each is pledged, and from which direction the first blow is to come, would be our salvation.” 

 “I cannot understand,” she said, “why he should have refused to share his knowledge with you. He is an American—it is almost the same thing as being an Englishman. And you are friends,—I am sure that you have helped him often.” 

 “It was a matter of vanity—simply cursed vanity,” Bellamy answered. “It would have been the greatest journalistic success of modern times for him to have printed that document, word for word, in his paper. He fights for his own hand alone.” 

 “And you?” she whispered. 

 “He will have to reckon with me,” Bellamy declared. “I know that he is going to try and leave Vienna to-night, and if he does I shall be at his heels.” 

 She nodded her head thoughtfully. 

 “I, too,” she announced. “I come with you, my friend. I do no more good here, and they worry my life out all the time. I come to sing in London at Covent Garden. I have agreements there which only await my signature. We will go together; is it not so?” 

 “Very well,” he answered, “only remember that my movements must depend very largely upon Dorward’s. The train leaves at eight o’clock, station time. I have already a coupe reserved.” 

 “I come with you,” she murmured. “I am very weary of this city.” 

 They walked on for a few paces in silence. Bellamy looked around the gardens, brilliant with flowering shrubs and rose trees, with here and there some delicate piece of statuary half-hidden amongst the wealth of foliage. The villa had once belonged to a royal favorite, and the grounds had been its chief glory. They reached a sheltered seat and sat down. A few yards away a tiny waterfall came tumbling over the rocks into a deep pool. They were hidden from the windows of the villa by the boughs of a drooping chestnut tree. Bellamy stooped and kissed her upon the lips. 

 “Ours is a strange courtship, Louise,” he whispered softly. 

 She took his hand in hers and smoothed it. She had returned his kiss, but she drew a little further away from him. 

 “Ah! my dear friend,” looking at him with sorrow in her eyes, “courtship is scarcely the word, is it? For you and me there is nothing to hope for, nothing beyond.” 

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