“It certainly appears to be simple enough,” said Stephen Foster, “but who will find out about—­”

“You must do that,” Nevill interrupted.  “If I went, it might lead to awkward complications in the future.”

“It’s the worst part, and I confess I don’t like it.  But I’ll take a night to think it over, and give you an answer to-morrow.  It’s an ugly undertaking—­”

“But a safe one.  If it comes off all right, I want L500 cash down, on account.”

“It is not certain that it will come off at all,” said Stephen Foster, as he rose.  “Come in to-morrow afternoon.  Oh, I believe I promised you some commission to-day.”

“Yes; sixty pounds.”

The check was written, and Nevill pocketed it with a nod.  He put on his hat, moved to the door, and paused.

“By the by, there’s a new thing on at the Frivolity—­awfully good,” he said.  “Miss Foster might like to see it.  We could make up a little party of three—­”

“Thank you, but my daughter doesn’t care for theatres.  And, as you know, I spend my evenings at home.”

“I don’t blame you,” Nevill replied, indifferently.  “It’s a snug and jolly crib you have down there by the river.  And the fresh air does a fellow a lot of good.  I feel like a new man when I come back to town after dining with you.  One gets tired of clubs and restaurants.”

“Come out when you like,” said Stephen Foster, in a voice that lacked warmth and sincerity.

“That’s kind of you,” Nevill replied.  “Good-night!”

A minute later he was walking thoughtfully down Wardour street.

CHAPTER VI.

A visitor from Paris.

It was seven o’clock in the evening, ten days after Jack’s second encounter with Madge Foster, and a blaze of light shone from the big studio that overlooked Ravenscourt Park.  The lord and master of it was writing business letters, a task in which he was assisted by frequent cigarettes.  A tray containing whisky, brandy and siphons stood on a Moorish inlaid smoking stand, and suggested correctly that a visitor was expected.  At noon Jack had received a letter from Victor Nevill, of whom he had seen nothing since their meeting at Strand-on-the-Green, to say that he was coming out at eight o’clock that night to have a chat over old times.  Alphonse, being no longer required, had gone to his lodgings near by.

“It will be a bit awkward if Nevill wants his dinner,” Jack said to himself, in an interval of his letter writing.  “I’ll keep him here a couple of hours, and then take him to dine in town.  He’s a good fellow, and will understand.  He’ll find things rather different from the Paris days.”