Clearly, she was on the downward slope. But was there anything remarkable in that? Heaps of members of aristocratic families were in the same sort of predicament, from various causes, through certain circumstances. Had he not received a letter a few days ago from the daughter of a well-known earl, imploring him for a loan of ten pounds, for the sake of old friendship? The writer was some twenty years his senior, and she had tipped him when he was at Eton. She now dated her letter from a suburb in the extreme west of Kensington. If she, with all her advantages of birth and connection, had fallen by the wayside, why not a comparatively obscure person like Mrs L'Estrange? It was very easy to see it. Mrs L'Estrange was of a Bohemian temperament, and probably a great spendthrift. She had made considerable inroads into whatever fortune she originally possessed, and had developed into an adept card-player, with a view to supplementing the little income that was left to her. And Stella Keane, that beautiful, sad girl, with the tragic history of worthless parents behind her, was the victim of fate. She was not happy in her cousin's home, amidst this gambling, card-playing set. She, at least, was pure, whoever else might be defiled. On that he would stake his existence. For a few days he thought a great deal about the subject, and during those few days he kept away from Elsinore Gardens and denied himself the pleasure of listening to a further instalment of Miss Keane's reminiscences of her unhappy history. If he were going to fall in love, he told himself sternly, he would fall in love with a woman of his own world, not with a girl, however beautiful and interesting she might be, who was only a hanger-on of a woman well-born, but evidently _declassee_, a woman no longer moving in the sphere to which she had been accustomed. In these reflections, he showed sound sense. But for a certain event that happened in the course of the next few days, he might have adhered to his good resolutions and have finally dismissed Miss Keane from his serious thoughts. And, in that case, this story would not have been written. And then the event happened. Returning home to his rooms one night, about twelve o'clock, his man told him that Mr Esmond was waiting for him in the sitting-room. He found the little rotund man sitting in an easy-chair, white-faced, the marks of agitation written all over his countenance. Wondering at this unusual spectacle--Tommy was frequently fussy, but always self-contained--Spencer advanced, and held out his hand. "What's up, Tommy? You're a late visitor, but always welcome." He pointed to the decanters standing on the sideboard. "I hope you have helped yourself?" To Spencer's great surprise, the little man did not take the proffered hand. He spoke in a hoarse, choking voice, his lips twitching.