Rhyl Journal

r (Copyright.) HIS GRACE. By MRS. C. N. WILLIAMSON, Author of "The Barn Storrners," "The Woman ia Grey," "Fortune's Sport," "The House by tho Lock," A Man From the Dark," Lady Mary of the Dark House," Her Royal Highness," &c. SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS: Lord Wareham had been brought home from the hunting field with his neck broken. The consequence was that Lady Wareham also lay in peril of her life, while another life, still more precious to the family fortune and future, was trembling in the balance. Should death occur the man whom Lady Mary Blanclon-the spinster sister of the Duke of Leicester —despised above all other men would soon come into the title and estates. She and Mr. Savernake, who acted as a sort of confidential clerk to the Duke, concoct a scheme to frustrate this. A certain docu- ment which Savernake extracted frcm the pockets of Lord Wareham revealed that a woman, who claims to be his wife, his come to live in the neighbour- hood to ascertain whether the reports of his second marriage are true, and acquainting him of the birth of twins—two boys. Whilst this story is discredited by Savernake and Lady Mary, they conspire tosTfthfr to effect out of it a way out of the difficulty which lies before them. This is nothing less than the exchange of the young Lord Wareham the moment he should die for one of the infants of this .strange woman. This is accomplished by Savernake, the woman consenting, with various stipulations. To the amazement of all, and especi- ally of the doctor, whom Lady Mary ingeniously got out of the little Lord Wareham got better in a remarkably short time. We are next introduced to Randal Palgrave, at the coming of age of the Duke, when a grand ball is given at Lnrlworth Towers. His mind is full of bitter thoughts as he paces the picture gallery, and inwardly comments upon how nearly he had come into the dukeJom. Maurice, the Duke, becomes acquainted at college with young Blandon, and Randal has a good reason for en- couraging the friendship. Blandon belongs to a rapid, card-playing, hard-drinking set of young men, most of them much older than he, and through his and his father's influence the Duke had been drawn into it as well. With such a feeble consti- tution as Leicester's, no way of life could have been more injurious, and upon this fact Randal Palgrave hid calculated. If the young man married, all his efforts of the last ten years would have been in vain. History would repeat itself. There would be an heir, and whether the Duke lived or died, Handal Palgrave's fate would be the same. This fear of Randal's was well founded. The attentions which the Duke bestowed upon the "Princess"—Lady Ann O'Neill—called up all the bitterness in his nature. The Princess promises to lJ. the wife of Maurice, not because she loves the Duke, but because she is poor, and sees in such a marriage a way of helping the poor people of Kit" daragh, for whom she would have given her life. The Duko takes her upon these terms. The effect cf this upon Palgrave is to suddenly bring to his mind his possession of the "Moated Grange," a dilapidated house on the banks of the Thames, which had been left him by the departed Duke. This he seeks to have furnished and renovated, the money for which he borrows from the Duke himself. Some time alter Henley Week the Duke goes in his dinghy up the river to keep an appointment with his fiande, who is staying with her guardians at the Moated Grange, and takes note of a particularly dangerous part of the river, where, he observes to himself, a man coming home late at night might have a nasty accident, and he decided to beware. The following morning was brought the terrible news that the Duke's dinghy had been found floating bottom upwards, and that his hat, cigarette case, with his monogram and coronet, had been picked up. Savernake with "Failure" writ large before his eyes determines not to see the efforts of 21 years thrown away without making a last stand, and proposes to outwit the heir to the title by finding the other child, the twin brother of the Duke. CHAPTER VI. A church clock in the distance somewhere struck the half-hour as Savernake issued from the main door of the Hotel Washington, in Joliet, Illinois. The air struck hot as that of an oven as he passed out from the shade and comparative coolness of the hotel, for it was July, and even at half-past seven in the morning Joliet is patriotically ready to maintain its reputation as one of the hottest towns in the United States. The sun glared defiantly in the Englishman's eyes, and he felt physically unable to look it in tho ace. He had only arrived the night before (after n, journey that would have seemed long to anyone save an American), had been prevented from sleep- ing by the great heat, and had injured the coating of his stomach by copious draughts of iced water. It was exactly eight days since he had left Queenstown, on one of the fastest" greyhounds" that speed across the ocean. Five days and some hours had been occupied by the voyage, one of the shortest trips on record, though an interminable time to the dark-faced old man who had industriously earned the nick-name of the "Deck-pacer." One more day and a night had taken him from New York to Chicago, where he had some reason to expect that he might come across a trail, the scent of which he had never for long allowed himself to lose. Fortunately, his expectations were partially fulfilled. A detective agency, various branches of whose firm he had employed for years upon the same business, had something to tell him, though their tidings were of a nature not wholly pleasing. Still, there was the comforting reflection that things might have been worse and on the strength of what, he had heard, he had almost immediately proceeded to Joliet, a town which would probably have failed to achieve historical distinction were it not widely known for its connection with the "large and com- modious State prison. Not one hour's delay for the sake of rest had Savernake allowed himself, and it was scarcely to be wondered at that he had now arisen at the un- natural hour of seven, with much the sensation of one whose muscles have been stretched upon the rack. He was carefully shaven and dressed, how- ever, and there was that in his appearance which aroused I he interest and attention of such inhabi- tants of Joliet as chanced to see him. There was no mistaking him for anything in the world but an Englishman, and he was the incarnate ideal to the ingenuous Jolietians of what a "British Earl" should be. As the clock struck, he took out his watch and consulted it with anxiety, for business, not idle- inclination, had brought the elderly sybarite out at this unwonted hour. Ilalf-past seven Yes, the Joliet clock was right, because it agreed with tho infallible. A cab—or, in Joliet parlance, a "hack"—had been ordered for him overnight. The smell of the vehicle was musty, but the protection of its closed top was agreeable. Savernake leant back upon the moth-eaten cushions, and endeavoured to compose his mind. He had usually little difficulty iiFl doing so, even on the eve of various great crises through which in his somewhat chequered career he had passed, but to-day was an exception. Perhaps his physical condition, consequent upon over-exertion at his time of life, had something to say to it, but Savernake could hardly persuade himself— though he tried—that the strenuous heating of his: seasoned heart, and the twanging of his experienced nerves, could be thus explained away. The fact was that he was labouring under intensest excitement. His head throbbed, and there was a knot in his throat, wit h a qualmishness whid1 called to mind the first day on shipboard of a traveller less hardened than he. Had lie been » woman, he might have wrung his hands; and broken out into the relief of hysterical cries and laughter. But being what he wa-s he reclined against his hired cushions and oafy the constant brating of a thick vein in hi8 temples betrayed the- storm raging within. Presently he drew from the breast of his coat a wallet-like pocket-book, and selected from among; its contents a small unmounted photograph. It had evidently been taken as a "snap-shot" by tho diminutive but effective instrument known as-a "detective camera," and represented a youth wear- ing the rough dress of a cowboy (not the cowboy of the stage) in the act of mounting lean "broncho." Only the profile of the face was visible, but itwast a striking and characteristic one. On the back of the photograph was written in a. clerkly hand, the words: "Cowboy Jack Maynard, Taiooma, Colorado;, October, 1890." It had been a relict1 to occupy hands and eyes in any way, and Savernake gazed steadily at the photograph for some moments before replacing it in his pocket-book. Scarcely had he done so, when the carriage came abruptly to a standstill, and, with a great leaping of the heart, Savernake knew that he had reached his destination. The crucial moment was about to come. He descended from the vehicle with a curious sense of reluctance to cope with his responsibilities,, and looking up through the haze of July heat, the grey walls of Joliet Prison frowed secretively down upon him. It was close upon eight o'clock, and in a few minutes more the incarcerated whose sentences had! on that morning come to an end would return too freedom and the outer world from which they had debarred. Savernake might have waited in the privacy of his; cab, but his restlessness rendered this impossible. He began pacing up and down before the gates,, with short, uneasy turnings, like a bear in his cage. Three or four others were waiting about, but. they were persons of an appearance very different to Savernake's. An old woman, with a bonnet. of a shape ten years old, shading her eager, ferret eyes. A seedy man of middle-age, who' chewed tobacco, and generously distributed it over the pavement. A haggard vouncr woman, holdinsr by the hand a child of precocious countenance. These were all, or nearly all, and they had no more reality of existence than the creatures of a dream for Savernake. It might have been a year, but was in reality exactly nine minutes after the Englishman left the cab (which had been bidden to wait) before the gates opened. Savernake stood watching the small but motley crew who slouched out, with a countenance apparent ly serene and unconcrrned, for the heat f the day excused the beads that glistened on his lined forehead. But in his own ears his heart, thumped out the seconds like the loud-voiced pendulum of a clock. Could it be possible that he had been misled in regard to the date which, taking everything together, had seemed to occur so providentially ? If so, all his plans might yet end in nothing. Two elderly men came out, their common clothing wrinkled and unkempt from its long storage while they had worn the uniform of stripes. One joined the woman with the bonnet, the other shambled up to the tobacco-spitting individual. An evil-facecl young man shouted ostentatiously to the child, who shrank nearer to the mother. A hollow-faced consumptive passed out with bent head, alone. Then came a tall figure, with buoyant step and a close-cropped head erect upon a splendid white c >lumn of throat that reared itself above the low collnr of a blue flannel shirt, "By gad!" ejaculated Savernake, beneath his breath. His chest rose and fell tumultuously, and his nostrils curved out like those of a spirited horse. "By gad, it's marvellous!" His eyes sparkled, and he stepped forward so as to intercept the last man who left the gates of Joliet Prison. The discharged convict had an air of careless content. lie snuffed the free, hot air with lifted head. His hands hacl gone to his pockets, as though delighted to find their way into the con- veniences of civilised clothing again. He was young, and despite the experiences he was only at this moment leaving behind, all the joy of life, and perfect health and glorious youth were in his handsome face, his breezy bearing, and the very whistle to which his lips had already gaily accommodated themselves. "Mr. Maynard, I believe?" queried Savernake, politely, putting himself directly in the other's path. The released prisoner stared, and then shewed his white teeth in a humorous smile. "Thanks for the 'Mister, said he. And Savernake started a little at the sound of the voice. "I reckon I have stopped being No. 49 by this time, and got back into Jack Maynard again. But if you'll excuse the language, who the deuce are you ? "My desire is to explain," smiled Savernake, all eagerness now, forgetful of fatigue. "Here is my card (he presented it) "and I am armed with an invitation for you to breakfast with me. I very much hope you will do me the favour to accept." The young gentleman who had so lately been transformed from No. 49 to "Mr. Maynard," laughed. "You can bet I will," he responded, in his rich and pleasant voice, that had but a slight un-English accent. "I'm as hungry as a hunter, and I'd have breakfast with Jack Ketch himself if he asked me. Not that present company isn't vastly more to my taste." And his laugh rang out again." Savernake beamed upon him with the pride and something actually of the affection which a father might have felt for a long-lost son. He was grateful to this young man for existing, and for being physically what he was. It was difficult to realise or remember in his joyous presence, and with that young-sounding laugh still echoing in the ears, that he was a released criminal. "I thank you for the compliment," Savernake answered the last remark. "Do you-er-know Joliet as a town at all, and if so, are you able to suggest any special restaurant where you would choose to breakfast ? "Not I," said the young man. "I've been in Joliet, but not of it, as you can guess, perhaps. Take me where you like, do with me what you like. It's all the same to me, for-as the song says- This was a mood which Savernake for many reasons approved. "In that case," he replied, "let me take you to my own hotel." He led his companion to the waiting cab, under the eyes of the stolidly perspiring driver, who had learnt not to be surprised at anything. The young fellow sprang in, and Savernake having followed, in a moment more the oddly-assorted pair were driving away. Explanations were, by common consent, deferred until they should sit at table together, and meanwhile they discoursed with infinite good nature on surface matters. "Look upon me as an old friend," Savernake had vouchsafed as they started, and No. 49 had jovially agreed so to accept him, with the air of a man who is ripe for any adventure. The dress of the released prisoner was by no means conventional as the Englishman regarded conventionality, but it was not so autre as to excite comment in a Joliet hotel. People clad themselves much as they liked on hot summer days in the Illinois prison town. Therefore those who were breakfasting in the big, shady dining-room did not cease the monotonous waving of their palm- leaf fans, or the wielding of their forks at sight of the young giant in blue flannel shirt, with trousers tucked into his boots, and shabby straw hat pushed back on his close-cropped head. The new-comers sat down, and musk melons, cut in half and filled with lumps of ice were brought to them as a first course. The younger man expressed his satisfaction with the delicacy, and haying done so proceeded to dispose of it in rapt silence, while the elder watched him with keen, half-veiled eyes. Next came grilled spring chicken, with "Saratoga chip" potatoes, hot "soda biscuits," and coffee which a French chef need not have denied. After ten minutes' industry the prison-bird leant back in his chair and regarded his benefactor with frank gratitude and interest. "Who was the chap who sold his birthright for a mess of pottage ? he inquired. "Maybe I ought to have told you before I began that I hadn't any birthright to dispose of." "Don't be too sure of that, Mr. Maynard," subtly smiled Savernake. "Eh? Well, I've learnt not to be too sure of anything. Or, perhaps you intend to go one better,' and ask for my soul in exchange for a equare meal. Anyhow, it was a mighty good one —the breakfast I mean, not the soul—and I guess I might have made a worse bargain." "I certainly have a suggestion to offer to you," returned Savernake, slowly. "But don't take mo for a Mephistopheles." TIe wondered, vaguely, if this youth out of a prison would catch his meaning, and was pleased to find he did so. There was intelligence here, it was evident, and no dense degree of ignorance. "You could play the part as far as looks go, sir, though I'd want considerable touching up as Faust, I reckon, Maynard made nonchalant reply. "Do you feel in a mood for listening? queried Savernake. "\Yell. then, let me begin what I have to say by being egotistical and telling you who I am." The young man looked receptive, and the elder went on. He revealed his name, and even mentioned his place of residence, Lurlworth Towers, watching the face of the other as he did so but it "betrayed no self-consciousness or former knowledge of the names pronounced. Evidently, Savernake reflected, one woman had belied her sex, and had kept, a certain secret well, even from her nearest and (presumably) deax-est one on earth. Having made Mr. John Maynard acquainted with such autobiographical facts as he deemed wise and necessary, Savernake boldly announced that he wished to ask some personal questions. The ex-convict shrugged his splendid shoulders: *'Fire away," he remarked, laconically. In the first place, Mr. Maynard," prefaced the old man, "I hope you will understand that I am not catechising you through vulgar curiosity. My motive is the furthest in the world removed from that." "I'm resigned to a mystery," laughed the other. "In fact, I guess I rather like it. It's too hot to be curious." "Well, then, let me ask if you are entirely alone in the world ? "Like Adam, before his spare rib was spoilt for all practical purposes. I had a very good mother once, however. She's been dead the last ten years." "I have enough acquaintance with your past—odd as that may seem to you—to have been aware that you had lost her, t1 o ish I was not quite sure when. I fancied that you had formed no closer ties since, out I admit that I'm glad to be assured of that. How, do you mind telling me something of your life ? "Not a bit. I've got more time than anything lse. The only trouble is, I can't guess how much you know, and how much you don't. You can just wink, if I go over old ground. I was brought up in Canada, near Montreal, till I was early eleven years old—I'm one-and-twenty now—and mother sent me to a good school. I used to read a good deal, too, everything I could get hold of. We had a little money, though Heaven only knows how we came by it, which was invested in railway stock, and it was mother's wish that I should cram to be a teacher. I would rather have been a soldier, even if I had to 'list as a private, but I was willing to please her. However, there came a tif smash, all our money went, and the shock killed my mother, who was never very strong. "I was left without a ppnny. Luckily for me, I was a healthy little devil, able to take things rough and tumble, for I had to take 'em so, you bet! I did everything, from sweeping out dry goods stores to standing on my nose in the streets for a nickel.' "The parish authorities would have looked after me, but I wasn't built that way. I joined a circus, and came down to the States, worked my way out west, had various positions of more or less rpqnonsiViilitv. from a brakesman in a railway to a cowboy and a stage driver. J made a little monev one way or another, mostly by gambling (though I will say for myself I always played fair), and a year ago I had a fancy to come east. I got as far as Chicago, and was doing well—laying the foundation of a fortune, perhaps, as plenty of fellows no older than I have done before in the same way, when, just six months ago, I got myself into trouble." Mr. John Maynard tossed his head in a mean- ing way towards the window, which looked out more or less in the direction of the prison. 1( ? "You were innocent, of course?" interpolated Savernake, with just, the suspicion of a sneer. Were not prisoners invariably as innocent as babes of the crimes with which a cruel world had plotted to accuse them ? "No, I wasn't," contradicted the young man. "I pleaded guiliy, with extenuating circum- stances. A sneaking coward of a fellow who had a grudge against me had done me out of all the money I had—a matter of a thousand dollars-had lied about me, and finally struck the only friend I had, a little hump-back who couldn't defend him- self. Well, my blood isn't kept in a refrigerator, and I whipped out a pistol and shot him. I was sorry for it the moment after, but that doesn't mend matters for me, and it was only a sheer case of luck I didn't kill the brute outright. He wasn't much hurt, and I got off with six months. "That's the end of volume first. What volume two will be I know no more than the babe unborn, and care hardly as much. I'm ready for anything, but whether anything's ready for me is quite another question. I haven't had the most nourish- ing diet for the past six months, but I reckon I'm able to break stones if necessary—or horses. Both businesses are in my line." As he finished he folded his arms across his ex- pansive chest, and Savernake could see the muscles rise under the flannel sleeves. I Mr. John Maynard, ex-cowboy, gambler, and convict, was without exception physically the finest specimen of young manhood the elderly diplomatist bad ever seen. "Let me suggest a commencement for that second volume," he 3aid, slyly. "How should you like to shut your eyes on the troubled past, as though it had never existed, and wake up in another country to find yourself master of almost unlimited wealth, of several fine houses and estates, and owner of an ancient title ? "By Jove!" laughed Maynard; "you are piling on the agony. I see you're bound the second volume shall be crammed full of sensations. No anti-climaxes, as my stage friends say." "Truth is stranger than fiction," Savernake s capped him, gravely. "I don't waste words, and I assure you I mean all that I have said." "You must be the devil if you can make me a prince," retorted Maynard. "I am not the devil, but I can make you a Duke." The young man looked at him. Their eyes met and focussed for a long moment. Almost everyone had left the breakfast-room now, and the perspiring black wtliters were growing impatient, but the two sat on. Gradually, as Savernake unfolded his ideas they forgot that there was any world beyond the narrow limit of their table and the chairs, save, indeed, that far-away and magical one of which the elder man talked with a silvery tongue. Half an hour—an hour passed—and they still remained, absorbed in each other. Exactly what to tell and what to leave untold, Savernake had decided beforehand, when the plan which he was now bringing to a climax was but in embryo, and depending on many things—on the likeness between the stranger known to be living, and the man believed to be dead on the former's presentability, so to say; on his willingness to play a bold and somewhat risky game for a great stake, and on half-a-dozen things beside. Now various difficulties which bristled like knives in the Prison of the Swords, were beins smoothed away. The thing might be done—the coup made, if only—— For even yet there was an "if." "The case lies in a nutshell," Savernake said al last, with the impatience of nerves strained to thE uttermost. "The unfortunate young man oj whom I have told you is dead." (He had not told Maynard the story of the twin brothers, separated in infancy, and in the mind of thE listener this duke of fairy-tale appeared as a stranger, with whose life he could have had nr former connection. ) "The Duke is dead, and the family with whose interest I have for many year: absolutely identified myself, will suffer ruin unless you are willing to help fool a villain." "That sounds all plausible enough," the othei answered, half-dazed with numerous and repeatec arguments and explanations. "But I should fee] a confounded sneak. You may tliliik- tliit's mere drivel from a prison-bird like me, but I swear it', honest," "Sneaks don't run such risks as you would have to run," suggested Savernake, with instinctive knowledge of the nature he had to work upon. "It would be a battle, not a work of treachery. 01 course, I don't disguise from you that, notwith- standing the marvellous likeness which exist4 between you and the one who is gone, you woulc be in some danger. You would have clever anc unscrupulous enemies round you, who.would lose no opportunity of-" "Oh!" the other broke in, almost petulantly. ,;Do you think I am afraid ? It's just the sort ol adventure I'd like, if—well, I never yet did any- thing underhand." "Nor would you now. You would save a noble family from practical extinction. You would prevent a scoundrel from usurping a place Provi- dence never meant him to fill. And, as you say, you would have an adventure worthy of the Arabian Nights." "Look here, Mr. Savernake," said Maynard, bluntly. "You haven't satisfactorily explained tc me yet how you came to know about this remark- able resemblance which you say exists, and how you came to find me out, from three thousand miles away." "As I told you, I had—er—some slight acquaint- ance with your mother." As he spoke, Savernake involuntarily called up a picture of the one occasion on which he had met the woman who had written to Lord Wareham, signing herself "Your much- injured wife, Anna." He remembered the chill of the November night, the tumble-down cottage, with the dying fire, the two babies so wonderfully like each ot her, and like the dead Iarquis. He wished now that he had chosen the one instead of the other. Still, unforeseen accidents had happened, and iiiiglit have happened in any case. Perhaps it was as well to have this stalwart young fellow to fall back upon in such an emergency as this. "From time to time I heard of you," he went on, "and even received your photograph, taken by —er—an agent of mine, when you were in Colorado. Savernakc brought out the portrait in question, and laid beside it a small, velvet-framed photograph of the Duke. The latter Maynard picked up and examined with keen interest. "By Jove!" he said, "it is like. Though I flatter 1113-seIf there are some points in my fivotir-or will be when my hair has grown again." "Most points are in your favour, "Savernake frankly returned. "Your face shews strength of character and decision, in both of which he was fatally lacking. You have perfect health, and wild as your life has been, I would wager you have never burnt the candle at both ends, as he unfortu- nately persisted in doing. Come now, you are brave as well as strong. I'd stak-, my soul Will you risk the danger and go with rne across the sea ? "Danger be hanged! exclaimed the other, recklessly. "But give me a day or two to think the matter over." "I cannot do that. It is now or never. Remem- ber that it will soon be taken for granted every- wherc that the Duke is dead. Each day that passes will make it the more difilcult to resurrect him again. If 3-011 make up your mind to help me—to help us all, and do what the poor Duke himself would wish, ii he cculd speak from the grave that villains gave him-yon and I must leave this place together almost within the hour. By doing so, we can just catch the first out-going liner." Maynard leaped to his feet, and in silence walked away to the window, where he looked through the half-closed blinds at the yellow glare of the street. Within, the flies buzzed over the long tables covered with mosquito-netting. Savernake watched the clear profile, with its Greek nose (such as a self-respecting Blandon's nose should be), its firmly-closed lips, and its straight, dark eyebrows. Perplexity was printed upon the features at first, and a vague trouble, verging on irritation. The gleam of humour lifted the corner of the lips which Savernake could see. The young man wheeled abruptly, and came back to tower over the elder one, as lie sat at the table. "I'll toss up for it," he said. "Heads, I step into the ducal shoes. Tails, I stay plain Jack Maynard, the chances are without any shoes at all. How does that please you, Mr. Savernake ? "Not at all," responded the other, hastily. "It's folly—worse than folly, cruelty—to leave such a tremendous issue to mere chance." "It suits my humour, nevertheless," replied Maynard. He spoke gaily, yet there was an ultimatum in his eye. "I warned you I was an obstinate chap, and chance has been my only friend. I'll e'en abide its decision now. If you don't approve, Mr. Savernake, you may take me or leave me, you know. Hanged if I care, which you do." "So be it, then," said Savernake, biting his lips. "Have you got any small coin of the realm in your pockets ? I haven't as much as a red cent." The old man laid a copper on the table, adorned on one side with the head of a dignified Indian, on the back with the legend "one cent." Maynard caught it up, laughing, and tossed it about in his palm. "Now for it!" he said. "Aristocrat or trainp ? They both belong to the C, leisured classes." His strong fingers closed on the coin, and his eyes met Savernake's with youthful, half-merry defiance. Then his hand descended on the table, palm downward. I He lifted it, and there lay the cent, the Indian's profile uppermost. Savernake drew a long breath. "The gods are with me," he exclaimed. "The bargain holds. And that being decided, all that remains is to pay our bill, and send for a railway time-table." John Maynard was slightly flushed. He gazed at the copper as though at the arbiter of his fate. "I shall disgrace you," he said, "and bring down the whole shebang you're taking so much trouble to build up, on to your devoted head. What do I know about the duties and obligations of being an English duke ? Why, you couldn't knock them into my head without a maul! My blood's English, to be sure—or, at least, so I've been told, but I talk Yankee slang, I know more about prisons than palaces, and I haven't been inside a schoolhouse since I was eleven years old. I've loved books, and I've done the best I could with myself, according to my lights and my circum- stances, but for all that, I don't suppose I'm a bit like what 3-011 Britishers call a gentleman.' Now, how are you going to get over all that ? "You are a man," said Savernake. "A man after my own heart. The rest—well, if it won't exactly take care of itself, I shall take infinitely good care of it. All I ask is a docile pupil, and by the time we go on shore at Liverpool I'll have you ready to play the part. You may-you will— make mistakes. They shall be set down to tho whims of a young man who can do as he chooses, with the world for his football. I tell you, between us we shall do the trick. Yon will carry all before you." To himself he added: "Lady Mary was right. After all, it is blood that tells." When they finished their talk, it was nearer eleven than ten. By the time that the inmates of Joliet Prison were having their frugal noonday cl meal, their late companion was speeding towards New York in a Pullman car. He was dressed in as good a suit of ready-made clothing as Joliet shops could provide, and though they were of cheap material and clumsy fit, Savernake was able to regard the wearer with admiration, and a pride well-nigh paternal. In New York apparel more desirable would be procured, and the old man felt a childish pleasure in the thought of the unaccustomed luxury with which he would be able to supply his handsome acquisition. "Yes, blood tells," he repeated, as he sat opposite the ex-prison bird, his eyes dwelling with infinite satisfaction on the almost faultless features. "lie's gone through the mill; the world has been against him, yet he's fought his way to the top, and, by Jove, he's worthy of a place there I He's the finest Blandon of them all. How Lady Mary will rejoice in him!" This thought brought in its train another, not unallied with it, and Savernake leant suddenly forward, bringing his face closer to his companion's. "By the bye," he said, his eyes half-veiled, "there's something I forgot to tell you. My dear boy, you are engaged to be married.1 (To be vnii iucd.)