Under One Flag. Marsh Richard

of thing to-night, at the theatre. Can't you go when I ask you?"

      It appeared that he could, because he did. She shut the door behind him the instant he was through it, keeping fast hold of the handle with her hand. She listened to his descending footsteps with an expression of satisfaction not unmingled with anxiety. As they died away she sighed-a sigh of unequivocal relief.

      "That was a near thing, it ought to be a lesson to me, it's given me quite a turn." In spite of its artificial bloom, her pretty, dainty face had assumed a sudden pallor, a fact of which her candid friend, the mirror, at once informed her. "I declare that I look quite white; that sort of thing's enough to make anyone look white." She repaired her loss of complexion with the aid of something which she took from her pocket. "It's a mercy Tom wasn't here, or even Lizzie. She's a queer sort, is Lizzie, and she might have wanted a lot of explanation before she could have been got to see the joke of my giving him her name and address instead of mine. Of course I only did it for a lark. If I'd thought he meant to do anything with it I wouldn't have given it him for a good many fivers, though the coin was useful." There came from between her lips a little ripple of laughter almost like the burst of music which proceeds from a song-bird's throat. "What fools fellows are! He's no toff, anyone can see it with half an eye, he's only a clerk or something got hold of 'a little bit of splosh' and trying to do the swagger. He's said his last words to me, anyhow; Saturday, the theatre'll see my back for good and all. And until then I'll take care that Tom comes and does the dutiful." She stood in an attitude of listening. "That is Lizzie. It's lucky that Mr Jack Smith was off the premises before she came."

      Lizzie came boisterously in, her cheeks red with the haste she had made, her eyes glistening with excitement.

      "Polly Steele!" she exclaimed. "You here!"

      The other girl bestowed on her one mischievous glance, then returned to the mirror.

      "It looks like it, doesn't it? You don't happen to have seen Tom, I suppose?"

      "Tom? Tom Duffield?"

      "That's the gentleman. I've got a bit of news for you, my dear. Tom and I have made it up."

      "Made it up?" She looked at the speaker inquisitorially, then read her meaning. "Oh, Polly, I'm so glad!"

      "I thought you would be. He doesn't seem sorry."

      "When was it? Last night at the theatre I didn't seem as if I could get a word with you."

      "No? I wonder how that was." Polly eyed her friend, her face alive with mischief. "It was this morning, my dear. He came round while I was at breakfast, and he went on so, and he seemed so set on it, that I couldn't find it in my heart to keep on saying no. So the banns are to be put up on Sunday, and we're to be married a month to-day."

      "Oh, Polly!"

      "And Saturday'll be my last appearance on any stage. Tom's going to allow me forty shillings a week until we're married; and of course I shall have my meat for nothing-he won't hear of my keeping on at the theatre. He's making money hand over fist at that shop of his; sold ten beasts last week and I don't know how many sheep. You should hear him talking! I shall be riding in my carriage before you know where you are."

      Lizzie was leaning against the mantelshelf as Agnes Graham had leaned, and, as the famous actress had done, was looking down at the empty grate.

      "I'm glad you're leaving the theatre. I was beginning to get worried about you."

      "Worried about me! Whatever for?"

      Again Miss Polly's countenance was instinct with impish roguery.

      "Oh, you know very well what I mean, my lady, so no pretending. You're too pretty for the theatre, and that's the truth."

      "Why, I thought a theatre was just the place where pretty girls are wanted."

      "Maybe. But pretty girls don't want a theatre, leastways, not if they can help it, they don't." Lizzie spoke with sudden animation. "But talk about your news! What do you think's come my way?"

      "A set of diamonds?"

      There was mockery in Polly's tone, and in her eyes.

      "You may laugh, but that's just what it was-leastways, a diamond necklace."

      "Lizzie!"

      "Yes, as fine a one as ever you saw-better than Maggie Sinclair's, and they say hers is worth a thousand."

      "It wasn't meant for you."

      "Wasn't it? There it was upon the parcel as plain as print, 'Miss Lizzie Emmett, 14 Hercules Buildings, Westminster,' and inside there was the fellow's card-'With Mr Jack Smith's compliments.'"

      "What? Lizzie! Where is it?"

      "It's where it ought to be-with her as Mr Jack Smith ought to marry."

      "Whatever do you mean?"

      "Why, Polly, it's like a story, just like it is in the books. Who do you think's been here this morning? In this very room?"

      Polly drew back, as with a sudden accession of timidity.

      "Not Jack Smith?"

      "Jack Smith! I'd have Jack Smithed him if he'd shown his nose inside my place. Someone as is worth a good few Jack Smiths-Agnes Graham!"

      "Agnes Graham!"

      "Yes, you may stare, but it's truth, she came into this very room. And I've just come from her place. And what do you think she done as I was coming away? Kissed me-yes! straight. It seems as this here Jack Smith he's as good as promised to marry her, and she's been driving herself half silly because he's been carrying on with a girl at our show-yes! And this morning, as they was having a few words, something fell out of his pocket. She picked it up. On it was my name and my address. She asks him if that was the girl. He says it was-like his blamed impudence! So she comes round to me and asks me not to sneak away her bloke."

      "Asks you?"

      "Yes, queer start, ain't it? I'm the sort to sneak away anybody's bloke! I'd give a bit to know how he got hold of my name and address."

      "It does seem odd!"

      "Odd ain't the word for it. There's something what's a little more than odd about it, as it seems to me. And who do you think Jack Smith is?"

      "Some barber's clerk or other, I suppose."

      "Barber's clerk! Why, he's the Earl of Bermondsey!"

      "Who? Lizzie! You don't mean that!"

      "I do, it's gospel truth! His name was printed on the card; 'With Mr Jack Smith's compliments' was wrote on the back. Miss Graham told me it was him, she knew his writing directly she set eyes on it. He's been passing himself off as Jack Smith to some girl or other up at our place, and going on no end."

      Miss Steele, her face turned away from Lizzie, was drumming on the table with the fingers of her left hand.

      "Did you say that he was going to marry Miss Graham?"

      "It seems that he as good as promised that he would, but now she's afraid that he'll take up with this other girl what he's been carrying on with."

      "What makes her think so?"

      "Don't I tell you that he about equal to up and told her so."

      Miss Steele was silent.

      "Does she think" – there was a tremulous break in her voice-"that he would marry the other girl?"

      "That's what she's afraid of, though, if I was her, I'd let him. If I was Miss Graham I wouldn't marry him, not if he was a hundred times the Earl of Bermondsey. Don't you remember what we was reading about him only the other day-how he'd just come into his money, and what a lot of it there was? And houses, and parks, and forests, and I don't know what? My truth! He's only a kid, and a pretty sort of kid he seems to be; one of them fools what's worse than the clever ones, just because they're fools. I shouldn't be surprised if this girl what he's been carrying on with-I'll find out who she is before this night is gone, and if she gave him my address I'll mark her!"

      "Perhaps she only did it for a joke!"

      "A nice sort of joke! What do you think? I'll spoil her beauty, the nasty cat! I shouldn't be surprised,