CHAPTER III.

AN OLD FRIEND


There was gladness as well as surprise in Jack's hearty exclamation, for
the man who stood before him in the parlor of the Black Bull was his old
friend Victor Nevill, little altered in five years, except for a heavier
mustache that improved his dark and handsome face. To judge from
appearances, he had not run through with all his money. He was daintily
booted and gloved, and wore morning tweeds of perfect cut; a sprig of
violets was thrust in his button-hole. The two had not met since they
parted in Paris on that memorable night, nor had they known of each
other's whereabouts.

"Nevill, old chap!" cried Jack, holding out a hand.

Nevill clasped it warmly; his momentary confusion had vanished.

"My dear Clare--" he began.

"Not that name," Jack interrupted, laughingly. "I'm called Vernon on
this side of the Channel."

"What, John Vernon, the rising artist?"

"The same."

"It's news to me. I congratulate you, old man. If I had known I would