“You want to know by what authority I dare bid you to be careful of her happiness as you would of your wealth. By the authority which goes with the title of--friend. Yes”--his voice changed--“I am Miss Vanley’s friend in more than mere name. I know you, Bradstone; I read you through and through the first time we met, and I warn you against--yourself. It is because I am her friend that I will not quarrel with you. More: I am willing to regard you as”--the words came with some difficulty--“a friend, so long, and no longer, as you guard and protect her happiness. The moment you cease to do that----” He stopped, and looked the craven steadily in the eyes. “Go in now, and if you have a spark of manliness and gratitude in you, beg her pardon. Stop!” for Bradstone, not daring to utter the oath which trembled on his lips, made a movement as if to avail himself of the permission to retreat. “Think over what I have said, and for the future do not regard me as--your rival. If you and Miss Vanley had never met, there could have been no closer tie between her and me. Let that satisfy you. Good-night. As her future husband, Bradstone, I offer you my hand.” Bradstone took it with lowered face, and Faradeane, with another steady look at him, turned and walked away. Bartley Bradstone stood staring at the ground for a moment or two; then he raised his head, and, shaking his fist in the direction Faradeane had taken, relieved himself with a series of oaths. If, as the Spaniards, say, bad men’s curses come home to roost, Mr. Bartley Bradstone’s future hencoop would have been full of them. “Friend! Yes, I know the sort of friend. I’m not taken in by your fine talk! I’m not such a fool as you take me for! Friend! I’ve got a treasure, have I? Yes, a treasure you’d like to rob me of; but you won’t, I think, my fine Mr. Faradeane! No, I think not! You threaten me, do you? I’ll show you! Yes, and I’ll have her soon, too!” he breathed passionately. “There’s no time to lose if I understand your game, Mr. Faradeane.” He tugged at his cuffs, and endeavored to calm himself as he walked toward the house. “Yes, I’ll do it; the iron’s hot, and I’ll strike, and then----” CHAPTER XVIII. “I’VE FOUND HIM!” Two nights after this resolution of Mr. Bartley Bradstone’s, Seth, the gypsy, might have been seen making his way along the crowded Strand. There is never too much room either in the road or on the pavement of that famous thoroughfare at any time; but just before eleven, and from that hour to midnight, it is, perhaps, the most densely thronged of any of the London streets, and Seth had to shoulder his way through the usual streams of humanity which emerge from the various theatres, on their way home or to the supper-rooms and restaurants.