“Poor fellow—he looks as if he’s asleep,” exclaimed a woman sympathetically, at the young man’s elbow.
“Ah,” remarked another, “he’ll never wake again. Whoever killed him accomplished the deed very effectually.”
“He’s a thorough gentleman, too,” commented a cabman, who was eagerly watching with several of his companions. “I wonder what the motive could have been?”
“They’ll call Teddy Mills’s ’bus the hearse, now,” said another cabman; but his companion replied—
“G’arn, ’Arry, it ain’t no laughing matter.”
“Well, it’s a bold stroke, at any rate,” rejoined the man addressed. “Why, he couldn’t have been seated in the ’bus a minute before he was killed.”
“Is it such a mysterious affair, then?” asked the young man who had alighted from the cab, turning to them.
“Mysterious? I should rather think it was. It all happened between the corner of Pall Mall and here. The victim must have entered the ’bus as it was going along, but whether the murderer was inside or whether he followed, nobody knows.”
“Pass along, please; pass along!” two constables commanded.
The body, which had by this time been placed on the ambulance and lightly covered, was being wheeled away, and the police were busy dispersing the ever-increasing crowd.
“By Jove, it’s terrible! Such sights are enough to give one the blues,” the young man exclaimed aloud, as he made his way towards his cab. “I wonder who the Johnnie is? The face seems familiar, yet for the life of me I can’t recollect where I’ve seen it before. But, there, it isn’t any use making oneself glum over the troubles of others, and, goodness knows, my own cursed luck is hard enough.”
He sighed, and, springing into the hansom, shouted—“Drive on, cabby, as fast as you can make that bag of bones travel.”
The man laughed at his fare’s humorous cynicism, and, whipping his horse, drove rapidly away.
Chapter Three.
In Bohemia.
“Look here, Hugh, what is the cause of this confounded gloominess?”
“Nothing that concerns anybody, except myself,” was the morose reply.
“Well, you needn’t snarl like that at an old friend. Come, out with it, and let’s have no secrets.”
“There’s not much to tell, old fellow, beyond the fact that I’m ruined.”
“What!” exclaimed John Egerton, open-mouthed in amazement. “Ruined?”
“Yes.”
“Are you really serious; or is this another of your confoundedly grim jokes?”
“It’s too true, alas!” the other replied, with a sigh. The artist, laying his palette and mahlstick aside, turned and faced his visitor, exclaiming—
“Sit down and relate the circumstances; we must see what can be done.”
“Nothing can prevent the catastrophe. I’ve considered the problem long enough, and can find no solution.”
“Well, don’t knock under without a struggle, my dear old chap. Men work for fame and fortune, but expect happiness as a gift. Confide in me, and perhaps we may arrange things.”
The other smiled sadly, but shook his head.
It was the afternoon following the events related in the previous chapter. The two speakers who were in such serious conversation stood in a shabby studio in Fitzroy Square gravely contemplating one another.
John Egerton, the owner of the place was a successful artist, whose works sold well, whose black and white illustrations were much sought after by magazine proprietors, and whose Academy pictures had brought him some amount of notoriety. His success was well deserved, for, after a rather wild student life on the Continent, he was now exceedingly industrious. Art was his hobby, and he had but little pleasure outside the walls of his studio. Though discarding a collar, and attired negligently in a paint-besmirched coat very much the worse for wear, a pair of trousers much bespattered, and feet thrust into slippers, yet his face spoke of genius and indomitable perseverance, with its deep grey eyes, firm, yet tender mouth, and general expression of power and independence.
His visitor, Hugh Trethowen, was of a different type—handsome, and perhaps a trifle more refined. A splendid specimen of manhood, with his fine height and strongly-built frame, well-cut Saxon features, and bright colouring, with laughing blue eyes, the earnest depths of which were rendered all the more apparent by the thoughtful, preoccupied look which his countenance wore.
A young girl, undeniably beautiful, with a good complexion, stood watching them. She was dressed in a bright but becoming costume of the harem, and had, until the arrival of Trethowen, been posing to the artist. Upon the easel was a full length canvas almost complete—a marvellous likeness, representing her laughing face, with its clear brown eyes, and her bare white arms swinging the scimitars over her head in the undulating motion of the Circassian dance.
Besides acting in the capacity of model, Dolly Vivian was the artist’s companion, critic and friend. Among the brethren of the brush she was well-known as a quiet, patient, unobtrusive girl, who, with commendable self-sacrifice, had supported her mother and invalid sister by her earnings. Egerton had become acquainted with her years ago, long before he became known to fame, at a time when his studio was an attic in a street off the Edgware Road, when he used frequently to eat but one meal a day, and had often shared that with her. She was his friend and benefactor then, as now. When times were hard and money scarce, she would give him sittings and accept no payment, or, if she did, she would spend the greater portion in the necessaries of life, which she would convey to his sky parlour on the following morning.
This platonic friendship, which sprang up in days of hardship and disappointment, had been preserved in affluence. From her model the rising artist had painted most of the pictures that had brought him renown, and he acknowledged the debt of gratitude by making her his confidante. It was not surprising, therefore, that at his studio she conducted herself as if thoroughly at home, nor that she should be well acquainted with such a constant visitor as Hugh Trethowen.
When, however, the two men commenced so momentous a question, she felt that her presence was not desired, so busied herself, with a good deal of unnecessary noise, with the teacups which stood on a small table beside the easel.
Suddenly she raised her handsome head, and, looking at Egerton, said:
“If you are talking of private matters, I will go and rest until you are ready to recommence.”
The artist glanced inquiringly at his friend.
“There is no necessity for leaving us, Dolly,” said Trethowen. “We are all three old friends, and my purpose in coming here this afternoon is to spend an hour with you for the last time.”
“The last time!” she echoed in dismay. “Why—are you going away?”
He did not answer for a moment. His eyes were fixed upon the girl’s face, and