"I say, Huish," said Morrison at last, on finding that his attentions to Grace were resented by her companion, "I shall see little fair somebody to-morrow. You know whom I mean. What tales I might tell!" "Tell them, then," said Huish sharply; "perhaps I shall retort by telling too." "Oh, tut, tut, tut!" cried Dorinde. "Nobody tells tales out of school." "This is not the School for Scandal, then," said one of the habitues of the stalls; and the fair young lady laughed again. "I say, Dorinde," said Morrison at last, rather uneasily, "why is not Malpas here?" and as he spoke he directed a peculiar smile at Grace. Huish drew his breath hard, but said nothing. He set one of the _menu_ cards close to his plate, wrote something on the back, and, waiting his time, doubled it up at last. "Give that to the gentleman opposite," he whispered to a waiter, slipping a florin into the man's hand. "Don't say where it came from." The man nodded, and Huish turned to chat gaily with Dorinde; then, filling his glass slowly, he directed a sidelong glance at Morrison as he took the card, glanced at its writing, crushed it up in his hand, and closed his eyes, as a spasm ran through his countenance and he turned pale as death. No one else noticed it, and he opened his eyes and glanced quickly round to see that the company were all busily conversing. Then, rising quietly, he left the room, walked slowly to the lobby of the great building, where he had left hat and coat, and went out of the house. Then he let his excitement have its full vent. "Hansom!" he shouted, leaping into the first he saw. "Chesham Place-- double fare--gallop." The horse dashed off in answer to the sharp cut of the whip, and as it tore along Piccadilly Frank Morrison strove to get rid of the fumes of the wine he had been drinking, and to think calmly. "She is too pure and sweet and true a woman--I don't believe it," he said, grinding his teeth. "Whom I am cursed scoundrel enough to neglect. Who could have written that? Curse him! that John Huish, of course. What a scoundrel he has turned out!" "Bah! what am I railing at?" he cried. "Whom do I call scoundrel? Damn you!" he roared, forcing up the little trap in the roof of the hansom. "Faster, man, faster." There was another lash of the whip, and the horse galloped furiously. "Scoundrel, indeed! he is no worse scoundrel than I. He is an open roue, while I stoop to all kinds of beggarly petty subterfuges to conceal the life I lead. I won't believe it, though; it is a malicious trick of John Huish's because he was jealous--and he has fooled me." "Well," he muttered, after a pause, "a good thing too. I'm sick of the whole thing--cards, lose, pay, feast a woman who does not care a _sou_ for me. Heavens, what a fool I am! John Huish, you have ousted me; take my place and welcome. Renee, little woman, I'll come back, and be a good boy now."