“Yes; I’ve a dainty bit of mystery for you. No blind alleys and thieves’ dens in this”—page 33.

[36]“You have only to meet the lady, receive her instructions, and come away.”

[36]

“I hope I shall live through the ordeal,” rising once more and shaking himself like a water-spaniel, “but I’d rather face all the hosts of Rag Alley.”

And Richard Stanhope left the Agency to “overhaul” the innocent masquerade costume that held, in its white and crimson folds, the fate of its owner.

Leaving him thus employed, let us follow the footsteps of Van Vernet, and enter with him the stately portals of the home of the Warburtons.

Crossing a hall that is a marvel of antique richness, with its walls of russet, old gold, and Venetian red tints; its big claw-footed tables; its massive, open-faced clock, with huge weights a-swing below; its statuettes and its bass-reliefs, we pass under a rich portierie, and hear the liveried footman say, evidently having been instructed:

“This is Mr. Warburton’s study, sir; I will take up your name.”

Van Vernet gazes about him, marking the gorgeous richness of the room. A study! There are massive book-cases filled with choicest lore; cabinets containing all that is curious, antique, rare, beautiful, and costly; there are plaques and bronzes; there is a mantle laden with costly bric-a-brac; a grand old-fashioned fire-place and fender; there are divans and easy chairs; rich draperies on wall and at windows, and all in the rarest tints of olive, crimson, and bronze.

Van Vernet looks about him and says to himself:

“This is a room after my own heart. Mr. Warburton,[37] of Warburton Place, must be a sybarite, and should be a happy man. Ah, he is coming.”

[37]

But it is not Mr. Warburton who enters. It is a colored valet, sleek, smiling, obsequious, who bears in his hand a gilded salver, with a letter upon it, and upon his arm a parcel wrapped in black silk.

“You are Mr. Vernet?” queries this personage, as if in doubt.

“Yes.”

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