without this means of publicity, would find their schemes fall comparatively fruitless to the ground. Said Alfred to David Sheldrake, in the course of conversation, being artfully led to the subject: "Those discretionary investments seem to be an easy way of making money. Did you see the advertisements of Montague and D'Arcy in the papers this morning?" "No," replied Mr. Sheldrake. "Montague and D'Arcy! I fancy I have met a Mr. Montague at some of the meetings. If it is the same man, he bets and wins largely." "It must be the same," cried Alfred. "Look here," pulling the paper out of his pocket, "a £100 stake realized £1800 at Newmarket last week in three days." "That seems good enough, Alf," was Mr. Sheldrake's comment. "If I had £20 or £80," said Alfred, with an anxious look at Sheldrake---- "You'd try your luck with them? Well, I see what you're driving at, Alf. I'll give you a cheque for £20, made payable to them, and you can have a dive." "Ah, you _are_ a friend! If I win, I shall be able to give you a good sum off what I owe you." "All right, my boy," said Mr. Sheldrake heartily, and then wrote the cheque and gave it to Alfred, and two days afterwards received it back from Con Staveley in Glasgow. In this and other ways he drew the mesh round Lily's brother, until he had the infatuated gambler completely at his mercy. CHAPTER XXXII. THE POLISH JEW. A remarkable change had taken place in Mr. Musgrave, dating almost from the day on which he took possession of Ivy Cottage. Those who had known him when he lived in his garret and bought gin on the sly, and who knew him now, were amazed at the transformation; for it was nothing less. The vice that appeared to have been so bred in his bone as to be ineradicable had disappeared. He drank no more. Whether he considered it was due to his altered position, whether it was from gratitude or fear, or from whatever other unknown cause, it is certain that the respectable old man known now as Mr. Musgrave, and the disreputable tippler known some months since as old Muzzy, were distinctly different types. The change really commenced within the first fortnight of his residence in Ivy Cottage. Within this time, Lily and Alfred had come by invitation to take tea with Lizzie and spend the evening with her. The young people were in good spirits, and Mr. Musgrave sat in his corner listening to their light-hearted chatting. In the course of the evening Lily sang two or three old-fashioned simple songs, and altogether the time was a happy one. Then Mr. Sheldrake dropped in, and whatever little part Mr. Musgrave had played in the proceedings was over from that moment. But when Lily and Alfred were going home, Mr. Musgrave, with hands that trembled from eagerness, held Lily's mantle for her, and pressed her hands, and said that she had made him young again, and that he had spent the happiest evening he had spent for years. He entreated her to come