rich. What do you say, Mr. Spruce?"
"Well, I never had a daughter, so I can't say anything," replied the little man, who was rapidly understanding many things. "And your opinion, Mr. Bracken, if I may ask it?" He put the question advisedly, as the mention of Hench's name had brought a scowl to the face of the violinist.
"Money isn't everything," growled Bracken, passing his hand through his rough hair, which he wore a trifle long, after the fashion of musicians. "Hench is a good fellow, and being clever will be rich some day."
"Ah! no"--Madame Alpenny shook her head vehemently--"he is too--what you call--careless of money. He is idle; he is a mystery."
Spruce opened his pale blue eyes at the last word, and put in his monocle to stare at the Hungarian lady. "There never was any mystery about Hench at school," he observed rather puzzled. "He was always rather a commonplace sort of chap."
"There is a mystery," insisted Madame more vehemently than ever. "I have seen him before, but where--no, it is impossible to say."
"You don't mean to say that he is wanted by the police?" asked Bracken.
"Don't speak like that!" cried Zara with a frown. "Mr. Hench is the most honourable man in the world. There is nothing mean about him."
"He is all that is agreeable and polite," said her mother gravely; "and but for one thing I have no fault to find with him. Still, I have seen him somewhere, that young gentleman; he has a history!"
"History! mystery! You jump to conclusions, mamma."
"Zara, my father was a diplomatist, and I am observant."
"Suspicious, I should say," remarked Bracken under his breath.
But low as he spoke the woman heard him. "Of some people I am," she said with a dark glance, which revealed that she was not so good-humoured as she looked.
Zara rose with a swing of her skirts and looked as graceful and as dangerous as a pantheress. "I am going to lie down," she
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