The Red House Mystery. Duchess

thank you," she said, in a voice well kept in order.

      "You are not dancing, then?"

      "Not for the moment."

      "Your partner is Dr. Dillwyn?"

      "Yes."

      "He was your partner for the last two, I think?"

      Agatha roused herself. She looked full at him; there was a smile upon her beautiful lips.

      "Ah, Dr. Darkham, I have already a chaperon!" said she.

      "A most inefficient one," said Darkham steadily. "Why should you be allowed to listen to the solicitations of a mere beggar? Were your aunt to hear of this—"

      "My aunt!"

      Agatha looked up at him, but after that one swift glance drew back. What was there in his eyes? Oh, horrible! Surely, surely now she knew that she was not wrong when lately she told herself in shrinking whispers that this man was in love with her. There had been something so strange in the expression of his eyes when looking at her—something so empressé in his manner—something so downright hateful in the inflection of his voice.

      "My aunt is quite capable of looking after me without the interference of any one," said Agatha slowly. "You have been very kind to Mrs. Greatorex, but you must not extend your kindness to me. I want no other guardian but my aunt." She rose and looked him straight in the face. "Pray do not trouble yourself about my welfare for the future."

      She passed him and went on; she saw Dillwyn coming towards her with the ice; she had believed she would rather not have seen him return, but now she went to him gladly.

      Darkham fell slowly into the chair she had just left. That girl—her face, her form—they haunted him. And side by side with hers always grew another face, another form—that of his wife! What vile fiend had arranged his marriage? A mere mockery of marriage, where hatred alone was the link that bound the two.

      Gold that had given a false brilliancy to the faded yellow of her hair, and thrown a gleaming into her light, lustreless eyes. Had he but waited, had he but relied upon himself and given his undoubted genius a chance, he might have risen, unaided, to the highest point, and been now free to marry the woman he loved.

      With wild, increasing exultation he remembered how she had risen to-night out there in the shrubberies as Dillwyn was on the point of proposing to her. She had cast him off in a sense. Gently, though. She was always kind and gentle. But she certainly put him off; she did not care for him, then.

      Darkham's face glowed as he sat there in the conservatory.

      If this woman to whom he was tied was gone—dead! Then his chance might come. If she did not care for Dillwyn—why, she might care for him. At present how could she?

      "Why don't you come out and look at her?" said the coarse voice he dreaded at his ear; "she's dancing with Dillwyn. She dances lovely—'specially with Dillwyn."