"Well, I went back, of course, to Sunflower Oil soap." "Went where?" cried Cynthia, in astonishment. "Oh, I see, you had made your hands dirty getting over the railings." "No, no," said Artingale, laughing, "I mean I went back to Perry-Morton's." "Oh, what a shame, to call him such a name," said Cynthia, solemnly, but with her eyes sparkling with delight. "And there was poor Magnus lying on the sofa in the dining-room, and a couple of doctors bandaging his head, after which he insisted upon being taken back to his chambers, and that's about all." "But you've been to see him this morning, Harry?" "I sat up with him all night, and he grew quite delirious, and talked a good deal about Julia." "Oh!" and a pause. "And is his hurt very bad, Harry?" said Cynthia, looking now rather white. "Will it kill him?" "Oh, no," said Artingale, "he was a good deal hurt, and lost a lot of blood, and--oh, what an idiot I am!" "No, no, Harry. I'm not so silly. I'm not going to faint. Hush, here's Julia." For just then the door opened, and, looking very pale and wistful, the elder sister came into the room--smiling, though, as her eyes lit on the young couple; and as Artingale jumped up to greet her, there was something very loving and sisterly in the way in which she gazed in his face, and let him lead her to the couch upon which they had been sitting. Here she inquired very anxiously after Mr Magnus, showing that she knew a good deal about the previous night's affair; but Artingale noted her shudder and look of horror when her assailant was mentioned. "That fellow must be stopped," said the young man, as he went thoughtfully away. "Poor girl! she seems thoroughly afraid of him. Oh, hang it all, it must--it shall be stopped, or he'll drive the poor child mad." PART ONE, CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. IN THE DEN. You had to pass through James Magnus's studio to get to his sitting-room, and through the latter to get to his bed-room, and the task was not an easy one. Lord Artingale knew his way by heart, but a stranger would have been puzzled from the moment he entered the lobby or hall. For the place resembled a Wardour-street old curiosity shop more than the abode of a well-known artist. A woman with the bump of order thoroughly developed would, if she had been placed in charge, have immediately invested in a dozen dusters, a turk's-head, and a feather brush, and gone to the attack, but only to sink down in utter despair.