"I am not fit for anything to-day," he said petulantly. "I was up too
late last night. No, most decidedly, I am not in the mood for work."

He sauntered to the huge end window of the studio, and looked out over
the charming stretch of Ravenscourt Park. It was an ideal morning toward
the close of April, 1897--such a morning as one finds at its best in the
western suburbs of mighty London. The trees were in fresh leaf and bud,
the crocuses were blooming in the well-kept beds, and the grass was a
sheet of glittering emeralds. The singing of birds vied with the jangle
of tram-bells out on the high-road.

"A pull on the river will take the laziness out of me," thought Jack, as
he yawned and extended his arms. "What glorious weather! It would be a
shame to stop indoors."

A mental picture of the silvery Thames, green-wooded and sunny, proved
too strong an allurement to resist. Jack did not know that Destiny,
watchful of opportunity, had taken this beguiling shape to lead him to
a turning-point of his life--to steer him into the thick of troubled and
restless waters, of gray clouds and threatening storms. He discarded
his paint-smeared blouse--he had worn one since his Paris days--and,
getting quickly into white flannel and a river hat, he lit a briar pipe
and went forth whistling to meet his fate.

He was fond of walking, and he knew every foot of old Chiswick by heart.
He struck across the high-road, down a street of trim villas to a more
squalid neighborhood, and came out by the lower end of Chiswick Mall,
sacred to memories of the past. He lingered for a moment by the stately
house immortalized by Thackeray in Vanity Fair, and pictured Amelia