monument of Reginald Clarke’s crime. At last Ernest understood the parting words of Abel Felton and the look in Ethel’s eye on the night when he had first linked his fate with the other man’s. Walkham’s experience, too, and Reginald’s remarks on the busts of Shakespeare and Balzac unmistakably pointed toward the new and horrible spectre that Ethel’s revelation had raised in place of his host.

And then, again, the other Reginald appeared, crowned with the lyric wreath. From his lips golden cadences fell, sweeter than the smell of many flowers or the sound of a silver bell. He was once more the divine master, whose godlike features bore no trace of malice and who had raised him to a place very near his heart.

“No,” he cried, “it is impossible. It’s