Under False Pretences. Sergeant Adeline

wants you, Lizzie. Percival, Mr. Vivian talks of going."

      Elizabeth vanished through the curtain. Percival had not even time to breathe into her ear the "Forgive me" with which he meant to propitiate her. He was not very penitent for his offence. He thought that he was sure of Elizabeth's pardon, because he thought himself sure of Elizabeth's love. But, as a matter of fact, that stolen kiss did not at all advance his cause with Elizabeth Murray.

      He did not see her again that night—a fact which sent him back to his lodging in an ill-satisfied frame of mind. He and Vivian shared a sitting-room between them; and, on their return from Mr. Heron's, they disposed themselves for their usual smoke and chat. But neither of them seemed inclined for conversation. Rupert lay back in a long lounging-chair; Percival turned over the leaves of a new publication which had been sent to him for review, and uttered disparaging comments upon it from time to time.

      "I hope all critics are not so hypercritical as you are," said Vivian at last, when the volume had finally been tossed to the other end of the room with an exclamation of disgust.

      "Pah! why will people write such abominable stuff?" said Percival. "Reach me down that volume of Bacon's Essays behind you; I must have something to take the taste out of my mouth before I begin to write."

      Vivian handed him the book, and watched him with some interest as he read. The frown died away from his forehead, and the mouth gradually assumed a gentler expression before he had turned the first page. In five minutes he was so much absorbed that he did not hear the question which Vivian addressed to him.

      "What position," said Rupert, deliberately, "does Miss Murray hold in your father's house?"

      "Eh? What? What position?" Away went Percival's book to the floor; he raised himself in his chair, and began to light his pipe, which had gone out. "What do you mean?" he said.

      "Is she a ward of your father's? Is she a relation of yours?"

      "Yes, of course, she is," said Percival, rather resentfully. "She is a cousin. Let me see. Her father, Gordon Murray, was my mother's brother. She is my first cousin. And Cinderella in general to the household," he added, grimly.

      "Oh, Gordon Murray was her father? So I supposed. Then if poor Richard Luttrell had not died I suppose she would have been a sort of connection of my sister's. I remember Angela wondered whether Gordon Murray had left any family."

      "Why?"

      "Why? You know the degree of relationship and the terms of the will made by Mrs. Luttrell's father, don't you?"

      "Not I."

      "Gordon Murray—this Miss Murray's father—was next heir after the two Luttrells, if they died childless. Of course, Brian is still living; but if he died, Miss Murray would inherit, I understand."

      "There's not much chance," said Percival, lightly.

      "Not much," responded Vivian.

      They were interrupted by a knock at the door. The landlady, with many apologies, brought them a telegram which had been left at the house during their absence, and which she had forgotten to deliver. It was addressed to Vivian, who tore it open, read it twice, and then passed it on to Percival without a word.

      It was from Angela Vivian, and contained these words only—

      "Brian Luttrell is dead."