in a comfortable sitting-room under the gabled roofs of Staple
Inn, Holborn. It was as cosy a nook as any to be found within the
four-mile radius, and artistic withal in its furniture and decorations.

In the biggest arm-chair by the empty grate, a young man with a
flute paused for a moment, irresolute. He was a handsome young man,
expressive eyes, and a neatly-cut brown beard--for all the world
like Cyril Waring's. Indeed, if Elma Clifford could that moment have
been transported from her gloomy prison in the Lavington tunnel to
that cosy room at Staple Inn, Holborn, she would have started with
surprise to find the young man who sat in the arm-chair was to all
outer appearance the self-same person as the painter she had just
left at the scene of the accident. For the two Warings were truly
"as like as two peas"; a photograph of one might almost have done
duty for the photograph of the other.

The other occupant of the room, who leaned carelessly against the
mantelshelf, was taller and older; though he, too, was handsome,
but with the somewhat cynical and unprepossessing handsomeness of
a man of the world. His forehead was high; his lips were thin; his
nose inclined toward the Roman pattern; his black moustache was
carefully curled and twisted at the extremities. Moreover, he was
musical; for he held in one hand the bow of a violin, having just
laid down the instrument itself on the sofa after a plaintive duet
with Guy Waring.

"Seen this evening's paper, by the way, Guy?" he asked, after
a pause, in a voice that was all honeyed charm and seductiveness.
"I brought the St. James's Gazette for you, but forgot to give you
it; I was so full of this new piece of mine. Been an accident this