Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter. Lawrence L. Lynch

rich dress to and fro in an impatient promenade, and twisting recklessly meantime a delicate bit of lace and embroidery with plump, white fingers—a woman waited and watched for the coming of Lucian Davlin.

      A woman, fair of face, hazel-eyed, sunny-haired, with a form too plump to be quite classical, yet graceful and prepossessing in the extreme. A very fair face, and a very wise one; the face of a woman of the world, who knows it in all its phases; who is able, in her own peculiar manner, to guide her life bark successfully if not correctly, and who has little to acquire, in the way of experience, save the art of growing old gracefully and of dying with an acquitted conscience.

      No unsophisticated girl was Cora Weston, but a woman of eight-and-twenty; an adventuress by nature and by calling, and with beauty enough, and brains enough, to make her chosen profession prosperous, if not proper.

      She paused before a mirror, carefully adjusting her fleecy hair, for even in pressing emergencies such women never forget their personal appearance. This done, she pondered a moment and then pulled the bell. A most immaculate colored gentleman answered her summons and, bowing low, stood waiting her will.

      "Henry, is it not time that your master were here? The train is certainly due; are you sure he will come? What did he telegraph you?"

      "That he would arrive on the one o'clock express, madame; and he never fails."

      "Very well. If he does not appear soon, Henry, you must go and inquire if the train has been delayed, and if so, telegraph. My business is imperative."

      The well trained servant bowed again, and, at a signal from her, withdrew. Left alone, she continued her silent march, listening ever, until at length a quick footstep came down the passage. Flinging herself into the depths of a great easy chair, she assumed an air of listless indifference, and so greeted the new comer.

      "Gracious heavens, Cora! what brings you here like this? I thought you had sailed, and was regretting it by this time."

      He hurried to her side and she half rose to return his caress. Then sinking back, she surveyed him with a lazy half smile. "I wonder if you are glad to see me, Lucian, my angel; you are such a hypocrite."

      He laughed lightly, and threw himself into a seat near her. "Candid Cora, you are not a hypocrite—with me," and he looked admiringly yet impatiently at her. "Come," he said, at length, as she continued to tap her slender foot lazily, and to regard him silently through half closed lashes: "what does it all mean? Fairest of women, tell me."

      "It means, Mon Brave, that I did not sail in the Golden Rose; I only sent my hat and veil."

      "Wonderful woman! Well, thereby hangs a tale, and I listen."

      "I came back to see—"

      "Not old Verage?" he interrupted, maliciously.

      "No, hush: he saw me safely on board the Golden Rose—very gallant of him, wasn't it?"

      "Rather—yes, considering. And if I did not know Miss Cora Weston so very well, I should be surprised at all this mystery; as it is, I simply wait to be enlightened."

      "And enlightened you shall be, monsieur."

      She threw off her air of listlessness and arose, crossing over and standing before him, leaning upon a high-backed chair, and speaking rapidly.

      Lucian, meantime, produced a cigar case, lit a weed, and assuming the attitude and manner she had just abandoned, bade her proceed.

      "You see," she said, "I did not like the idea of quitting the country because of a little difference of opinion between myself and an old idiot like Verage."

      "A difference of some thousands out of pocket for him; well, go on."

      "Just so, comrade mine. Well, fortune favored me; she generally does. I learned, at almost the last moment, that a lady of my acquaintance had taken passage in the same vessel. I interviewed her, and found her in the condition of the good people in novels who have seen better days; her exchequer was at low ebb, and, like myself, she had reasons which induced her to emigrate. I did not inquire into these, having no reason to doubt the statement, but I accompanied her on board the Golden Rose, bade her a fond farewell, and bequeathed to her my street apparel and a trifling sum of old Verage's money. In exchange, I donned her bonnet and veil, and adopted her rather awkward gait, and so had the satisfaction of seeing, on my return to terra firma, old Verage gazing enraptured after my Paris bonnet and floating veil as it disappeared with my friend, outward bound."

      "Well, what next? All the world, your world, supposes you now upon the briny deep. Old Verage will be rejoiced to find you here in the city; what then?"

      "I think he will," said Cora, dryly, "when he does find me. I did not come here in the dark to advertise my arrival."

      "Bravo, Cora," he patted her hands softly; "wise Cora. You are a credit to your friends, indeed you are, my blonde beauty."

      She laughed softly;—a kittenish, purring laugh.

      "Well, Lucian, time flies and I throw myself on your mercy. Recommend me to some nice quiet retreat, not too far from the city, but at a safe distance; put me in a carriage, at daylight, which will carry me out to some by-station, where I can take passage behind the iron horse, unmolested, for fresh fields and pastures new."

      Davlin pondered a moment as if he had not already decided upon his course of action. He knew the woman he had to deal with, and shaped his words accordingly. "A retired spot—let me see. I wonder, by Jove,"—brightening suddenly, "I think I have the right thing for you."

      "Well, when Lucian Davlin 'thinks' he has a point, that point is gained; proceed, man of might."

      "You see," began Lucian, in a business-like tone, "I took one of my 'skips' for change of scene and recreation."

      "And safe quarters until the wind shifted," interrupted she. "Well, go on."

      He laughed softly, "Even so. We children of chance do need to take flying trips sometimes, but I did not set out for Europe, Cora mine, and I wore my own clothes home."

      "Bravo! But old Verage don't want you, and the wind has changed; proceed."

      "Well, as usual, I found myself in luck, and if I had been a nice young widow, might have taken Summer quarters in the snug little village of Bellair."

      "Not being a widow, relate your experience as a rusticating gentleman at large. You excite my curiosity."

      Lucian removed his cigar from between his lips, and lazily contemplated his fair vis a vis.

      "How long a time must elapse before the most magnificent of blondes will think it fitting, safe, and," with a slight smile, "expedient to return and resume her sovereignty here, on this hearth, and," striking his breast theatrically, "in this heart?"

      The "most magnificent of blondes" looked first, approvingly, at her image displayed in the full length mirror opposite, then coolly at her interrogator.

      "Hum! that depends. The lady you so flatter can't abide dullness and inaction, and too much stupidity might overcome her natural timidity, in which case even my ardent old pursuer could not scare me into submission and banishment. If I could only find an occupation, now, for my—"

      "Peculiar talents," he suggested; "that's just the point. And now, I wonder if you wouldn't make a remarkably charming young widow?"

      "So you have an idea, then, Lucian? Just toss me a bunch of those cigarettes, please—thank you. Now a light; and now, if it's not asking too much, will you proceed to explain yourself, and tell me what fortunate being you desire me, in the character of a fair widow, to besiege? What he is like; and why?"

      "Admirable Cora! what other woman could smoke a cigarette with such a perfect air of doing the proper thing; so much of Spanish grace."

      "And so much genuine enjoyment," she added, comfortably. "Smoke is my poetry, Lucian. When far from my gaze, and I desire to call up your most superb image, I can do so much more