A Monk of Cruta. E. Phillips Oppenheim

of no consequence, thank you. I can walk."

      "But you will get very wet! Let us make a compromise! You may come with me. I am going only a very little distance, and then you can take the cab on to your home, or wherever you want to go to."

      She stepped in, taking it for granted that he would accept her offer, and he followed her at once. He was not in the least surprised. From the first he had not expected to leave her, and her invitation seemed perfectly natural to him. She gave the cabman her address through the trap-door, and they drove off together.

      At the corner of the square, two men were standing together talking, and as the hansom passed within a yard or two of them both glanced idly in, and then started. Paul, who had been looking straight ahead of him, and seeing nothing, turned round, startled by a familiar exclamation, just in time to see his brother Arthur, and Leslie Horton, gazing after the cab. The incident troubled him, as much for her sake as his own. But, looking into her face, he could not see that she was in any way disturbed, although she must have seen the two men, and would probably have recognised them as having been present at Lady Swindon's reception. Her face was quite unmoved, but in a moment or two she asked a question.

      "Who was the younger and better looking of those two men; the one with violets in his coat, like yours?"

      "It was my brother," he answered simply. "I am afraid, too, that he recognised you."

      "So far as I am concerned, that is of no consequence at all," she answered lightly.

      He turned away with a sudden sinking of the heart. He knew, too well, that her carelessness was not assumed. How was he to interpret it?

      Their drive was finished in silence, and they pulled up before a handsome, though somewhat sombre-looking house in a back street.

      "My rooms are here," she remarked.

      He stepped on to the pavement, and assisted her to alight. The thought of leaving her so abruptly was painful to him, and yet he dreaded to hear her invite him to go in with her; nevertheless, she did so.

      "If you are not in a hurry, perhaps you will come in, and let me give you a cup of tea," she said, looking him full in the face.

      His heart sank. What was he to think now? And yet he was absurdly glad that he was not to leave her.

      "Do you mean it?" he asked.

      "Of course! I should not have asked you else. Are you very much shocked?" she added, with a mocking gleam in her eyes. "It is not proper, is it! I confess I did not think of that. But do come," she added, with a sudden bewitching smile.

      "I shall be delighted," he answered, gravely enough, but truthfully. He turned to pay the cabman, and followed her into the house.

      "My rooms are upstairs," she remarked, leading the way. "The luxury of a first floor is at present beyond me."

      Her words pleased him, but their effect died away when she opened a door on the first landing, and ushered him in. Such of the interior of the house as he had seen was handsomely furnished, but the room in which he stood was almost like a fairy chamber. Curtains divided it in the centre, and beyond he could see a table laid for dinner.

      "That half I use for a dining-room," she remarked, pointing towards it with one of her gloves, which she had just taken off. "It makes this room small, but it is a convenient arrangement. Do sit down!"

      He bowed, but remained standing, with his elbow resting upon the draped mantel-board. She took off her hat and coat, hanging them over the back of a chair, and advanced towards him.

      She was in her dancing dress, a floating mass of yellow draperies, and the firelight gleamed strangely upon her dusky, perfect face, with its olive colouring, and soft, glowing eyes. She came so close to him that a faint odour from the handkerchief in her hand stole up to him.

      He was playing with an ornament on the shelf, and his fingers tightened convulsively around it. It snapped in two in his hand; he did not notice it. He leaned forward towards her, and his strong voice vibrated with feeling.

      "And it was for this then, Adrea Kiros, that you ran away from the convent St. Lucile! My God!"

CHAPTER IV

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"ADREA'S DIARY"

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      To-day I have made my entrance in the first scene of the drama of life. To-day, therefore, I commence my memoirs. Everything before goes for nothing!

      As I have removed myself altogether from all association with the humdrum existence which might have been mine, I am naturally friendless for the present. So far as the other sex is concerned, I fancy that that could be easily remedied. But no women are likely to care about making my acquaintance, and I am glad of it. I hate women—men, too, I think! At any rate, there will be no one of whom I shall make a confidant, so I have chosen you, my silent friend. I gave a guinea for you in Bond Street, and with your dainty morocco case and binding, I think you are well worth it. At any rate, you will be faithful so far as silence is concerned.

      To-day has been an eventful one. I have made my debut as a dancer, and Paul de Vaux has been here, in this house, alone with me! That is hard to realize, but it is so! He has altered since he used to pay me periodical visits at the convent—and so have I, I imagine! Yet he recognised me! How pale and stern he looked when he stood up on the hearthrug and called me by my name! He is very handsome—handsomer now even than on that day when he stood by, in that chamber of death, and saw my father murdered, without lifting his hand. Ah! Paul de Vaux, Paul de Vaux! that was an evil day for you! Did you never think that that little brown girl, as you called her, would grow up some day; or did you think that she would forget! Bah! What fools men are!

      He remembered me! How grave he looked, and yet how tender his voice sounded! He did not forget that he was my guardian, and I his ward. How bewildered and anxious he was! Was I living quite alone, had I no friends, did I think it wise to lay myself open to so much notice?

      He had come close to my chair, and was leaning down, so that his head nearly touched mine. Really, when I looked up, I thought that he was going to take me into his arms. I looked up and laughed softly into his face.

      He said no more. I invited him to dine with me, and promised to dance to him afterwards. I even let my hand rest for a moment upon his shoulder, and whispered—but n'importe! He behaved just as I would have had him behave! He took up his hat and walked straight out of the room! It was rude, but it was magnificent. Ah! Paul de Vaux! you may struggle as long as you like, but in the end you will be mine!

CHAPTER V

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"THE FAR-OFF MUTTERING OF THE STORM TO COME"

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      "Paul!"

      Paul had walked unannounced into his mother's favourite little sitting-room at Vaux Court, tired and travel-stained. She rose to her feet and looked at him anxiously.

      "Don't be alarmed, mother," he said, stooping down and kissing her. "There's nothing at all the matter."

      "Arthur is well?"

      "Quite well; I was with him yesterday afternoon. There's nothing the matter. London was boring me, that's all, and I thought I'd run down here and have a look at the old place, and perhaps a day's hunting."

      Relieved