The Ivory Gate, a new edition. Walter Besant

powers of all the devils shall not force us apart.' A daring and comprehensive boast.

      She laughed a little, lightened by words so brave. 'Here we are, dear,' she said, as they arrived at the house. 'I think the rain means to come down in earnest. You had better make haste home. To-morrow evening at nine, I will expect you.'

      She ran lightly up the steps and rang the bell: the door was opened: she turned her head, laughed, waved her hand to her lover, and ran in.

      There was standing on the kerb beneath the street lamp a man apparently engaged in lighting a cigar. When the girl turned, the light of the lamp fell full upon her face. The man stared at her, forgetting his cigar-light, which fell burning from his hand into the gutter. When the door shut upon her, he stared at George, who, for his part, his mistress having vanished, stared at the door.

      All this staring occupied a period of at least half a minute. Then George turned and walked away: the man struck another light, lit his cigar, and strode away too, but in the same direction. Presently he caught up George and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

      'Here, you sir,' he said gruffly; 'I want a word with you before we go any further.'

      George turned upon him savagely. Nobody likes a heavy hand laid upon the shoulder. In the old days it generally meant a writ and Whitecross Street and other unpleasant things.

      'Who the devil are you?' he asked.

      'That is the question I was going – ' He stopped and laughed. – 'No – I see now. I don't want to ask it. You are George Austin, are you not?'

      'That is my name. But who are you – and what do you want with me?'

      The man was a stranger to him. He was dressed in a velvet coat and a white waistcoat: he wore a soft felt hat; and with the velvet jacket, the felt hat, and a full beard, he looked like an artist of some kind. At the end of June it is still light at half-past nine. George saw that the man was a gentleman: his features, strongly marked and clear cut, reminded him of something – but vaguely; they gave him the common feeling of having been seen or known at some remote period. The man looked about thirty, the time when the physical man is at his best: he was of good height, well set up, and robust. Something, no doubt, in the art world: or something that desired to appear as if belonging to the art world. Because, you see, the artists themselves are not so picturesque as those who would be artists if they could. The unsuccessful artist, certainly, is sometimes a most picturesque creature. So is the model. The rags and duds and threadbarity too often enter largely into the picturesque. So with the ploughboy's dinner under the hedge, or the cotter's Saturday night. And the village beershop may make a very fine picture; but the artist himself does not partake in those simple joys.

      'Well, sir, who are you?' George repeated as the other man made no reply.

      'Do you not remember me? I am waiting to give you a chance.'

      'No – certainly not.'

      'Consider. That house into which you have just taken my – a young lady – does it not connect itself with me?'

      'No. Why should it?'

      'Then I suppose that I am completely forgotten.'

      'It is very strange. I seem to recall your voice.'

      'I will tell you who I am by another question. George Austin, what in thunder are you doing with my sister?'

      'Your sister?' George jumped up and stared. 'Your sister? Are you – are you Athelstan come home again? Really and truly – Athelstan?'

      'I am really and truly Athelstan. I have been back in England about a fortnight.'

      'You are Athelstan?' George looked at him curiously. When the reputed black-sheep comes home again, it is generally in rags with a long story of fortune's persecutions. This man was not in the least ragged. On the contrary, he looked prosperous. What had he been doing? For, although Elsie continued passionate in her belief in her brother's innocence, everybody else believed that he had run away to escape consequences, and George among the number had accepted that belief.

      'Your beard alters you greatly. I should not have known you. To be sure it is eight years since I saw you last, and I was only just beginning my articles when you – left us.' He was on the point of saying 'when you ran away.'

      'There is a good deal to talk about. Will you come with me to my rooms? I am putting up in Half Moon Street.'

      Athelstan hailed a passing hansom and they drove off.

      'You have been a fortnight in London,' said George, 'and yet you have not been to see your own people.'

      'I have been eight years away, and yet I have not written a single letter to my own people.'

      George asked no more questions. Arrived at the lodging, they went in and sat down. Athelstan produced soda and whisky and cigars.

      'Why have I not called upon my own people?' Athelstan took up the question again. 'Because, when I left home, I swore that I would never return until they came to beg forgiveness. That is why. Every evening I have been walking outside the house, in the hope of seeing some of them without their seeing me. For, you see, I should like to go home again; but I will not go as I went away, under a shameful cloud. That has got to be lifted first. Presently I shall know whether it is lifted. Then I shall know how to act. To-night, I was rewarded by the sight of my sister Elsie, walking home with you. I knew her at once. She is taller than I thought she would become when I went away. Her face hasn't changed much, though. She always had the gift of sweet looks, which isn't quite the same thing as beauty. My sister Hilda, for instance, was always called a handsome girl, but she never had Elsie's sweet looks.'

      'She has the sweetest looks in the world.'

      'What are you doing with her, George Austin, I ask again?'

      'We are engaged to be married.'

      'Married? Elsie married? Why – she's – well – I suppose she must be grown up by this time.'

      'Elsie is very nearly one-and-twenty. She will be twenty-one to-morrow.'

      'Elsie going to be married. It seems absurd. One-and-twenty to-morrow. Ah!' He sat up eagerly. 'Tell me, is she any richer? Has she had any legacies or things?'

      'No. How should she? Her dot is her sweet self, which is enough for any man.'

      'And you, Austin. I remember you were an articled clerk of eighteen or nineteen when I went away – are you rich?'

      Austin blushed. 'No,' he said; 'I am not. I am a managing clerk at your old office. I get two hundred a year, and we are going to marry on that.'

      Athelstan nodded. 'A bold thing to do. However – Twenty-one to-morrow – we shall see.'

      'And I am sorry to say there is the greatest opposition – on the part of your mother and your other sister. I am not allowed in the house, and Elsie is treated as a rebel.'

      'Oh! well. If you see your way, my boy, get married, and have a happy life, and leave them to come round at their leisure. Elsie has a heart of gold. She can believe in a man. She is the only one of my people who stood up for me when they accused me without a shadow of proof of – The only one – the only one. It is impossible for me to forget that – and difficult,' he added, 'to forgive the other thing. – Is my sister Hilda still at home?'

      'No. She is married to Sir Samuel, brother of your Mr. Dering. He is a great deal older than his wife; but he is very rich.'

      'Oh! – and my mother?'

      'I believe she continues in good health. I am not allowed the privilege of calling upon her.'

      'And my old chief?'

      'He also continues well.'

      'And now, since we have cleared the ground so far, let us come to business. How about that robbery?'

      'What robbery?' The old business had taken place when George was a lad just entering upon his articles. He had ceased to think of it.

      'What robbery? Man alive!' – Athelstan sprang to his feet – 'there is only one robbery to me in the whole history of the world since men and robberies began. What robbery?