"Only the famous Vyvyan Topsparkle, dilettante, eccentric, and Croesus. A gentleman whose name is familiar, and even illustrious, in all the countries where works of art are to be seen and fine music is to be heard. A gentleman who left England forty years ago with a very vile reputation, and who has not improved it on the Continent; but we do not hang men of fabulous fortune: we visit them at their country houses, ride their horses, win their money at basset, and revile them behind their backs. Mr. Topsparkle is a very fine gentleman, and has been lucky enough to marry the loveliest woman in London, who has made his house the fashion." "Vyvyan Topsparkle! I thought he had gone into a Portuguese monastery--turned Trappist, and repented of his sins. I was told so ten years ago." "Yes, I remember there was a rumour of that kind soon after I left the University. I believe the gentleman disappeared for some time, and stimulated the inventive powers of his friends by a certain mysteriousness of conduct; but I can assure you there is nothing of the monk about Mr. Topsparkle nowadays. He is altogether the fop and man of fashion, and, if wrinkles counted for nothing, would be almost a young man." "He is a scoundrel, and may he meet with a scoundrel's doom!" muttered Vincenti gloomily. "What, have you any personal acquaintance with him? Did you ever meet him in Italy?" "Yes, more than forty years ago." Lavendale flushed and paled again in his agitation. Here was one who perchance might help him to some clue to that old mystery, the scandal and suspected crime related by Tom Philter. He told Vincenti the story exactly as Philter had told it to him. The old man listened intently, those dark eyes of his shining under the bushy white brows, shining with the reflected light of the fire, shining with a fiercer light from within. "I have heard this story before," he said. "And do you believe it? Do you believe there was foul play?" "Yes, I believe Vyvyan Topsparkle was a murderer as well as a seducer. It is not true that his mistress was a dancing-girl. She was a girl of respectable birth, brought up in a convent--highly gifted, a genius, with the voice and face of an angel." "Good Heaven, you speak of her with the utmost familiarity! Did you know her?" There was a pause before the old man answered. He turned over the pages of the book he had been reading when Lavendale entered, and seemed for the moment as if he had forgotten the subject of their conversation. "Did you know that unhappy girl?" Lavendale asked eagerly.