"I don't mean--that is--it's not your fault----" he stammered.

"Thank you," said Leroy ironically.

"Oh, you know what I mean. Don't pull me up like that, Adrien. I wasn't thinking of its being you--and you know what it is when a fellow's in love with the sweetest, dearest----"

Leroy turned sharply. It was more than any one could be expected to bear; insult to his father, blame to his horse, and now praise of the woman he himself loved.

"Excuse me, Standon," he interrupted curtly, "I'm afraid I must ask you to spare me your rhapsodies--I am due at the theatre."

It was Standon's turn to be offended, and his good-tempered face hardened.

"Certainly. Pray accept my apologies for having detained you.

Good-night," he said coldly, and before Leroy could even answer, he was gone.

Adrien strode restlessly up and down. For the first time in all his easy-going life trouble had touched him. He determined to forget it at whatever cost; so telling Norgate not to wait up for him, he set out for the Casket. It was such a lovely night that he dismissed the motor which was awaiting him, deciding to walk across the park to Victoria Street, and call in on Shelton, who had a flat there.

The park was beautifully silent, and still stood open to the public.

Absorbed in his reflections, therefore, he left the main track and wandered down one of the by-paths, in which stood several wooden benches. Big Ben struck the half-hour. There was just time for another cigar, and Leroy sat down. He was in no humour yet to endure the heat of the theatre, or the chaff and vulgarity of Ada Lester.

He lost count of time, in the pleasant quietude of the spot; and his cigar was burnt down to an inch when, with a half-sigh, he arose to exchange the hard seat amidst the cool trees for a lounge and a crowd of ballet girls at the theatre.

As he picked up his stick, he heard a footstep behind him, and turning, saw an ill-dressed, sullen-looking man. The light from one of the lamps near by shone full on him; and something about the stout, shambling figure, or the dirty evil-browed face, seemed dimly familiar.

To his surprise, the man nodded at him with a sulky frown, and said, in a thick voice:

"Good-evening! Don't remember me, I s'pose?"

"No, I do not," admitted Leroy, as he scanned the bleared, swollen countenance before him.

"Ah! you swells 'as bad memories; I ain't forgotten you, so don't you think it!"

Leroy gazed at him calmly; he thought the man was intoxicated.

"Do you want anything of me?" he asked, as he pulled on his glove.

"That depends," responded the man, moving forward so that he stood right in Adrien's path. "You're Mr. Leroy, ain't you?"

"I am," said Leroy. "What is it you want?"

"I wants to ask you a question," returned the other, bringing his face closer to Adrien, who recoiled involuntarily--the very smell of the fustian clothes offending his delicate nostrils.

The man noticed this, and frowned even more heavily.

"You're a gentleman," he said, "leastways I s'pose you calls yourself such--p'raps you'll act like one."

"Kindly make haste and tell me what you want, my good fellow," said Adrien impatiently. He did not know but that this was a preliminary to an attempt to rob him, and he was in no mood for a brawl.

"Oh, I'll be quick enough for you," was the sullen reply. "You don't remember me, you say; p'raps you'll remember my name--Wilfer--Johann Wilfer."

"Johann Wilfer," repeated Adrien, thoughtfully and slowly, wondering where he had heard the name before.

"Yes, Johann Wilfer, Picture Restorer, Cracknell Court, Soho."

"Oh!" said Adrien, as a burst of memory dawned on him. "I remember you now. What is it you want? But tell me first, has the girl Jessica returned yet?"

"That's just like you swells," growled the man. "Nothing like getting your word in first. Has she returned to me? You know jolly well she ain't. She won't come back to me till you've done with 'er, I'll be bound."

Adrien started, as the significance of the accusation dawned on him. He had thought more than once of the girl, with her dark eyes and silken hair. What had become of her? What, alas! could have been her fate, if she had not returned to this man, her guardian?

"What do you mean?" he said now, sternly.

"What I say," retorted Mr. Wilfer. "She ain't returned to me, an' that's my question to you. Where is she, an' what 'ave you done with her?"

"How should know what has become of her?" answered Leroy, genuinely startled. "Do you dare to insinuate that I know where she is? I have neither seen her nor heard of her."

"That's a lie," said the man shortly.

Leroy surveyed him for a moment.

"You are impertinent," he said, in his clear tones. "Stand aside, and let me pa.s.s."

Mr. Wilfer thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood his ground.

"That won't go down with me," he said insolently. "I want to know where my niece is; and by Heaven, I'll know too!"

Leroy stopped short.

"She was your niece, you say?"

"She was," said the man, "though it's no business of yours; she belonged to me."

"So I presume, or you would not have ill-treated her," retorted Adrien dryly. "When did you see her last?"

"Over a month ago--as well you know," returned Wilfer coa.r.s.ely. "She ran off the morning you came gallivanting after her."

Adrien could have knocked the man down, but he restrained the longing, and said instead:

"I thought you told me she'd robbed you, and had run away? That was a lie, I suppose?"

"'Course it was. Who wouldn't lie to save his gal from such as you fine gentlemen? I know yer, so it's no use coming this talky-talky surprise with me. You just tell me where she is."

"I tell you," reiterated Adrien, "I have never seen the child since the night I took her from the cold. Stand out of my path, or I shall hand you over to the police."

Mr. Wilfer laughed.

"So that's your answer, is it? Call away, my fine gentleman, call away."

He glanced round the deserted path from the corner of his shifty eyes; then, with a snarl of a savage beast, he sprang upon Leroy, and strove to bring him to the ground.