Artingale was in the doorway, and saw it all, but stood paralysed at his friend's act. But another moment, and the bullet would have sped upon its deadly errand, when, with a cry, a woman threw herself between them, placing herself with her back against Jock's breast, and her arms thrown up to screen his face, as, with flaming eyes, she faced the intruders upon her home. "Stand aside, Ju, I'm not afraid of his barker," roared the great ruffian, with a blasphemy; but the woman clung to him and held him back as the pistol dropped upon the floor, and Magnus staggered against his friend. The recognition was mutual, but the woman's face remained unchanged. It was filled with the passionate desire to protect the ruffian who treated her a little worse than he would have treated his dog; and as he read the history of her life in what he saw, Artingale stood speechless for a few moments, while Jock swung his defender on one side, strode forward quickly, and picking up the pistol, put it in his pocket. "Julia," exclaimed Artingale, recovering himself and advancing, "do you not know me?" She looked at him fixedly for a few moments. Her face began to quiver, and her hand was slightly raised to take the one he extended; but she became rigid directly after, and turned away to cling to Jock Morrison, who, with his hands in his pockets, looked mockingly on. "No," she said, in a sharp, harsh voice, as changed as was her thin, worn, piteous face from that Artingale had known in better days. "No," she said, "I do not know you; the Julia you knew is dead." "Well," said the great fellow, roughly, "have you any more to say to my wife? Because if not, go." Artingale felt like one in a dream, as he fell back, and the door slammed to; then slowly descending, careless of the curious eyes and scowling looks directed at them, he joined his friend, and they went back to the studio, where Magnus threw himself wearily down and closed his eyes. "But I must do something," exclaimed Artingale; and, rushing out, he had himself driven to Great Scotland Yard. "What can you do, my lord?" said the officer he saw. "From what you say, the fellow has married her, and we can't undo that. I'll take what steps you like, my lord, but--" _But_! There was a volume in that one word, for when afterwards effort after effort was made to win the wanderer back by father, mother, sister, all was in vain. She had spoken truly. The Julia whom Harry Artingale had known was dead. It was close upon twelve that same night that, sick at heart, Artingale returned to his friend's chambers, to find that Burgess had been busy preparing supper, feeling sure that he would return. "Where is your master?" said Artingale. "He said he would go and lie down, sir, till you came. He thought you would be sure to come back to-night. But oh, my lord--oh sir," cried the poor fellow piteously, "can't you do something to make poor master what he was? This is weary work indeed!"