I.

"Had I better go? I should like to."

"Go! why of course you had better go," answered the Squire, putting down

the letter.

"It will be the very thing for you, Johnny," added Mrs. Todhetley. "We

were saying yesterday that you ought to have a change."

I had not been well for some time; not strong. My old headaches stuck to

me worse than usual; Duffham complained that the pulse was feeble.

Therefore a letter from Dr. Knox of Lefford, pressing me to go and stay

with them, seemed to have come on purpose. Janet had added a postscript:

"You _must_ come, Johnny Ludlow, if it is only to see my two babies, and

you must not think of staying less than a month." Tod was from home,

visiting in Leicestershire.

Three days, and I was off, bag and baggage. To Worcester first, and then

onwards again, direct for Lefford. The very journey seemed to do me

good. It was a lovely spring day: the hedges were bursting into bud;

primroses and violets nestled in the mossy banks.

You have not forgotten, I dare say, how poor Janet Carey's hard life,

her troubles, and the sickness those troubles brought, culminated in a

brave ending when Arnold Knox, of Lefford, made her his wife. Some five

years had elapsed since then, and we were all of us that much older.

They had asked me to visit them over and over again, but until now I had

not done it. Mr. Tamlyn, Arnold's former master and present partner,

with whom they lived, was growing old; he only attended to a few of the

old patients now.

It was a cross-grained kind of route, and much longer than it need

have been could we have gone straight as a bird flies. The train made

all sorts of detours, and I had to change no less than three times.

For the last few miles I had had the carriage to myself, but at Toome

Junction, the last station before Lefford, a gentleman got in: a

rather elderly man with grey hair. Not a syllable did we say, one to

another--Englishmen like--and at length Lefford was gained.

"In to time exactly," cried this gentleman then, peering out at the

gas-lighted station. "The clock's on the stroke of eight."

Getting my portmanteau, I looked about for Dr. Knox's brougham, which

would be waiting for me, and soon pitched upon one, standing near the

flys. But my late fellow-passenger strode on before me.

"I thought I spied you out, Wall," he said to the coachman. "Quite a

chance your being here, I suppose?"

"I'm waiting for a gentleman from Worcester, sir," answered the man,

looking uncommonly pleased, as he touched his hat. "Dr. Knox couldn't

come himself."

"Well, I suppose you can take me as well as the gentleman from

Worcester," answered the other, as he turned from patting the old horse,

and saw me standing there. And we got into the carriage.

It proved to be Mr. Shuttleworth, he who had been old Tamlyn's partner

for a short time, and had married his sister. Tamlyn's people did not

know he was coming to-night, he told me. He was on his way to a distant

place, to see a relative who was ill; by making a round of it, he could

take Lefford, and drop in at Mr. Tamlyn's for the night--and was doing

so.

Janet came running to the door, Mr. Tamlyn walking slowly behind her.

He had a sad countenance, and scanty grey hair, and looked ever so

much older than his actual years. Since his son died, poor Bertie,

life's sunshine had gone out for him. Very much surprised were they to

see Mr. Shuttleworth as well as me.

Janet gave us a sumptuous high-tea, pouring out unlimited cups of tea

and pressing us to eat of all the good things. Except that she had

filled out a little from the skeleton she was, and looked as joyous now

as she had once looked sad, I saw little difference in her. Her boy,

Arnold, was aged three and a half: the little girl, named Margaret,

after Miss Deveen, could just walk.

"Never were such children in all the world before, if you listen to

Janet," cried old Tamlyn, looking at her fondly--for he had learnt to

love Janet as he would a daughter--and she laughed shyly and blushed.

"You don't ask after mine," put in Mr. Shuttleworth, quaintly; "my one

girl. She is four years old now. Such a wonder! such a paragon! other

babies are nothing to it; so Bessy says. Bessy is silly over that child,

Tamlyn."

Old Tamlyn just shook his head. They suddenly remembered the one only

child he had lost, and changed the subject.

"And what about everything!" asked Mr. Shuttleworth, lighting a cigar,

as we sat round the fire after our repast, Janet having gone out to see

to a room for Shuttleworth, or perhaps to contemplate her sleeping

babies. "I am glad you have at last given up the parish work."

"There's enough to do without it; the practice increases daily," cried

Tamlyn. "Arnold is much liked."

"How are all the old patients?"

"That is a comprehensive question," smiled Tamlyn. "Some are

flourishing, and some few are, of course, dead."

"Is Dockett with you still?"

"No. Dockett is in London at St. Thomas's. Sam Jenkins is with us in his

place. A clever young fellow; worth two of Dockett."

"Who is Sam Jenkins?"

"A nephew of Lady Jenkins--you remember her? At least, of her late

husband's."

"I should think I do remember Lady Jenkins," laughed Shuttleworth. "How

is she? Flourishing about the streets as usual in that red-wheeled

carriage of hers, dazzling as the rising sun?"

"Lady Jenkins is not well," replied Tamlyn, gravely. "She gives me some

concern."

"In what way does she give you concern?"

"Chiefly because I can't find out what it is that's amiss with her?"

"Has she been ill long?"

"For some months now. She is not very ill: goes out in her carriage to

dazzle the town, as you observe, and has her regular soirées at home.

But I don't like her symptoms: I don't understand them, and they grow

worse. She has never been well, really well, since that French journey."

"What French journey?"

"At the end of last summer, my Lady Jenkins must needs get it into her

head that she should like to see Paris. Stupid old thing, to go all the

way to France for the first time in her life! She did go, taking Mina

Knox with her--who is growing up as pretty a girl as you'd wish to see.

And, by the way, Shuttleworth, Mina is in luck. She has had a fortune

left her. An old gentleman, not related to them at all, except that he

was Mina's godfather, left her seven thousand pounds last year in his

will. Arnold is trustee."

"I am glad of it. Little Mina and I used to be great friends. Her mother

is as disagreeable as ever, I suppose?"

"As if she'd ever change from being _that_!" returned Tamlyn. "I have no

patience with her. She fritters away her own income, and then comes here

and worries Arnold's life out with her embarrassments. He does for her

more than I should do. Educates young Dicky, for one thing."

"No doubt. Knox always had a soft place in his heart. But about Lady

Jenkins?"

"Lady Jenkins went over to Paris with her maid, taking Mina as her

companion. It was in August. They stayed three weeks there, racketing

about to all kinds of show-places, and overdoing it, of course. When

they arrived at Boulogne on their way back, expecting to cross over at

once, they found they had to wait. A gale was raging, and the boats

could not get out. So they put up at an hotel there; and, that night,

Lady Jenkins was taken alarmingly ill--the journey and the racketing and

the French living had been too much for her. Young people can stand

these things, Johnny Ludlow; old ones can't," added Tamlyn, looking at

me across the hearth.

"Very true, sir. How old is Lady Jenkins?"

"Just seventy. But you wouldn't have thought her so much before that

French journey. Until then she was a lively, active, bustling woman,

with a good-natured, pleasant word for every one. Now she is weary,

dull, inanimate; seems to be, half her time, in a sort of lethargy."

"What was the nature of the illness?" asked Shuttleworth. "A seizure?"

"No, nothing of that sort. I'm sure I don't know what it was," added old

Tamlyn, rubbing back his scanty grey hair in perplexity. "Any way, they

feared she was going to die. The French doctor said her getting well

was a miracle. She lay ill ten days, keeping her bed, and was still ill

and very weak when she reached home. Mina believes that a lady who was

detained at the same hotel by the weather, and who came forward and

offered her services as nurse, saved Lady Jenkins's life. She was so

kind and attentive; never going to her bed afterwards until Lady Jenkins

was up from hers. She came home with them."

"Who did? This lady?"

"Yes; and has since remained with Lady Jenkins as companion. She is a

Madame St. Vincent; a young widow----"

"A Frenchwoman!" exclaimed Mr. Shuttleworth.

"Yes; but you wouldn't think it. She speaks English just as we do, and

looks English. A very nice, pleasant young woman; as kind and loving to

Lady Jenkins as though she were her daughter. I am glad they fell in

with her. She---- Oh, is it you, Sam?"

A tall smiling young fellow of eighteen, or so, had come in. It was Sam

Jenkins: and, somehow, I took to him at once. Mr. Shuttleworth shook

hands and said he was glad to hear he promised to be a second Abernethy.

Upon which Sam's wide mouth opened in laughter, showing a set of nice

teeth.

"I thought Dr. Knox was here, sir," he said to Mr. Tamlyn, as if he

would apologize for entering.

"Dr. Knox is gone over to the Brook, but I should think he'd be back

soon now. Why? Is he wanted?"

"Only a message, sir, from old Willoughby's. They'd like him to call

there as soon as convenient in the morning."

"Now, Sam, don't be irreverent," reproved his master. "_Old_ Willoughby!

I should say Mr. Willoughby if I were you. He is no older than I am. You

young men of the present day are becoming very disrespectful; it was

different in my time."

Sam laughed pleasantly. Close upon that, Dr. Knox came in. He was more

altered than Janet, looking graver and older, his light hair as wild as

ever. He was just thirty now.

Mr. Shuttleworth left in the morning, and afterwards Dr. Knox took me to

see his step-mother. Her house (but it was his house, not hers), Rose

Villa, was in a suburb of the town, called the London Road. Mrs. Knox

was a dark, unpleasing-looking woman; her voice harsh, her crinkled

black hair untidy--it was never anything else in a morning. The two

eldest girls were in the room. Mina was seventeen, Charlotte twelve

months younger. Mina was the prettiest; a fair girl with a mild face and

pleasant blue eyes, her manner and voice as quiet as her face. Charlotte

seemed rather strong-minded.

"Are you going to the soirée next door to-night, Arnold?" cried Mrs.

Knox, as we were leaving.

"I think not," he answered. "Janet wrote to decline."

"You wished her to decline, I dare say!" retorted Mrs. Knox. "You always

did despise the soirées, Arnold."

Dr. Knox laughed pleasantly. "I have never had much time for soirées,"

he said; "and Janet does not care for them. Besides, we think it unkind

to leave Mr. Tamlyn alone." At which latter remark Mrs. Knox tossed her

head.

"I must call on Lady Jenkins, as I am up here," observed Dr. Knox to me,

when we were leaving. "You don't mind, do you, Johnny?"

"I shall like it. They were talking about her last night."

It was only a few yards higher up. A handsome dwelling, double the size

of Rose Villa, with two large iron gates flanked by imposing pillars, on

which was written in gold letters, as large as life, "Jenkins House."

Dr. Knox laughed. "Sir Daniel Jenkins re-christened it that," he said,

dropping his voice, lest any ears should be behind the open windows: "it

used to be called 'Rose Bank.' They moved up here four years ago; he was

taken ill soon afterwards and died, leaving nearly all his money to

his wife unconditionally: it is over four thousand a-year. He was in

business as a drysalter, and was knighted during the time he was mayor."

"Who will come in for the money?"

"That is as Lady Jenkins pleases. There are lots of relations,

Jenkinses. Sir Daniel partly brought up two orphan nephews--at least, he

paid for their schooling and left each a little money to place them out

in life. You have seen the younger of them, Sam, who is with us; the

other, Dan, is articled to a solicitor in the town, old Belford. Two

other cousins are in the drysalting business; and the ironmonger, Sir

Daniel's youngest brother, left several sons and daughters. The old

drysalter had no end of nephews and nieces, and might have provided for

them all. Perhaps his widow will do so."

Not possessing the faintest idea of what "drysalting" might be, unless

it had to do with curing hams, I was about to inquire, when the

house-door was thrown open by a pompous-looking gentleman in black--the

butler--who showed us into the dining-room, where Lady Jenkins was

sitting. I liked her at first sight. She was short and stout, and had

pink cheeks and a pink turned-up nose, and wore a "front" of flaxen

curls, surmounted by a big smart cap with red roses and blue ribbons in

it; but there was not an atom of pretence about her, and her blue eyes

were kindly. She took the hands of Dr. Knox in hers, and she shook mine

warmly, saying she had heard of Johnny Ludlow.

Turning from her, I caught the eyes of a younger lady fixed upon me. She

looked about seven-and-twenty, and wore a fashionable black-and-white

muslin gown. Her hair was dark, her eyes were a reddish brown, her

cheeks had a fixed bloom upon them. The face was plain, and it struck me

that I had seen it somewhere before. Dr. Knox greeted her as Madame St.

Vincent.

When we first went in, Lady Jenkins seemed to wake up from a doze. In

two minutes she had fallen into a doze again, or as good as one. Her

eyelids drooped, she sat perfectly quiet, never speaking unless spoken

to, and her face wore a sort of dazed, or stupid look. Madame St.

Vincent talked enough for both of them; she appealed frequently to Lady

Jenkins--"Was it not so, dear Lady Jenkins?"--or "Don't you remember

that, dear Lady Jenkins?" and Lady Jenkins docilely answered "Yes,

dear," or "Yes, Patty."

That Madame St. Vincent was a pleasant woman, as Mr. Tamlyn had said,

and that she spoke English as we did, as he had also said, there

could not be a doubt. Her tongue could not be taken for any but a

native tongue; moreover, unless my ears deceived me, it was native

Worcestershire. Ever and anon, too, a homely word would be dropped by

her in the heat of conversation that belonged to Worcestershire proper,

and to no other county.

"You will come to my soirée this evening, Mr. Ludlow," Lady Jenkins woke

up to say to me as we were leaving.

"Johnny can come; I dare say he would like to," put in Dr. Knox;

"although I and Janet cannot----"

"Which is very churlish of you," interposed Madame St. Vincent.

"Well, you know what impediments lie in our way," he said, smiling. "Sam

can come up with Johnny, if you like, Lady Jenkins."

"To be sure; let Sam come," she answered, readily. "How is Sam? and how

does he get on?"

"He is very well, and gets on well."

Dr. Knox walked down the road in silence, looking grave. "Every time I

see her she seems to me more altered," he observed presently, and I

found he was speaking of Lady Jenkins. "_Something_ is amiss with her,

and I cannot tell what. I wish Tamlyn would let me take the case in

hand!"

Two peculiarities obtained at Lefford. The one was that the universal

dinner hour, no-matter how much you might go in for fashion, was in the

middle of the day; the other was that every evening gathering, no matter

how unpretentious, was invariably called a "soirée." They were the

customs of the town.

The soirée was in full swing when I reached Jenkins House that night--at

six o'clock. Madame St. Vincent and Charlotte Knox sat behind the

tea-table in a cloud of steam, filling the cups as fast as the company

emptied them; a footman, displaying large white calves, carried round a

tray of bread-and-butter and cake. Lady Jenkins sat near the fire in an

easy-chair, wearing a red velvet gown and lofty turban. She nodded

to the people as they came in, and smiled at them with quite a silly

expression. Mina and Charlotte Knox were in white muslin and pink roses.

Mina looked very pretty indeed, and as mild as milk; Charlotte was

downright and strong-minded. Every five minutes or so, Madame St.

Vincent--the white streamers on her rich black silk dress floating

behind her--would leave the tea-table to run up to Lady Jenkins and ask

if she wanted anything. Sam had not come with me: he had to go out

unexpectedly with Dr. Knox.

"Mr. Jenkins," announced the pompous butler, showing in a tall young

fellow of twenty. He had just the same sort of honest, good-natured face

that had taken my fancy in Sam, and I guessed that this was his brother,

the solicitor. He came up to Lady Jenkins.

"How do you do, aunt?" he said, bending to kiss her. "Hearing of your

soirée to-night, I thought I might come."

"Why, my dear, you know you may come; you are always welcome. Which is

it?" she added, looking up at him stupidly, "Dan, or Sam?"

"It is Dan," he answered; and if ever I heard pain in a tone, I heard it

in his.

"You are Johnny Ludlow, I know!" he said, holding out his hand to me in

the warmest manner, as he turned from his aunt. "Sam told me about you

this morning." And we were friends from that moment.

Dan brought himself to an anchor by Mina Knox. He was no beauty

certainly, but he had a good face. Leaning over Mina's chair, he began

whispering to her--and she whispered back again. Was there anything

between them? It looked like it--at any rate, on his side--judging by

his earnest expression and the loving looks that shot from his honest

grey eyes.

"Are you really French?" I asked of Madame St. Vincent, while standing

by her side to drink some tea.

"Really," she answered, smiling. "Why?"

"Because you speak English exactly like ourselves."

"I speak it better than I do French," she candidly said. "My mother was

English, and her old maid-servant was English, and they educated me

between them. It was my father who was French--and he died early."

"Was your mother a native of Worcestershire?"

"Oh dear, no: she came from Wales. What made you think of such a thing?"

"Your accent is just like our Worcestershire accent. I am Worcestershire

myself: and I could have thought you were."

She shook her head. "Never was there in my life, Mr. Ludlow. Is that why

you looked at me so much when you were here with Dr. Knox this morning?"

"No: I looked at you because your face struck me as being familiar," I

frankly said: "I thought I must have seen you somewhere before. Have I,

I wonder?"

"Very likely--if you have been much in the South of France," she

answered: "at a place called Brétage."

"But I have never been at Brétage."

"Then I don't see how we can have met. I have lived there all my life.

My father and mother died there: my poor husband died there. I only came

away from it last year."

"It must be my fancy, I suppose. One does see likenesses----"

"Captain Collinson," shouted the butler again.

A military-looking man, got up in the pink of fashion, loomed in with a

lordly air; you'd have said the room belonged to him. At first he seemed

all hair: bushy curls, bushy whiskers, a moustache, and a fine flowing

beard, all purple black. Quite a flutter stirred the room: Captain

Collinson was evidently somebody.

After making his bow to Lady Jenkins, he distributed his favours

generally, shaking hands with this person, talking with that. At last he

turned our way.

"Ah, how do you do, madame?" he said to Madame St. Vincent, his tone

ceremonious. "I fear I am late."

It was not a minute that he stood before her, only while he said this:

but, strange to say, something in his face or voice struck upon my

memory. The face, as much as could be seen of it for hair, seemed

familiar to me--just as madame's had seemed.

"Who is he?" I whispered to her, following him with my eyes.

"Captain Collinson."

"Yes, I heard the name. But--do you know anything of him?--who he is?"

She shook her head. "Not much; nothing of my own knowledge. He is in an

Indian regiment, and is home on sick leave."

"I wonder which regiment it is? One of our fellows at Dr. Frost's got

appointed to one in Madras, I remember."

"The 30th Bengal Cavalry, is Captain Collinson's. By his conversation,

he appears to have spent nearly the whole of his life in India. It is

said he is of good family, and has a snug private fortune. I don't know

any more about him than that," concluded Madame St. Vincent, as she once

more rose to go to Lady Jenkins.

"He may have a snug private fortune, and he may have family, but I do

not like him," put in Charlotte Knox, in her decisive manner.

"Neither do I, Lotty," added Dan--who was then at the tea-table: and his

tone was just as emphatic as Charlotte's.

He had come up for a cup of tea for Mina. Before he could carry it to

her, Captain Collinson had taken up the place he had occupied at Mina's

elbow, and was whispering to her in a most impressive manner. Mina

seemed all in a flutter--and there was certainly no further room for

Dan.

"Don't you want it now, Mina?" asked Dan, holding the cup towards her,

and holding it in vain, for she was too much occupied to see it.

"Oh, thank you--no--I don't think I do want it now. Sorry you should

have had the trouble."

Her words were just as fluttered as her manner. Dan brought the tea back

and put it on the tray.

"Of course, she can't spare time to drink tea while _he_ is there,"

cried Charlotte, resentfully, who had watched what passed. "That man has

bewitched her, Dan."

"Not quite yet, I think," said Dan, quietly. "He is trying to do it.

There is no love lost between you and him, I see, Lotty."

"Not a ghost of it," nodded Lotty. "The town may be going wild in its

admiration of him, but I am not; and the sooner he betakes himself back

to India to his regiment, the better."

"I hope he will not take Mina with him," said Dan, gravely.

"I hope not, either. But she is silly enough for anything."

"Who is that, that's silly enough for anything?" cried Madame St.

Vincent, whisking back to her place.

"Mina," promptly replied Charlotte. "She asked for a cup of tea, and

then said she did not want it."

Some of the people sat down to cards; some to music; some talked. It was

the usual routine at these soirées, Mrs. Knox condescended to inform

me--and, what more, she added, could be wished for? Conversation, music,

and cards--they were the three best diversions of life, she said, not

that she herself much cared for music.

Poor Lady Jenkins did not join actively in any one of the three: she for

the most part dozed in her chair. When any one spoke to her, she would

wake up and say Yes or No; but that was all. Captain Collinson stood in

a corner, talking to Mina behind a sheet of music. He appeared to be

going over the bars with her, and to be as long doing it as if a whole

opera were scored there.

At nine o'clock the supper-room was thrown open, and Captain Collinson

handed in Lady Jenkins. Heavy suppers were not the mode at Lefford;

neither, as a rule, did the guests sit down, except a few of the elder

ones; but the table was covered with dainties. Sandwiches, meats in

jelly, rissoles, lobster salad, and similar things that could be eaten

with a fork, were supplied in abundance, with sweets and jellies.

"I hope you'll be able to make a supper, my dear," said Lady Jenkins to

me in her comfortable way--for supper seemed to wake her up. "You see,

if one person began to give a grand sitting-down supper, others would

think themselves obliged to do it, and every one can't afford that. So

we all confine ourselves to this."

"And I like this best," I said.

"Do you, my dear? I'm glad of that. Dan, is that you? Mind you make a

good supper too."

We both made a famous one. At least, I can answer for myself. And, at

half-past ten, Dan and I departed together.

"How very good-natured Lady Jenkins seems to be!" I remarked.

"She is good-nature itself, and always was," Dan warmly answered. "She

has never been a bit different from what you see her to-night--kind to

us all. You should have known her though in her best days, before she

grew ill. I never saw any one so altered."

"What is it that's the matter with her?"

"I don't know," answered Dan. "I wish I did know. Sam tells me Tamlyn

does not know. I'm afraid he thinks it is the break-up of old age. I

should be glad, though, if she did not patronize that fellow Collinson

so much."

"Every one seems to patronize him."

"Or to let him patronize them," corrected Dan. "I can't like the fellow.

He takes too much upon himself."

"He seems popular. Quite the fashion."

"Yes, he is that. Since he came here, three or four months ago, the

women have been running after him. Do _you_ like him, Johnny Ludlow?"

abruptly added Dan.

"I hardly know whether I do or not: I've not seen much of him," was my

answer. "As a rule, I don't care for those people who take much upon

themselves. The truth is, Dan," I laughed jokingly, "you think Collinson

shows too much attention to Mina Knox."

Dan walked on for a few moments in silence. "I am not much afraid of

that," he presently said. "It is the fellow himself I don't like."

"And you do like Mina?"

"Well--yes; I do. If Mina and I were older and my means justified it, I

would make her my wife to-morrow--I don't mind telling you so much. And

if the man is after her, it is for the sake of her money, mind, not for

herself. I'm sure of it. I can see."

"I thought Collinson had plenty of money of his own."

"So he has, I believe. But money never comes amiss to an extravagant and

idle man; and I think that Mina's money makes her attraction in

Collinson's eyes. I wish with all my heart she had never had it left

her!" continued Dan, energetically. "What did Mina want with seven

thousand pounds?"

"I dare say you would not object to it, with herself."

"I'd as soon not have it. I hope I shall make my way in my profession,

and make it well, and I would as soon take Mina without money as with

it. I'm sure her mother might have it and welcome, for me! She is always

hankering after it."

"How do you know she is?"

"We do her business at old Belford's, and she gets talking about the

money to him, making no scruple of openly wishing it was hers. She

bothers Dr. Knox, who is Mina's trustee, to lend her some of it. As if

Knox would!--she might just as well go and bother the moon. No! But for

that confounded seven thousand pounds Collinson would let Mina alone."

I shook my head. He could not know it. Mina was very pretty. Dan saw my

incredulity.

"I will tell you why I judge so," he resumed, dropping his voice to a

lower key. "Unless I am very much mistaken, Collinson likes some one

else--and that's Madame St. Vincent. Sam thinks so too."

It was more than I thought. They were cool to one another.

"But we have seen them when no one else was by," contended Dan: "when he

and she were talking together alone. And I can tell you that there was

an expression on his face, an anxiousness, an eagerness--I hardly know

how to word it--that it never wore for Mina. Collinson's love is given

to madame. Rely upon that."

"Then why should he not declare it?"

"Ah, I don't know. There may be various reasons. Her poverty

perhaps--for she has nothing but the salary Lady Jenkins pays her. Or,

he may not care to marry one who is only a companion: they say he is of

good family himself. Another reason, and possibly the most weighty one,

may be, that madame does not like him."

"I don't think she does like him."

"I am sure she does not. She gives him angry looks, and she turns away

from him with ill-disguised coldness. And so, that's about how the state

of affairs lies up there," concluded Dan, shaking hands with me as we

reached the door of his lodgings. "Captain Collinson's love is given to

Madame St. Vincent, on the one hand, and to Mina's money on the other;

and I think he is in a pretty puzzle which of the two to choose.

Good-night, Johnny Ludlow. Be sure to remember this is only between

ourselves."