involuntarily. I seemed to feel instinctively, even before I had looked, that it was No. 121, and I was right. There were the three figures that to me made so sinister a combination, engraved on a little brass plate on the door. Then I took a leisurely view of the house in which Arthur chose to five, apart from his wife. It was a little, two story, gray-stone house, old fashioned, and rather unusual in its appearance. There was a tiny green grass plot in front, separated from the road by an iron railing, in which was a small, unlatched gate. It would have been a very ordinary looking house in a provincial city, but it was not at all suggestive of London. I looked at it with genuine curiosity, which for a moment swallowed up my anger. It was a very inexpensive place, but, love—guilty and illegitimate, but still love—dwelt there. Arthur preferred that simple little house, with one to whom he could give his heart, than the costly beauty of Tavistock Villa, with the wife whom he despised.
I brushed away the tears that rose unbidden to my eyes, with angry hands. This was no
