unpresentable. Scawthorne was to have a cab waiting for her at a little distance from the luncheon-bar. It was now June, and at the hour of their meeting still broad daylight, but Clara cared nothing for the chance that acquaintances might see her; nay, she had a reckless desire that Sidney Kirkwood might pass just at this moment. She noticed no one whom she knew, however; but just as the cab was turning into Pentonville Road, Scawthorne drew her attention to a person on the pavement.
"You see that old fellow," he said. "Would you believe that he is very wealthy?"
Clara had just time to perceive an old man with white hair, dressed as a mechanic.
"But I know him," she replied. "His name's Snowdon."
"So it is. How do you come to know him?" Scawthorne inquired with interest.
She explained.
"Better not say anything about it," remarked her companion. "He's an eccentric chap. I happen to know his affairs in the
