I nodded approbation of this remark, wondering what service he needed at my hands. “I am quite at my wits’ end, and I require a small service from you,” he said suddenly, as a look of blank, unutterable despair swept over his face. He looked wearied and despondent; I pitied him. “If I can render you that service I shall be pleased,” I replied. His face brightened; the haggard expression vanished. “Thank you,” he said. “It is perhaps a strange request, still I can find many men who will be only too eager to accept my offer.” “But I am not——” “Never mind,” he interrupted; “allow me to explain. I am the Earl of Wansford.” I gave vent to an ejaculation of surprise, for the Earl was a well-known figure in the diplomatic world, and until three years ago had been British Ambassador to Russia. He smiled as he noticed my astonishment, and continued— “I have but one daughter, who, alas! is dying. The physicians say hers is a hopeless case, and I desire that her last moments shall be made happy.” “Ah! you want me to attend at the bedside and minister words of consolation. I am sorry I cannot——” “No,” he snarled, “she is religious enough, and does not require you in that capacity.” “But surely a dying person, whether prepared for the next world or not, should see a clergyman!” I said. “True; but Muriel is insane,” he replied. “You remember what I said a minute ago, that it is only a question of money to any man?” “What!” “Why, marriage.” I was puzzled. I could not comprehend his meaning. “But what do you want of me?” I asked. “A trifling service. You can perform it now; but if you refuse, you will always regret.” “Tell me what it is, and I will give my answer.” “It is this. Some time ago—perhaps about three years—while we were living in St. Petersburg, I became ill, and was obliged to go to the South of France. During my absence my daughter met a Russian for whom she conceived a violent fancy. Since I returned and brought her home to England, she has done nothing but mope and mourn for him, with the result that her intellect is impaired.” “But will not the man marry her?” I asked, interested in the romance. “He disappeared mysteriously, and although I have made the most strenuous efforts to trace him, he cannot be found. Of course she would marry him if she could; but her mental faculties are so weak that she would marry any one else and believe it to be him. But here’s the point——” He felt in his pocket, and producing a wallet, took from it a roll of clean crisp Bank of England notes. He counted twenty of them, each for one hundred pounds, and held them towards me. “These are yours,” he said slowly, “if you will consent to be my daughter’s husband!” The strange proposal caused me to gasp. Two thousand pounds! Did ever temptation stand in man’s path in a more alluring guise? I had but little money of my own, and with this sum I could do many things.