The servant's manner altered at once for the better; she showed him
into a small drawing-room, scantily and cheaply furnished. Some
poorly-framed prints on the walls (a little out of place perhaps in a
doctor's house) represented portraits of famous actresses, who had been
queens of the stage in the early part of the present century. The few
books, too, collected on a little shelf above the chimney-piece, were
in every case specimens of dramatic literature. "Who reads these
plays?" Mountjoy asked himself. "And how did Iris find her way into
this house?"

While he was thinking of her, Miss Henley entered the room.

Her face was pale and careworn; tears dimmed her eyes when Mountjoy
advanced to meet her. In his presence, the horror of his brother's
death by assassination shook Iris as it had not shaken her yet.
Impulsively, she drew his head down to her, with the fond familiarity
of a sister, and kissed his forehead. "Oh, Hugh, I know how you and
Arthur loved each other! No words of mine can say how I feel for you."

"No words are wanted, my dear," he answered tenderly. "Your sympathy
speaks for itself."

He led her to the sofa and seated himself by her side. "Your father has
shown me what you have written to him," he resumed; "your letter from
Dublin and your second letter from this place. I know what you have so
nobly risked and suffered in poor Arthur's interests. It will be some
consolation to me if I can make a return--a very poor return, Iris--for
all that Arthur's brother owes to the truest friend that ever man had.
No," he continued, gently interrupting the expression of her gratitude.
"Your father has not sent me here--but he knows that I have left London