"It's the best leaf in your book, whatever you may think of it," said Davis, sternly; "and it will be a gloomy morning for you whenever you cease to be it."

"I don't intend it, old fellow; I 'll never tear up the deed of partnership, you may rely upon that. The old-established firm of Beecher and Davis, or Davis and Beecher--for I don't care which--shall last _my_ time, at least;" and he held out his hand with a cordiality that even Grog felt irresistible, for he grasped and shook it heartily.

"If I could only get you to run straight, I 'd make a man of you," said Grog, eying him fixedly. "There's not a fellow in England could do as much for you as I could. There's nobody knows what's in you as I do, and there's nobody knows where you break down like _me_."

"True, O Grog, every word of it."

"I 'd put you in the first place in the sporting world,--I 'd have your name at the top of the list at 'the turf.' In six months from this day--this very day--I 'd bind myself to make Annesley Beecher the foremost man at Newmarket. But just on one condition."

"And that?"

"You should take a solemn oath--I 'd make it a solemn one, I promise you--never to question anything I decided in your behalf, but obey me to the letter in whatever I ordered. Three months of that servitude, and you 'd come out what I 've promised you."

"I 'll swear it this moment," cried Beecher.

"Will you?" asked Davis, eagerly.

"In the most solemn and formal manner you can dictate on oath to me. I 'll take it now, only premising you 'll not ask me anything against the laws."

"Nothing like hanging, nor even transportation," said Grog, laughing, while Beecher's face grew crimson, and then pale. "No,--no; all I 'll ask is easily done, and not within a thousand miles of a misdemeanor.

But you shall Just think it over quietly. I don't want a 'catch match.'

You shall have time to reconsider what I have said, and when we meet at Brussels you can tell me your mind."

"Agreed; only I hold _you_ to your bargain, remember, if _I_ don't change."

"I'll stand to what I've said," said Davis. "Now, remember, the Hotel Tirlemont; and so, good-bye, for I must pack up."

When the door closed after him, Annesley Beecher walked the room, discussing with himself the meaning of Davis's late words. Well did he know that to restore himself to rank and credit and fair fame was a labor of no common difficulty. How was he ever to get back to that station, forfeited by so many derelictions! Davis might, it is true, get his bills discounted,--might hit upon fifty clever expedients for raising the wind,--might satisfy this one, compromise with that; he might even manage so cleverly that racecourses and betting-rooms would be once more open to him. But what did--what could Grog know of that higher world where once he had moved, and to which, by his misdeeds, he had forfeited all claim to return? Why, Davis did n't even know the names of those men whose slightest words are verdicts upon character.

All England was not Ascot, and Grog only recognized a world peopled with gentlemen riders and jocks, and a landscape dotted with flagstaffs, and closed in with a stand-house.

"No, no," said he to himself; "that's a flight above you, Master Davis.

It 's not to be thought of."

CHAPTER XXX. THE OPERA.

A dingy old den enough is the Hotel Tirlemont, with its low-arched _porte-cochere_, and its narrow windows, small-paned and iron-barred.

It rather resembles one of those antiquated hostels you see in the background of an Ostade or a Teniers than the smart edifice which we nowadays look for in an hotel. Such was certainly the opinion of Annesley Beecher as he arrived there on the evening after that parting with Davis we have just spoken of. Twice did he ask the guide who accompanied him if this was really the Tirlemont, and if there were not some other hotel of the same name; and while he half hesitated whether he should enter, a waiter respectfully stepped forward to ask if he were the gentleman whose apartment had been ordered by Captain Davis,--a demand to which, with a sullen assent, he yielded, and slowly mounted the stairs.

"Is the Captain at home?" asked he.

"No, sir; he went off to the railway station to meet you. Mademoiselle, however, is upstairs."

"Mademoiselle!" cried Beecher, stopping, and opening wide his eyes in astonishment. "This _is_ something new," muttered he. "When did she come?"

"Last night, sir, after dinner."

"Where from?"

"From a Pensionnat outside the Porte de Scharbeck, I think, sir; at least, her maid described it as in that direction."

"And what is she called,--Mademoiselle Violette, or Virginie, or Ida, or what is it, eh?" asked he, jocularly.

"Mademoiselle, sir,--only Mademoiselle,--the Captain's daughter!"

"His daughter!" repeated he, in increased wonderment, to himself. "Can this be possible?"

"There is no doubt of it, sir. The lady of the Pensionnat brought her here last night in her own carriage, and I heard her, as she entered the salon, say, 'Now, Mademoiselle, that I have placed you in the hands of your father--' and then the door closed."

"I never knew he had a daughter," muttered Beecher to himself. "Which is my room?"

"We have prepared this one for you, but to-morrow you shall have a more comfortable one, with a look-out over the lower town."

"Put me somewhere where I sha'n't hear that confounded piano, I beg of you. Who is it rattles away that fashion?"

"Mademoiselle, sir."

"To be sure,--I ought to have guessed it; and sings too, I'll be bound?"

"Like Grisi, sir," responded the waiter, enthusiastically; for the Tirlemont, being frequented by the artistic class, had given him great opportunity for forming his taste.

Just at this moment a rich, full voice swelled forth in one of the popular airs of Verdi, but with a degree of ease and freedom that showed the singer soared very far indeed above the pretensions of mere amateurship.

"Wasn't I right, sir?" asked the waiter, triumphantly. "You'll not hear anything better at the Grand Opera."

"Send me up some hot water, and open that portmanteau," said Beecher, while he walked on towards the door of the salon. He hesitated for a second or two about then presenting himself; but as he thought of Grog Davis, and what Grog Davis's daughter must be like, he turned the handle and entered.

A lady rose from the piano as the door opened, and even in the half-darkened room Beecher could perceive that she was graceful, and with an elegance in her gesture for which he was in no wise prepared.

"Have I the honor to address Miss Davis?"

"You are Mr. Annesley Beecher, the gentleman my papa has been expecting," said she, with an easy smile. "He has just gone off to meet you."

Nothing could be more commonplace than these words, but they were uttered in a way that at once declared the breeding of the speaker. She spoke to a friend of her father, and there was a tone of one who felt that even in a first meeting a certain amount of intimacy might subsist between them.

"It's very strange," said Beecher, "but your father and I have been friends this many a year--close friends too--and I never as much as suspected he had a daughter. What a shame of him not to have given me the pleasure of knowing you before!"

"It was a pleasure he was chary enough of to himself," said she, laughing. "I have been at school nearly four years, and have only seen him once, and then for a few hours."

"Yes--but really," stammered out Beecher, "fascinations--charms such as--"

"Pray, sir, don't distress yourself about turning a compliment. I'm quite sure I'm very attractive, but I don't in the least want to be told so. You see," she added, after a pause, "I 'm presuming upon what papa has told me of your old friendship to be very frank with you."

"I am enchanted at it," cried Beecher. "Egad! if you. 'cut out all the work,' though, I 'll scarcely be able to follow you."

"Ah! so here you are before me," cried Davis, entering and shaking his hand cordially. "You had just driven off when I reached the station. All right, I hope?"