“I’ve been wondering whether I could bring myself to tell you my story--the story of the last two years, Bertie; and I’m sorry to say that I have come to the conclusion that I can’t. For two reasons: First, because the recital would shock you, and cause me a rather unpleasant half hour; and secondly, because the secret is not all my own. I’m only a partner.” “Secret! There is a secret! And you--you----” The other held up his hand. “Take care!” he said, warningly. “My man is just outside. I beg of you not to speak my name.” “No, no, I won’t. I will be careful,” said Bertie, flushing. “But you have a secret--Faradeane! You who were always so--so----” “Too ‘high and proud’ for that kind of thing, you were going to say? Thanks for the compliment, my dear Bertie; but, alas! it is quite unmerited. I have a secret, and I cannot tell it to you.” “And it is of such a character,” said Bertie, slowly, and regarding him with pained surprise, “that you feel compelled to--to----” “Hide myself here like a poisoned rat in a hole,” put in the other, calmly. “Yes, it is. It is so bad that it has put me out of the world as completely as if I had turned hermit. The shady side of Pall Mall and I have seen the last of each other, Bertie; I have bidden good-by to the world you and I found so pleasant. Scarcely that, however, for I left it so suddenly as to leave no time for good-bys.” “Great Heaven!” murmured Bertie, still staring up at the handsome face with its sombre, quietly resigned smile. “But--but why did you come here? Why didn’t you go abroad?” Faradeane smiled. “For the best of all reasons. Because my pursuers, when I disappeared, at once jumped to the conclusion that I had sought refuge on foreign shores, and are now, I humbly trust, spending their time and energy in scouring the Continent after me.” Bertie almost groaned. “Your pursuers!” Such a word in connection with the noble form and face seemed, indeed, incongruous and absurd. “Yes, my pursuers,” said the other, gravely and quietly, “and now you wonder what it is that I have done. I wish I could tell you, Cherub, but I can’t. There are some things a man cannot bring himself to confess, even to his dearest friend; this is one of them. And now what will you do?” he asked, fixing his eyes intently upon Bertie’s eloquent face. “I’ve told you enough to show you that my society is not desirable, and that you will do wisely to get up and go. You see, after all, it is a mistake on your part. The man you are listening to is not the old friend you mistook him for, but only a certain Mr. Faradeane, a perfect stranger who somewhat resembles that old friend. Take my advice--I don’t offer it often--take my advice, Lord Granville; make a polite bow, excusing yourself for intruding, and leave me.” Bertie’s face grew crimson, and he sprang to his feet and laid his small hand upon the broad, straight shoulder.