to the corner of Fopstone Road, and, halting, looked eagerly down it.

But there was not a soul. Indeed there was no sound beyond that of a distant cab whistle somewhere in Nevern Square.

For about five minutes he waited, glancing impatiently at his watch, and then, turning upon his heel, strolled along in the direction of the Square.

A few moments later, however, there hurried up behind him a sweet-faced, smartly-dressed girl who, as he turned to meet her, laughed merrily, saying:

“I do hope, Charlie, I haven’t kept you waiting, but I’ve had such trouble to get out. Dad asked me to write some private letters in English for him; I really believe he suspects something. We meet too often.”

“No, darling,” answered Rolfe, raising his hat and taking her small gloved hand. “We don’t meet frequently enough for me. And I think that your father is entirely unsuspicious. I was with him last night, and he did not strike me as possessing any knowledge of these secret meetings of ours.”

“Yes, but you know how dangerous it is,” replied the pretty girl, glancing round. “Somebody might pass, recognise me, and tell dad.”

“And what then, dearest?” he laughed. “Why your fears are utterly groundless.”

“I know, but—”

“But what?”

“Well, dad would be annoyed—that’s all—annoyed with both of us.”

“He must already have seen, darling, that I love you. He isn’t blind,” said Charlie Rolfe, moving slowly along at her side.

Hers was, indeed, a face that would attract attention anywhere, oval, delicately moulded, slightly flushed by the momentary excitement of meeting her lover. Her hair was well-dressed, her narrow-waisted figure still girlish; her dress, a pale biscuit-coloured cloth, which, in its refined simplicity, suited well the graceful contour of the slender form, and contrasted admirably with the soft white skin; the dark hair, a stray coquettish little wisp of which fell across her brow beneath her neat black hat, and the dark brown 

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