enough," she began again, when suddenly her sentence was broken by a thud sounding at the further end of the room.

       We looked round and discovered that Miss Dunkerly had fallen fainting across one of the plush-covered lounges, holding in her hand the cabinet portrait of an M.P.

       In an instant we had both rushed towards her, and before three minutes had elapsed, myself, Miss Thorne, and the lady clerks were busy with fans, smelling salts, brandy, burnt feathers, and various other remedies that didn't do a bit of good.

       It was an obstinate fainting-fit, and I really began to grow alarmed.

       "I'm going for a doctor," cried Klara, when we had cremated the contents of a whole pillow — "no, no, I'd rather go myself, because there's a special doctor quite near who knows papa." And before I could utter another word she had dashed through the plush curtains and left us all in charge of her prostrate friend.

       But no sooner had Miss Kellett departed than Miss Dunkerly commenced to show signs of consciousness. Her lips quivered, her eyelids flickered, her breast heaved convulsively — and before we had fully realised that all cause for anxiety was over, a condition of violent, screaming hysterics had taken the place of her former inertia.

       "Ah—h—h — oh!—h—h— Ow—ow—­ow—–" she screamed and howled, while we sprayed the eau de Cologne and applied the smelling salts with renewed vigour.

       For nearly ten minutes this continued, till Klara returned with the news that she couldn't find a doctor at home.

       But the very word "doctor" — as is so often the case with emotional and hysterical patients — worked like magic; for from that instant Miss Dunkerly slowly began to recover, till at last she was able to explain the cause of her attack.

       "I — I have been very foolish, b—but the sight of his face after all these weary years upset me dreadfully," she panted, indicating the photograph of the whiskered M.P.

       "You mean Mr. Gosworth?" I cried in astonishment. He seemed such a staid and much-married person to cause this outburst.

       "Gosworth! Delamere, you mean! Surely that is the portrait of Gordon Delamere?"

       "Indeed it is not That is Mr. Charles Gosworth, the member for Dunstead."

       Eagerly Miss Dunkerly once more scanned the photographed features, then with an air of contrition she turned towards us.

       "I see my mistake — the nose is quite different at the end — but really at first I — I thought it was th—th—the one man I can never forget! Pray, Miss Hannel, forgive me for giving so much trouble and being so absurd!"

       I had been doing a good deal of forgiving that afternoon, so a little extra wouldn't matter; therefore I made some soothingly amiable rejoinder, after which we all uttered a few more mutually polite remarks and parted.

       And I really wasn't sorry to get these two particularly disturbing young women out of the way. What with insults, ducal babies, apologies, faints and hysteria, I had gone through a trying time.

       The next morning, before I had quite completed my toilette. Miss Thorne came to me.

       "Oh, Miss Hannel, what shall we do?" she said. "Captain Ghilk has just called to order half-a-dozen impressions of that portrait he had taken six months ago with Miss Kellett, and now — look here!"

       And with these last words she held up the shattered fragments of a negative.

       "What does this mean? How was it broken?"

       "Why, I went downstairs to look for No. 0181, and found the shelves and whole place in dreadful disorder, and this lying broken on the ground! I do wish you would come down!"

       I hurried down at once to the storing-room, where everything was as my receptionist stated.

       There was one item, however, she hadn't noticed — and that was a tiny, perfumed, lace-trimmed handkerchief lying the floor, a handkerchief marked "Klara"!

       Then I understood everything — Miss Kellett's return to apologise, her friend-confed­erate's illness, and her supposed visit to the doctor.

       Evidently she must have concocted the plot directly I refused to give up the negative.

       The puzzle-pieces fitted exactly. She must have explained the situation to her "dearest friend," who agreed to faint and have hysterics in order to get everyone's attention centred on her while Klara — gone on a supposed visit to the doctor — slipped downstairs, found negative No. 0181, and broke it.

       Doubtless the lady clerk unwittingly supplied information as to the arrangement of the stored negatives, and possibly the footman (on receipt of a liberal tip) assisted in the scheme.

       Of course he said he didn't, but, then, footmen, particularly dismissed footmen, are not always to be relied upon!

       Candidly speaking, I was not sorry that the Captain was prevented from playing his trick of vengeance; and when Lady Prynceby walked down the aisle leaning on her handsome husband's arm, throwing me a sweet smile en route (I was a specially invited guest), I felt nearly pleased that the Drinkon Square flirt had behaved in such a sinfully artful manner. It was clever, there's no doubt — and we must be clever when we are trying to guard so precious a thing as our own happiness! But there! here are my absurd romances getting the better of me as usual!

       Klara Prynceby had been very wrong, and there was no excuse for her — of course not — er — er —–

(Next Month: "A Plot and a Pendant.")

AS a general rule the shy man does not appeal to me, but when it is just the right sort of shyness — as displayed by a fair giant who walked into the reception lounge one sunny Spring morning — I feel rather more lenient about the matter.

       This tall, good-looking individual with abashed, boyish blue eyes, and wearing a rough grey, cosy sort of suit, was so delightfully diffident that my business-like heart warmed towards him at once.

       "I have been commissioned to ask if you will kindly go to Gate Lodge, St. Luke's Forest, and take a portrait of Miss Valeta Prince in her own boudoir," he began rather hesitatingly.

       "Is that Miss Prince, the actress?" I inquired.

       "It is!" he replied, and behind the diffidence I seemed to suddenly discover a note of dormant hostility.

       "How delightful!" I gushed. "Miss Prince is so beautiful that to photograph her will be a most congenial task."

       Immediately the hostility vanished, so I saw I had struck the right note.

       "Will to-morrow at two o'clock be convenient to Miss Prince, do you know?"

       I added, opening the appointment book.

       "Er — er — to-morrow will be Wednesday won't it? Er — matinée day, you know — so perhaps Thursday —–"

       "Thursday will suit me, won't it, Miss Thorne?" I said, turning to my receptionist, who had taken the appointment book from my hand.

       "Not the morning, but the afternoon at 2.25 is free," she answered, with impressive exactitude.

       "Then I will be round at 2.25 on Thursday," I replied.

       "Thanks, awfully — thank you. I'll — I'll let her know. Good-day — thank you." And, with a final smile that was frank and pleasing, Miss Prince's messenger took his departure.

       "I shall enjoy taking Valeta Prince — she ought to make an exquisite study picture," I remarked, when the swing doors had swung together behind the fair-haired giant.

       Miss Thorne's lips grew thin, as they usually did when a young and beautiful woman was mentioned.

       "Oh! yes, she's undoubtedly good-looking in a certain style, which makes it all the worse for poor old Lord Greenstairs," she replied, with a sigh that was presumably intended as a tribute of sympathy towards the absent Earl.

       "But how will Valeta Prince's certain style of good looks affect Lord Greenstairs?" I inquired.

       "Because I suppose it is her personal appearance (one can't imagine it is her mental charm!) that has attracted his son. Viscount Laurence. Didn't you know that 'Lord Laurie' — as he is called — wants to marry Valeta Prince, and that the Earl is so conscientiously prejudiced against the stage that he won't even see this woman who is conniving to become a Countess? How shameless these creatures are, to be sure!"

       "But why should he object? Valeta Prince is well-born, has been marvelously plucky in saving her mother and sister from ruin by adopting the stage as a profession, and not even her worst enemy could attempt to suggest anything against her personal reputation," I retorted hotly.

       "Very likely, Miss Hannel, very likely: You are always so charitable. Of course I can't help thinking that it would be rather tragic for a family like the Laurences to be forced to receive a mummer in their midst: However, I don't think that is likely to occur, because I am told that Valeta Prince refuses to marry Lord Laurie without his father's consent (she is too clever! Ha! ha!), and as Lord Greenstairs won't so much as even see 'The Crown' leading lady, his sanction isn't very likely to be obtained."

       "Lord Greenstairs lives at 00A Park Lane, doesn't he?" I inquired.

       "Yes, that large grey house with the lattice work over the portico, and — ah! perhaps it would interest you to read a paragraph in this week's M. A. P. I was just glancing at it when Miss Prince's — er — friend came in."

       And here Miss Thorne passed me a copy of that comprehensive penny weekly — Mainly About People:

       "Lord Greenstairs, whose family anxieties are just now causing some comment," I read, "is a man of extraordinary tenacity of purpose. It will be remembered how he overcame that right-of-way difficulty in Sunshire, and there is very little doubt that he will also succeed in his present endeavour — which is to recover a lost family trinket. There are two huge turquoise and diamond pendants shaped in the design of a man's profile, which came to the Laurence family in the reign of Henry VIII. Two hundred years ago one of these was sold by a scapegrace son, and has never been found since. One pendant, with the profile face looking from right to left, is in Lord Greenstairs' possession, but it is his great wish to find the other, for which it is reported he will pay any price the owner cares to ask!"

       "Thank you, Miss Thorne, that is very interesting. I only hope Lord Greenstairs will expend all his determination on seeking to find his pendant, so that he won't have any left wherewith to oppose his son!" I said, as I laid down the paper and left the lounge before my receptionist had time to frame any politely acid rejoinder.

       On Thursday afternoon, when I arrived at Gate Lodge, I was at once shown into the actress' boudoir — a bright, sunny room, where there would be excellent light for indoor photographic purposes.

       It was a charming apartment, full of those dainty, useless trifles which are so essentially part of an attractive woman.

       I glanced at everything — at the white rug decorated by a purring black Persian puss adorned with a scarlet satin bow; at the open piano, on which stood the most modern thing in modern love-songs; at the great stacks of scented flowers which seemed to tell of the wonderful Summer that was coming, and as I was just about to inspect a specially choice mezzotint, the door opened and my client entered the room.

       When watching Valeta Prince across the footlights I had often thought of her as the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and now, viewed by the investigating glare of late Spring sunshine, I more than ever indorsed my own opinion.

       Valeta Prince (whose real name was Valeta King, by the by) was tall, and had a perfect figure; her hair was full of wonderful tints that comprised the gold of Spring buttercups and the russet of Autumn leaves; her eyes were blue and true and beautiful; her skin was soft and unhurt by grease paints, and her mouth was red as any Kentish poppy.

       She wore a long, pale pink satin kimono fastened up at the throat, which evidently served as a wrap to cover her gown until I was ready for her to pose.

       "Good morning, Miss Hannel, it is very kind of you to come," she said, shaking my hand with a friendliness and freedom that would probably have made old Lord Greenstairs' aristocratic silver locks stand very much on end. "I know it must be an awful nuisance to photograph people who will persist in being surrounded by their own chairs and tables; but it is such a luxury for the sitter not to be forced to go out and assume a weary, worried look long before she reaches the studio!"

       Of course, I assured Miss Prince that it was a great pleasure to be permitted a peep into a celebrity's private apartments, after which my camera was brought in and adjusted.

       "Now, if you are ready I'll take off my wrap, but I'm such a shivery mortal that I hate to be decolletée longer than I can help," said Valeta, when everything was in order.

       Then she threw aside the pink satin kimono and revealed an exquisite picture gown of white velvet, worn without any ornament except a girdle of uncut turquoises set in gold chains, and hanging round her full white throat a — a —–

       "Good Heavens!"

       I didn't utter this ejaculation, but I nearly did so.

       How ever did it get into her possession? It being a pendant shaped like a man's profile and set with turquoises and diamonds!

       In an instant I, of course, remembered the par in M. A. P., and also the information which Miss Thorne had supplied concerning Lord Greenstairs' son and my beautiful companion.

       Could it be that Lord Laurie had actually stolen the trinket which his father prized so greatly, in order to give it to the woman he loved?

       The idea was a shocking one, and I couldn't help being glad that Miss Thorne was not present, because I knew bow she would have enjoyed feeling righteous about the whole affair! I didn't feel righteous — only sorry and bewildered!

       "Now, Miss Hannel, I'm ready if you are. Shall I be pensive over a rose, merry over a book held upside down, or — ah! let me be taken holding my black treasure in my arms for luck — for luck." And with these last words Valeta lifted the purring kitten from the rug and poised it on the hollow of her soft neck.

       It was a perfect picture. The smiling, white-gowned girl, the black kitten, the Spring sunlight, bowls of many-coloured flowers, and — the quaint, flashing pendant.

       "Remain exactly as you are, please — don't move — now," I cried, with hushed enthusiasm.

       Click! — and the portrait of a woman wearing a trinket she had no right to wear was taken!

       "Will it be a success, do you think? Will my black Fatima and my gown, and — and this pendant come out clearly, do you think?" cried Valeta eagerly.

       The audacity of this last query almost betrayed me into an expression of astonishment, till I remembered that probably Valeta was ignorant of the real facts concerning her lover's gift.

       "So far as I can judge it will be an immense success," I answered.

       "Then please will you let me have a dozen cabinets and one very large tinted panel portrait as soon as possible. You do tint pictures, do you not?"

       "Oh! yes, certainly."

       "I am glad, because I should like it faintly coloured — my hair, complexion, and eyes, Fatima, Fatima's red bow, the flowers, and — and the — the pendant. You can show that it is set with turquoises and diamonds, can't you? Yes? That's right! And it will come out quite distinctly?"

       "Oh! quite — yes!"

       "Thank you, and please remember that the sooner you can let me have the tinted picture the more grateful I shall be. Er — er — I suppose you put your name and the address of your studio on the photograph?"

       "It is engraved on every mount."

       "Oh! yes — of course! I inquired because if the portrait is mercifully flattering I daresay lots of my professional friends will ask for the address — although you are too famous, Miss Hannel, not to be known by anyone who knows anything. My brother, who goes in for very bad amateur photography, calls you the 'Camera Queen'!"

       Her brother! I was glad to hear she had a brother, because I had been rather wondering about the nice, shy young man who called to make the appointment. Evidently he was the relative in question.

       For another ten minutes we chatted about less than nothing in particular, then, with a mutual feeling of cordiality, said good-bye and murmured vague hopes of meeting again — little thinking in what a fateful and curious fashion those hopes would be fulfilled!

       In a week's time the large, tinted panel picture (one of my very greatest successes) was dispatched, and four days later, when I had temporarily forgotten the incident, something occurred which once more brought the subject of Valeta Prince and her unpropitious love-affair uppermost in my mind.

       I was just dictating a request for long-deferred payment that was to be sent off to a millionaire's wife, when I received the information that "the Earl of Greenstairs would be glad to speak to me at once if I could grant him a few moments' interview."

       The Earl of Greenstairs! Lord Laurie's father! Valeta Prince's antagonist! What did it mean?

       Some instinct seemed to tell me that the narrow-minded nobleman had not come to pay me a professional visit, so, alive with anticipation — not entirely unmixed with trepidation, I'm ashamed to confess! — I passed into the green waiting-room, where a silver-haired, magnificently-built old gentleman was excitedly pacing up and down.

       "Lord Greenstairs?" I said interrogatively.

       "Yes, my dear madam — yes. I am extremely obliged to you for granting me an interview. I would not have troubled you except that I believe with your help I may at last be able to succeed where hitherto I have failed. Would you most kindly divulge the name and address of the beautiful lady depicted in this photograph?" And, with these last words, he produced the large, tinted panel portrait of Valeta Prince, which I had dispatched four days previously!

       I felt so inarticulate with astonishment that nothing but a few half-gasping mumbles were possible at the moment.

       "Needless to say I would not have troubled you," continued the old gentleman, "but when I received this exquisite work of art, anonymously and by post, and saw your name and address on the mount, naturally my first impulse was to apply to you for help — and I pray you not to withhold that assistance."

       "But — er — before I answer, may I ask why you wish for the information?" I inquired, thinking to gain time by prevarication.

       For a moment Lord Greenstairs looked as though he were about to explode in consequence of my not according him unquestioning compliance; but then, evidently realising that it was well to keep on my right side, he answered with temperate calmness:

       "I require your assistance in regaining this pendant, which should belong to the Laurence family jewels," he said, indicating the photographed trinket! (So Lord Laurie had committed a family theft for the sake of his inamorata! Oh! what could I do to screen them?) "I may mention that two absolutely unique pendants came into the possession of a certain James Laurence in the reign of Henry VIII., and 200 years later one was sold by a descendant in order to pay a gambling debt. To discover and buy back this missing pendant before I die, is one of the hopes of my old age; and by telling me what I ask, you may enable me to achieve my desires."

       "Then the pendant in the picture —–"

       "Is the missing pendant which turns from left to right, as you see. The one in my possession turns from right to left, so undoubtedly this very beautiful lady (whose face is the most captivating I have ever seen) is wearing its companion."

       Once more I looked at the portrait and saw that Lord Greenstairs spoke correctly.

       If I had only been a little more observant of detail I should never have mentally suspected Lord Laurie of an ignoble action — but it's in detail that we women, who think our selves so clever, always do fail!

       So the missing family trinket was in the possession of the girl Lord Laurie loved! — of the actress whom the Earl of Greenstairs condemned and refused to see — of the actress whose name and address he now demanded!

       The situation was so full of complications that I hardly knew how to act, and just as I was about to mumble something else essentially feminine, vague, and unsatisfactory, Lord Greenstairs spoke again.

       "I see, my dear lady, that you hesitate, and I can fully appreciate your professional reluctance. Therefore, in order to suggest a plan which will perhaps better meet your views and be most delightful for me, I beg that you will most kindly conduct me to the lady in question. My electric brougham is outside — if you will direct my coachman, and permit me to accompany you, a great service will be rendered to an old man who humbly puts himself in your charming hands."

       This, of course, quite settled the question.

       No modern young woman could possibly withstand the exquisite, bygone courtesy of manner which accompanied this speech; therefore, a quarter of an hour later, Beatrice Hannel, art-photographer, and the Earl of Greenstairs, dogmatic aristocrat, were gliding through the London streets en route for St. Luke's Forest.

       When we reached Gate Lodge it was to find that "Miss King" (I used her real name when addressing the servant in order not to arouse my companion's suspicions) was at home.

       Quickly I drew out a card and in a few words explained the situation, with the result that five minutes after we had been ushered into the boudoir Valeta made her appearance.

       She was very simply attired in a graceful, cream woollen gown unrelieved by a single note of colour except the turquoise and diamond "Face Pendant," which hung from a blue ribbon tied about her neck, and never had she looked sweeter, more gracious, or more beautiful.

       "Madam," began Lord Greenstairs, bowing low before her, "I crave your pardon for this intrusion — the reason of which I believe Miss Hannel has kindly explained — but the anonymous sender of your beautiful and most realistic portrait is responsible for my presence here to-day."

       "Then I am grateful to the sender and the portrait — do please sit down," replied Valeta, with a smile that was irresistible — evidently quite irresistible to the gallant old Earl!

       "May I at once come to the point and ask how that pendant you are wearing, and which forms a pair to one of the Laurence trinkets, came into your possession?" said Lord Greenstairs, as he dropped into an arm-chair.

       "Certainly, I'll gladly tell you. My grandfather, Commander King —–"

       "Not Johnny Mark King —–"

       "Yes, that was he —–"

       For a moment the Earl seemed speechless with surprise and emotion, then making an effort he recovered himself and said:

       "Commander John Mark King was a splendid memory belonging to my young manhood. He saved my life during that squall in '75, when the Cynthia and nearly all aboard went down! We only met half-a-dozen times, but I have never forgotten a splendid fellow in this world where there are so few!"

       Valeta's face paled, and a look of great hope came into her eyes.

       "I never heard that you knew him! How strange!" she whispered half to herself. Then, rousing herself to once more face the situation, she continued:

       "Well, grandfather bought this pendant from some impoverished French nobleman whose ancestors had acquired it in England over a century previously. That is all I know. He gave it to my mother before he died, and now it is mine!"

       "And do you prize it very greatly?" asked Lord Greenstairs huskily.

       "I — I —–"

       "Oh! my dear young lady, you who have so much youth, so much beauty and charm, can surely afford to be generous! There is no price which I would not pay to recover the pendant you are now wearing. Name your own terms and I shall most gratefully comply."

       Swiftly Valeta rose to her feet and laid one white, ringless hand upon his arm:

       "You — you really mean that?" she panted.

       "Most assuredly!"

       "Then," swiftly taking a photograph from a drawer of the ebony escritoire — "then, Lord Greenstairs, in return for my pendant I ask for — HIM!"

       In astonishment I, who was getting weary of the rôle of spectator (a dull rôle for youth to play!), looked over the Earl's shoulder and saw that he was gazing at a portrait of the nice, shy young man who had called and made the appointment for me to visit Valeta's house — a portrait that was signed "To my Valeta, with unending devotion. — Laurie."

       For a moment the old man was quite silent, then, just as he seemed making an effort to speak, Valeta interrupted him with a passionate outburst of contrition.

       "No, no, I do not mean it — I can't do it — I can't," she cried. "We have plotted. Lord Greenstairs, but I will turn King's evidence even against my dearest! Less than a month ago your son accidentally discovered that I possessed the pendant for which he told me you had been seeking for years. Then we schemed how I was to be photographed wearing the trinket, that the portrait was to be sent to you, and when you had secured my address from Miss Hannel (we made so sure of events) that I was to ask my own price in return for the pendant. I have asked, but now I draw back — I can't — I can't —–"

       But as Valeta broke into a more bitter passion of tears than she had ever simulated on the stage, the sentence remained unfinished.

       Lord Greenstairs watched her for a moment, glanced scrutinisingly round the refined, womanly room, and then crossed towards the couch on which she had sunk.

       Very gently he laid a blue-veined old hand upon her shoulder.

       "And I, too, draw back," he said distinctly and steadily. "I no longer wish the pendant returned to me" — (oh! what a disappointment when I hoped he was drawing back his objections to the marriage!) "yes, I no longer wish for the pendant to be returned, on condition that it remains in the family. The future Countess of Greenstairs should be its owner, and — my dear, may I ask forgiveness and welcome my daughter at last?"

       I really can't detail what happened after that, because, with my usual romantic tenderness, I found it impossible to remain in the boudoir without an unseemly exhibition of emotion.

       However, as I have just received an invitation to go and stay at Greenstairs Castle, and at the same time to photograph "Grandpapa and baby taken together," I suppose everything was all right.

       Lady Laurence recites a great deal at entertainments given for charity, and although she has degenerated as an artist, she has triumphed as a woman — so perhaps that is best.

       Anyhow she says it is, and it is always safe to accept the assertions of people with experience.

(Another of Miss Hannel's interesting experiences
will appear next month.)

I WAS escorting the Duchess of Tramont as far as the entrance lounge, when I first saw the big, bronzed young man with the effective moustache;

       "Now, Miss Hannel, you will send the proofs to-morrow, won't you?" the Duchess was saying. "I am so very anxious to show — ah! what delicious music! Wagner is always so inspiring, isn't he?" she broke off, as the hidden orchestra, which I engaged for the entertainment of waiting clients, started a current comic opera selection!

       Then by accident I caught the bronzed young man's eyes. The ocular encounter could hardly be called a glance, but it was sufficient to establish one of those friendly sympathies which do occasionally spring up between absolute strangers. Instinctively I liked him.

       When the Duchess had taken her portly, petunia-gowned person out of the front door, crossed towards Miss Thorne, who was by that time attending to the bronzed young man.

       "This gentleman wants a portrait that was taken about six months ago," began my receptionist.

       "Yes — of my sister," he explained, in a delightfully big voice. "She had it taken about last June, I think — she copied the number off the back of the one she has, and ave it to me. Er — er — now where is it? expect I've lost it — I always lose things!" he added rather plaintively, as he dived into pocket after pocket.

       "Perhaps we could —–" I began, just as he triumphantly discovered a small slip of paper on which was written the number 100,053.

       "Ah! saved!" he ejaculated, handing me the paper, which I immediately passed on to Miss Thorne. "Can I have the picture soon?" he went on; "My sister is getting it for me to take abroad; I've only recently returned from Africa, and shall probably be going out again in a couple of weeks, so it you could kindly send it before then, I should be awfully obliged."

       "I don't think there's any reason why you shouldn't have it on Thursday," I replied.

       "On Thursday! Oh! that is quick work I Thanks very much; Well, if you'll send it — no, I shall be in Kensington on Thursday, I'll call in some time during the afternoon; Thanks awfully; Good-day!"

       "We didn't take the name and address in case the gentleman should forget to call," said Miss Thorne, after he had gone, regarding me with a certain amount of respectful severity.

       "That's not difficult to find out if you look in the sitters' book, is it?" I replied more sharply than I should have done if Miss Thorne had looked less severe.

       My receptionist was evidently quelled, so without further remark she stepped into a small inner office and took down one of many vast tomes from one of many dusty shelves.

       "This would be the one — year ending 1905, wouldn't it?" she mumbled, turning over the pages.

       "Yes, six months ago would be included in the present year," I answered.

       "100,050 — 100,051 — 100,052 — 100,053 — ah! here they are. Miss Hannel! — do you see? 'No. 100,053, Miss Camilla Flower, Southdean, Queenston Road, Wimbledon — six panel vignettes, platinotype — £5 5s.'"

       "Thank you," I answered, inspecting the entry to impress it upon my memory. "Now we'll just go and look for the plate, as the matter must be put in hand at once."

       When we reached an underground room which was devoted to the storage of back number plates and unopened bottles of chemicals, I ran my finger along the carefully-initialed shelves tin I came to those holding plates taken about six months ago — after which it was easy to find No. 100,053.

       "Here it is," I said, lifting out the dusty glass and holding it up sideways so that I could catch the impression.

       And then I remembered all about Miss Camilla Flower, as being one among the small percentage of clients who interested me in any but their remunerative capacities.

       "You recollect, don't you, Miss Thorne, that pretty, fair girl whose marriage with a stout, elderly stockbroker was broken off a fortnight before the wedding-day?" I said, turning to my assistant.

       "No — er — I don't think so, Miss Hannel."

       "Oh! but you must, because we talked about it at the time. We felt sure that she was a girl with a story, and afterwards you heard through your dressmaker (who was Miss Flower's maid's cousin) that Mr. Flower had insisted on his daughter accepting the stockbroker, and then, just two weeks before the wedding-day, he found that the settlements were not worth while, so it was a mutual case of giving up."

       "May I look at the plate, Miss Hannel? — I daresay that will recall the occurrence."

       Here I passed the glass to Miss Thorne, who carefully inspected the impression of a wistful-eyed, white-gowned girl, whose beautifully-shaped hands were listlessly clasped about a small marble pillar. I remember being particularly proud of that pose because, although the hands were prominent, they retained their correct dimensions.

       "Of course I recollect now!" ejaculated Miss Thorne. "The young lady came with her mother, and seemed to have no interest whatever in the picture or in anything else. In fact, I remarked at the time that she seemed to be grieving for her lost stockbroker! Oh! yes, of course — Miss Camilla Flower — they had just moved from Leicester to Wimbledon a few weeks before the portrait was taken."

       True to my promise the second impression of No. 100,053 was ready by Thursday, and as I inspected the large portrait I more than ever recalled how the sitter had appealed to my artistic tastes.

       It was such a pretty little face, with one of those fascinating upper lips which in repose protrude ever so slightly, thus giving a petulant, babyish expression. Her eyes were beautiful and full of vague dreams; and her nose, although unclassified, was delicious.

       While I was closely inspecting the portrait, my hidden orchestra softly broke into that most inspiring of all commonplace refrains — "Because I love you!" And as the music called and cried, it seemed almost as though those pretty, pictured lips were moving! Were they saying "Because I love you? Because I love —–"

       Oh, dear! what an absurdly fanciful and romantic art-photographer I was to be sure! Wouldn't business facts and business difficulties ever knock the imaginative sentiment out of me?

       Giving myself an impatient shake I put Miss Flower's portrait into a long, white envelope embossed with my initials and address in gold, just as Miss Thorne came and informed me that Mr. Flower had arrived.

       "Have him shown into the waiting-room, please — I will see him myself," I said. And a minute later I was saying "Good afternoon" to the nice, bronzed young man.

       "I have managed to get the photograph done," I said, handing him the envelope and speaking as though some stupendously-difficult task had been achieved.

       "Oh! thanks awfully! Jolly quick work!" he replied, taking out the portrait and moving towards the light.

       Then suddenly he stopped, while a swift pallor lightened the bronze of his face.

       "Miss Hannel, is this some practical joke?" he inquired, with a severity that made him seem quite a different person.

       "I do not understand you," I replied haughtily. "You asked for your sister's portrait —–"

       "I did, and that is why I wish to know if it is intended as a practical joke when you hand me the photograph of Miss Camilla Flower — at least Mrs. Burrows, I should say." (These last seven words were uttered almost sotto voce.)

       "But isn't Miss Camilla Flower your sister?"

       "Miss Camilla is — is not," he replied very bluntly.

       "Well, Mr. — er —–"

       "My name is Tristan Dylke."

       "Well, Mr. Dylke, I can't in the least understand what has happened unless — Ah!" Here I broke off with an exclamation as a sudden idea shot through my haze of perplexity.

       "Would you mind coming into the office for a moment — I want to refer to the sitters' book."

       Mr. Dylke wordlessly assented, as, almost unconsciously picking up the photograph of the girl who was not his sister, he followed me through the waiting-room into the office.

       Immediately I took down the sitters' book to which we had referred only a few days previously, and turned over the pages until I found the entry in question, after which I detached the slip of paper (neatly filed like every business memorandum, of either great or trivial importance) on which Miss Dylke had jotted down the number of her photograph.

       Then I understood — understood that Miss Dylke's carelessly-made 8 had been mistaken by both Miss Thorne and myself for a 3, and that in looking up the entry of her photograph we had turned to 100,053, instead of 100,058,100,053 being Miss Flower's number.

       In apologetic accents and with humble, downcast lashes, I explained to Mr. Dylke what had occurred, but whether he quite took in all the details of what I was saying is doubtful, because when at last I dared to look up, it was to find him still examining Camilla Flower's photograph with most minute attention.

       "You say this was taken six months ago?" he said, in somewhat breathless and jerky accents.

       "Yes — on the 20th of June," I replied, glancing at the entry opposite Miss Flower's name and address, and determining to be accurate this time.

       "And — er — (pray pardon this cross-examination!) are you sure that this lady's name was Miss Camilla Flower and not Mrs; Burrows? I see by the portrait that she is not wearing a wedding-ring, but — er —–"

       "Oh, yes — perfectly certain." And here I laughed — I was thinking of the fat stockbroker and the unsatisfactory settlements.

       "You seem amused, Miss Hannel," replied Tristan Dylke, bringing his stern manner into requisition once more, but still gazing at the unringed, pictured hand.

       "Oh, no, indeed I'm not. I was only thinking how it served old Mr. Flower right!" I said.

       "Miss Hannel if — if you have any consideration for — for — er — for my feelings, will you tell me all you know about Miss Flower's averted marriage?" said Mr. Dylke, suddenly dropping the pretence of being only casually interested.

       "All I know is that Mr. Flower (who is a terrible autocrat, I believe) wished to force his poor, pretty daughter into marriage with a man who was rich enough to be particularly useful to the family. But when the time came for making entitlements, Mr. Burrows showed that none of his money would filter into the pockets of Flower père, and that although the future Mrs. Burrows would be provided with every luxury, she wouldn't have £50 a year to call her own. This decided Mr. Flower that the negotiations were not good enough, so, just two weeks before the wedding-day, poor, pretty Miss Camilla was released from her unsavoury bondage. That is all I know, Mr. Dylke."

       "Thank you — thank you," was his only answer, but the voice in which he said those two words told me a very great deal that my romantic heart reveled in knowing.

       "And now, Mr. Dylke, that I have been so communicative, may I be privileged to ask why this information interests you?" was my next remark.

       A second's pause, during which his nice, bronzed face grew more deeply tinted; then he said:

       "Er — er — oh! Yes, certainly; Well — er — there's a chap I — er — know rather well who was just going to ask Miss Flower to be his wife when he heard that she was engaged to Amos Burrows, so I — I thought he might like to hear the news, you know."

       "Certainly he ought to hear the news, and from my heart I wish that 'chap' the very best of luck, Mr. Dylke!"

       "Oh! by the by, Miss Hannel, could you kindly give me Miss Flower's address? When I — er — when my friend knew her, she lived near Chester, but now the family have come up to London, I believe," said Mr. Dylke, turning back when he had nearly reached the door.

       "I am very sorry, Mr. Dylke, that it's absolutely against my rules to give the address of one client to another. If I did such a thing it would be a breach of faith, and I shouldn't deserve for any further confidence to be reposed in me," I answered stiffly. Then I looked up and saw an expression in Tristan Dylke's steady blue eyes that made me feel as though I had shut a hungry, faithful dog outside in the street on a snowy night. "The address is here — on this page," I added, indicating the open sitters' book, "but really I can't be responsible for giving it to you, and — oh! excuse me one moment, I think I can hear the telephone."

*       *       *       *      *

       Three months later I photographed a wedding group in Wimbledon, and one of the bridegroom's gifts to the bride was a brooch formed of the numbers "100,053" in diamonds.

(Next month will appear "The Man in Rags,"
the concluding story in this series.)

"HALF-PAST TWO!" I cried, glancing at a small silver and ormolu clock.

       "Oh! but you needn't hurry away," replied my widow friend, at whose flat I had been supping after a theatre party.

       "Hurry away! When already I have outstayed all the others! Indeed I ought to have gone long ago, but a sympathetic talk all about oneself is so reviving!"

       "Well, be revived a little longer, Beatrice — there's much more I want to hear. You've told me so many pretty romances connected with your studio, but I want to hear one, dear, with the proprietress of the studio for its heroine!"

       I laughed — just a little hardly — and Wound a creamy Spanish lace scarf about my head.

       "The proprietress!" I echoed, half-contemptuously. "No, no, Brenda, the proprietress will never be a heroine. Pretty romances don't come her way; and sometimes it seems to me that there is a crust of ice around her heart. Naturally, being somewhat young, quite smartly-dressed, not unpleasing in appearance, and possessed of considerable capacity, 'she has her chances'; but they are chances which her frozen-up emotions won't let her take."

       "But why not, dear, why not? You, an artist, must know that love is the most artistic thing in the whole world."

       "Yes, when life's stress leaves room for it, Brenda. But for women who have taken men's burdens of work, anxiety, and financial emulation upon their shoulders, there seems no place for love," I said. "Perhaps it is a good thing, because love brings heart-ache and regret," I added.

       "Not always, dear. Love can be a very beautiful reality — or a very beautiful memory!" answered my friend, with tears in her voice.

       Then we kissed each other good-night, and five minutes later I was alone in a hansom with my thoughts.

       How school-girlish it seemed for me to be talking of love!

       The very notion was preposterous when, although my heart was full of tenderness for the romances of other people, it held no place for emotions of my own.

       How silent were the night-streets of London, and what a particularly giddy cab-horse had fallen to my lot, to be sure!

       Just as I had mentally registered these two facts we pulled up sharply, and the driver jumped down from his perch.

       "Only going to tighten one of the girths, lady," he remarked reassuringly; "Joey's in one of 'is larky moods ter-night, so —–"

       But the sentence remained unfinished, anyhow so far as I could hear, because, as though to carry out the veracity of his master's words regarding his "larkiness," Joey suddenly acted on impulse and dashed wildly forward.

       One futile shout from the man, one equally futile scream from myself, and I then realised that, driverless and unaided, I was being dashed through the London streets!

       All I could do was to hold tight and trust for the best.

       There was a huge pile of wood blocks ahead — evidently preparations for repairing the road. Would "Joey" steer to the left, or would he dash straight into the obstacle and thus end everything for himself, the cab, and me, I wondered?

       Evidently the latter was his intention, so good-bye to ambition, expectation, hope, success, and all those elements which make existence a prize worth the keeping.

       There was no hope, so with one last involuntary scream I lay back and closed my eyes.

       I suppose I must have momentarily lost consciousness, because when I found that we had come to a standstill, that the horse — panting and unhurt — had ceased his wild career, and that I was still seated in the hansom, I experienced a sensation of very keen, though dazed surprise.

       "Wh—what happened?" I murmured.

       "Nothing, I'm thankful to say," replied a voice from the region of Joey's head; "and if you will get out while I keep hanging on to his mouth it'll be all right."

       Instantly I gathered my silken skirts and obeyed, with the result that half-a-minute later I was standing face to face with my rescuer.

       And that rescuer, instead of fulfilling the traditions of romance by being a prince, duke, or at the very least, an ambassador, was merely a crossing-sweeper whose broom had been cast aside in the service of a fellow-creature.

       Vaguely I felt disappointed, because his voice had led me to suspect a higher social status.

       "You have saved my life," was the first remark I made.

       "Oh! well, I happened to be about instead of somebody else," he replied carelessly.

       Then I looked at him and saw that, despite the unshaven blueness of his skin, and the pitiful raggedness of his attire, he was rather a splendid-looking fellow.

       His face was strong, and dark, and tense, with deeply-gazing, grey eyes; his hair, although matted and disordered, was fine and black; his figure, although disguised by a tattered light coat pinned across his chest, was broad and manly; and his swift, fleeting smile was delightful.

       In a word, he was exactly the type I have always admired — at least I think so, though of course one can never be very sure of a blue chin, matted hair, and a crossing-sweeper!

       "I am very, very grateful to you!" was my next somewhat embarrassed remark.

       He smiled, and still holding the reins in one hand, lifted up his broom with the other.

       "Please — er — don't be grateful," he replied, looking at me very attentively.

       "But I am more grateful than it would ever be possible to say or show. After all, life is a precious thing, no matter how much we may run it down, and you have given me my life!" I answered. Then, as he began carelessly flicking away at a piece of straw, I added: "Er — is your cros — er — your — are you stationed near here, as a rule?"

       He paused; then coughed and shook his head.

       "No, a bit further along," he answered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

       "Ah! . . . And — er — may I ask your name?"

       "John Penfold."

       Here I drew out my purse, and to my dismay discovered it only contained a few shillings more than I should require for paying the cabman.

       "This is all I have with me," I said, pressing half-a-crown into his hand, "but will you call round and see me to-morrow afternoon? This is my name and address (here I handed him a card) and in return for your bravery and kindness to me I want to try to be of use to you. Will you come round?"

       John Penfold put the card in his tattered coat-pocket and answered emphatically:

       "That I will — thank you, miss."

       "Excuse me," I continued, as the running cabman appeared in the distance, "but — er — you give me the impression of having had bad luck — as if you were new to your calling.

       "I have had bad luck and I've not been in — er — in the crossing line very long," he responded huskily. "I took to this (holding up the broom) you know, because after looking round for weeks I couldn't find anything else."

       At this point the cabman reappeared, protested that Joey's misdemeanour was only the result of being tickled by a piece of straw that had got fastened into the harness, and, despite the crossing-sweeper's persuasions to the contrary, at last induced me to re-enter the cab.

       "Well," I said, when John Penfold had closed the doors, "and once more I thank you very, very much, and I shall expect you without fail to-morrow."

       "And I shall be round, miss, without fail; Thank you and good-night," he replied, touching the torn brim of his hat.

       Then of Joey went at quite a safe and sober pace, while I was once more left to my own reflections — reflections as to how I should help the brave man who had saved my life.

       And already an idea had begun to form itself in my brain.

       For some time now I had been thinking of taking a working assistant, but the difficulty had been to find one who would quickly conform to my ways and somewhat unusual methods.

       Why should I not train this crossing-sweeper in every branch of working photography, pay him just enough to live upon during his time of apprenticeship and study, and then give him a liberal salary when he had learnt to do all I required?

       Anyhow I could try him, because surely there is no better way of being kind to any man than by "giving him a chance"?

       The next afternoon, when I had just finished immortalising the fat features of a fat Duchess, word was brought to me by Miss Thorne that "a person named John Penfold said he had come to see me by appointment."

       "That's right! Ask them to show him up into my sitting-room, will you, please?" I answered, picking up a bunch of pink roses which the Duchess had left behind, and fastening them among the creamy laces at the bosom of my long, grey velvet gown.

       As I left the studio and made my way to the private part of the premises, I must confess to hoping that poor John had left his broom behind, because it would be somewhat embarrassing for my staff to know that a crossing-sweeper had been trained as working-assistant to Beatrice Hannel — fashionable art photographer!

       However, my fears were soon set at rest because, as I entered the room, a tall figure, dressed in a neat, blue-serge suit, rose to greet me.

       My crossing-sweeper had entirely put off his robes of office, and though the suit was shabby and ill-made there was nothing conspicuous about it. Also he had shaved — an operation which, together with his smoothed hair, fully evidenced that he was exactly the type I admire.

       "I am so glad you haven't failed me!" was my first remark, as I sat down and motioned him to a chair, after quelling a fierce desire to shake hands.

       "A man isn't likely to fail in taking what may be his last chance in life," was the low-spoken reply which went straight to my heart; "You see, I've managed to get hold of some sort of clothes to come in," he added, with a rather bitter smile.

       "Yes, I noticed that you had discarded your — er — your professional attire," I answered politely; "And now, Mr. Penfold, lease will you carefully consider what I have to say; I find that I require a working-assistant in my photographic business, and yet I have been somewhat chary of engaging anyone who has been accustomed to the methods of other studios. It is always difficult to unlearn, and any small success which I may have gained is undoubtedly due to the fact that certain of my processes and methods are unique — patents, as it were. Therefore, you see, I require someone trained to my ways, and someone who will undertake to keep my trade secrets entirely to himself. If you care to come as articled pupil in receipt of a small salary, which win, of course, increase proportionately when you become a qualified assistant, I am quite willing to close the agreement. What have you to say?"

       For some moments he looked at me without speaking.

       "You — you really mean that you will take me — a crossing-sweeper — on trust like that?" he murmured at last, in almost awe-struck accents.

       "Of course I mean it."

       "But I — I may be a thief and a blackguard for all you know — I have no references to give."

       "You may be, but I don't think you are. Study of faces, Mr. Penfold, has taught me to understand them, and I do not find that my observations are very often led astray. Besides, of course, I can see that some very keen misfortune has brought you so far down in your luck. Not for the world would I inquire into your private affairs, but though bad times may have forced you to become a crossing-sweeper, Nature, education, and association have made you a gentleman!"

       And when I finished this speech, which for the life of me I couldn't help making, I saw that there were tears — actually big, manly tears — in John Penfold's grey eyes!

       "Well, what do you say to my proposal?" I hurried on, in order to avert any outbreak of emotion which might be imminent.

       Then John cleared his throat, pulled himself together, and answered in quite business accents:

       "I accept, and I thank you with all my heart, and I promise that you shall never have any cause to regret your philanthropy," he said.

       "Philanthropy! Ah! I think gratitude is a better word, Mr. Penfold. But we will not argue over a phrase, as we have so many arrangements to discuss. Will you come and see the studio?" I replied, and as I led the way out of the room I observed that my ex-crossing-sweeper opened the door for me with the easy courtesy of a man who has been thoroughly accustomed to indoor civilisation.

       Poor fellow! What a terrible turn Fortune's wheel must have taken for him when it revolved and left him — a crossing-sweeper!

       For three weeks after this I saw John Penfold every day and nearly all day long, because as it was necessary for him to learn every branch of my methods, from those of the studio to those of the dark room; and as no one could quite explain those methods except myself, we were naturally a great deal together.

       And gradually I began to look forward to his coming — also to become oblivious of the fact that he was an ex-crossing-sweeper.

       Then one afternoon — a Summer afternoon when London was full of the season's electric life, sunshine, and flowers — I experienced one of the greatest shocks I had ever known.

       I had been giving my assistant a careful lesson in a certain new touching-up process.

       "Well, that is enough for to-day," I said.

       John Penfold passed me back the camel's-hair brush, and as he did so our eyes and hands met, and clung together.

       It was a moment that should never have been, though a moment that my involuntary inclinations were powerless to avert.

       I was glad — glad! — to see what I saw in John Penfold's eyes, and glad to feel what I felt in the touch of his hands!

       And he was — an ex-crossing-sweeper!

       Five minutes later I was alone once more. We had parted without any save briefly conventional words, yet I knew all there was to know — a look had taught the truth of Brenda Whitlaw's words.

       "Love can be a very beautiful reality," she had said to me on that night before a restive cab horse brought me face to face with my fate. And now I knew that it was so!

       I knew it! I knew it — because an ex-crossing-sweeper had looked into my eyes and held my hands in his!

       I had told Brenda that there was "a crust of ice around my heart" — and so there was till a man with a broom came and swept it away!

       For some moments I leant back with closed eyes and tried to understand this wonderful difference that was made to my life.

       I was in love — I, who had always and sincerely believed that ambition, business, and anxiety had hardened all the natural personal tenderness of my nature!

       It was so strange and unexpected that I almost felt as if my imagination were playing some practical joke. But such was not the case.

       But what should I do? Would I be willing to sacrifice everything and play the part of Queen Cophetua by marrying a beggar man? Undoubtedly he was my equal in everything except position, but then — oh! dear, the fact couldn't be got over that if he hadn't saved my life he would still be sweeping away mud and touching his hat for pennies!

       At this point of my reflections Miss Thorne entered the room in the somewhat alert and eager manner which she always adopts when there is any unpleasant news to be imparted.

       "Oh! Miss Hannel, have you heard about Mr. Penfold?" she began sulkily.

       "Heard what?" I queried.

       "Why, that he is going to set up for himself. Ada told me that one of the workmen who are repairing the studio mentioned that 'he was busy at Mr. Penfold's place because he was going to set up an establishment of his own.' Rather mean, isn't it, when you've taught him all he knows?"

       "Mean? It's abominable!" I cried, in an outburst of furious indignation — indignation of which I was almost glad, seeing that it instantly turned my new and unsuitable emotions into justifiable rage. "When I began to teach him I made it a special stipulation that he should never use his knowledge or experience except in my service."

       "Of course you ought to have had a written agreement, and —–"

       "Oh! My dear Miss Thorne, please don't tell me what I ought to do when I haven't done it! And are you quite sure of this — sure enough for me to write?"

       "Oh! perfectly. I questioned the man, and he was absolutely certain."

       "Thank you. Will you tell Binns, please, that I want an express letter sent in five minutes?"

       "I will — yes!"

       When Miss Thorne had left the room I scribbled a note which ran as follows, and was marked "Immediate":

       I have just heard through workmen that you are "setting up an establishment of your own." I can hardly believe such dishonourable conduct, but it seems to be true. Please write instantly and explain the matter, which, if accurate, is an infamous violation of our verbal contract.

BEATRICE HANNEL.       

       Four hours later came the answer:

       It is true! My establishment is at 10 Victoria Gate, and if you could call to-morrow I will explain matters. I shall not go to you, but shall await you here.

J. P.      

       The dishonourable insolence of the whole affair left me speechless!

       And then again how extraordinary it was! Victoria Gate! One of London's most expensive and aristocratic quarters, where I did not think that even a ducal photographer would be allowed to set up, much less an ex-crossing sweeper!

       And who could have financed him?

       Probably some rich, elderly, foolish woman who had been fascinated by his attractive face and attractive manners, and who had perhaps allowed him to use a floor of her town mansion as a place of business.

       So much for showing substantial gratitude towards a man from the streets!

       But I would go and see him at his new "establishment," and I would say various things which would insure his never forgetting the interview — or me!

       And the next morning, at 11.30, I carried out my intention, with the result that, when I reached 10 Victoria Gate, a liveried man-servant showed me into one of the most exquisite drawing-rooms I have ever seen — and one which might have been furnished under my own special directions!

       My favourite tints, my favourite piano, my favourite china, pictures, and decorations! Never had I felt more covetous than of this drawing-room — and in fact the whole house — belonging to the crossing-sweeper's financier!

       Then after I had time to get into a state of mind which included envy, rage, admiration, and a variety of other useful emotions, John Penfold (attired in immaculate morning clothes and looking more of an ideal than ever) entered the room.

       I didn't wait to greet him, but at once broke into a furious onslaught of words.

       "I'm very sorry," he answered, when I had quite tired myself out, "but I didn't know that our verbal agreement precluded my setting up a private establishment instead of keeping up my bachelor chambers in St. James's."

       "St. James's? Private establishment! But aren't you going to open a photographic studio here?" I gasped.

       "Oh! no. This is by way of being a town house, don't you know. I never troubled about getting one before, but now that — er — I have fallen in love and should like to marry, I thought I'd get a decent place ready."

       "But — but — it — er — you — the crossing-sweeper?"

       "Ah! that was where you judged too much by appearances. Because I happened to be walking home after a fancy dress ball, and for the sport of the thing thought I'd go through London in my crossing-sweeper's get up, you at once took me for the genuine article. You made somewhat of a mistake; I am by way of being rather like a millionaire; my name is Roger John Penfold Strathmott, and there will be a title coming along some day."

       "You had no right to — to — take me in as you have done!" I whispered, in a voice that was thick with tears.

       "Well, you see, it was the only way."

       "The only way — for what?"

       "For giving me opportunities of meeting the girl I loved from the first moment I saw her face framed by a scarf of cream lace — the girl who showed herself to be a woman with a woman's heart! Beatrice, you were good to the 'crossing-sweeper' — won't you now give the 'crossing-sweeper' a chance of being good to you — of looking after you and taking care of you as he longs and yearns to do? I got the home ready, dear, before I dared to hope it might have a mistress, but yesterday afternoon, when your eyes met mine as our hands touched, I — I began to hope. Was I justified, my Beatrice?"

       "Yes — you — were — justified! And — and Roger — you will always remember I gave that look to a crossing-sweeper and not to a millionaire?"

       "I — I'm too glad to ever forget! And see, darling (here he produced a pocket-book full of gold and silver coins), these are the wages you have paid me and the preliminary half-crown! Each coin is a talisman!"

       "Is it?" I replied, beginning to once more assume the teasing sovereignty of my sex. "Well, until all that money obtained under false pretences is dispatched to a charity, you will not be forgiven."

       Five minutes later Roger had written a cheque and addressed an envelope.

       "I've obeyed orders — now I want my reward," he said.

       "Well, er — it's always wise to take what you want, isn't it?" I answered.

       And he took it — with interest.

       And thus the self-reliance and strenuous efforts of Beatrice Hannel — art photographer — died a beautiful death in one man's all-protecting arms.

(With this story the series concludes.)

(THE END)