On ancient tales your fancies feed, When woman ruled in saintly way, But we have changed such things to-day. For, after all, what use to heed? Only a woman's heart. Seeing that Reginald had thus escaped him for a time, Mr. Beaumont's temper was none of the sweetest when he arrived back at his chambers. Like most clever men the artist was very proud of his tact and delicacy in dealing with ingenuous youth, and he felt annoyed with himself lest by failing to skilfully angle for this trout, he should have lost his prize by failing in his diplomacy, and thereby shown too plainly the real reasons he had for his apparently disinterested friendship. So, on arrival at his chambers, Mr. Beaumont lighted a cigarette, threw himself moodily into a big arm-chair, and proceeded to mentally review all his conduct towards Reginald since the lad's arrival in town. Hard as he tried to find some flaw in his own conduct which might have put Blake on his guard, Beaumont was quite unsuccessful in doing so, for his demeanour towards his proposed victim had been all that the most delicate tactician could have desired. "I can't have frightened him away," he said aloud to himself, "for I acted the disinterested friend to perfection. Hang it! I wonder what took him back to Garsworth. I saw a letter in his hand, so I expect Una Challoner's been writing to him: but that would not do me any harm, for she likes me, and I should think would be rather glad if I looked after the boy in Town. I wonder it that confounded Patience has been talking? I made things all straight before I left Garsworth, but one never knows what may happen, and if Patience got an inkling of my design, she'd move heaven and earth to get the boy back again to her side--humph! I hardly know what to think--that's the worst of dealing with women; they're so crooked, you never know what they're going to do next." He arose from his seat and walked impatiently up and down the room, seeking some solution of the problem thus presented to him. While doing so, he happened to glance at the mantelpiece, and saw thereon a letter. "I wish that man of mine wouldn't put the letters there," he grumbled, taking the letter, "I can never find them--but let me see who this is from; Garsworth postmark--don't know the writing--wonder if Una Challoner is--by Jove!" he ejaculated, as he took out the letter and glanced at the signature, "it's from Patience Allerby. I knew she had been up to some mischief. Well! I'll read the letter, and see if I can't foil you, my lady." Resuming his seat in the arm-chair, he smoothed out the letter carefully as he prepared to read it. The contents, which were as follows, considerably astonished him, and his lips curled with a cynical smile as he glanced down the closely-written page. "Basil Beaumont,--