"It sounds like a mystery," yawned Spruce, apparently in a listless manner, but secretly all agog to learn what the lawyers of his friend knew; "Madame Alpenny says you are a mystery."     

       "Me!" Hench laughed scornfully; "why, there's nothing mysterious about me. As you said just now, I am a simple person who places all his cards on the table."     

       "Yes"--Spruce nodded--"more fool you. Now, if you will only allow that old woman to think that there really is a mystery connected with you--and there seems to be so far as this legal interview is concerned--she may give you a chance of becoming her daughter's husband."     

       "Perhaps! But why does she think me a mystery?"     

       "I can't tell you. She was very vague about the matter. She declares that she has seen you somewhere and that you have a history."     

       "History be hanged. My father had sufficient money to travel about and put me to school at Winchester. When I left I joined him, and we went through Europe to this place and that until he died and was buried in Paris. What mystery is there about that?"     

       "None. But your family----?"     

       "I haven't got any save my father, who is dead. And he told me very little about himself or his belongings. We are a Welsh family, I believe."     

       "Hench isn't a Welsh name."     

       "Owain is, anyhow, and the spelling is old Welsh," retorted the other.     

       "True. We used to rag you about the spelling at school. Well, with such a name as that, you might find out the truth about your family."     

       "I'm not curious."     

       "You should be then, as I would be if I were in your shoes. For all you know there may be a title and money waiting for you."     

       "Oh, rubbish! Well, you can tell Madame Alpenny what I have told you. No. On second thoughts, I'll tell her myself. She and her mystery, indeed!"       and with a scornful nod Hench left the bleak smoking-room.    

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