"I am, though. It’s all over with me, Jack. I told you I was gathering myself together for a great leap." "Who is it, Harry?" "Annie Napier." There was an interval of dead silence. Mr. John Palk was too prudent a man to hazard a hasty witticism, knowing as he did the somewhat fiery temperament of Harry Ormond, Marquis of Knottingley. "Do you mean that, Harry?" "I do." "You’re in luck, then, lad. But what a host of rivals you’ll have blaspheming you! Why, all London is at Miss Napier’s feet. Lord Sotheby and I went to see her last night—the people in the pit were half crazy about her. And when we went round to Millington House for some supper, Sotheby swore he’d give his soul to the devil for a hundred years to get an introduction to Annie—I beg your pardon, to Miss Napier." "Fellows like Sotheby are rather free in offering their soul to the devil," said Lord Knottingley, with a sneer, "perhaps because it is the thing of least value they have about them; or because they know the devil will have it for nothing by-and-by." "If you marry Miss Napier, Harry, you’ll be killed in a month. I tell you, man, London won’t stand it. Why, they say that the Duke of Nor——" Knottingley started to his feet—his face scarlet, his eyes hot and angry. "By God, I will drive a sword through the man who breathes that lie in my hearing!" "Don’t scowl at me, Harry. I don’t believe it." "Do I care a straw who believes it? But we needn’t waste angry words, Jack. I have known Annie Napier for years; and our family has been rather celebrated for its jealousy. If I, an Ormond, marry that girl, people may conclude that there will be no longer a market for their scandalous wares. And mind you, Jack—don’t you talk of it to any living soul; for I haven’t even asked her yet; but she, or nobody, will be my wife." John Palk went home to order supper for a little party of card-players who were to meet at his house that night; and Harry Ormond had promised to call in during the evening—that is, the card-playing evening, which began when the men got home from the theatre. Knottingley was himself at the theatre that evening. From his box he sent round the following note to the lady who, at that time, held London captive with the fascination of her genius and her personal loveliness: "DEAREST ANNIE,—I shall await your coming home. I have something particular to say to my little sister. H."