To a stranger the Temple is a labyrinth of passages, with the maximum number of corners and the minimum number of exits--a weary maze for those who would escape its quiet in haste. Mabel hurried on guiltily, striving to find a way out, and flushing hot beneath the gaze of every inquisitive man who stared at her. They seemed to be questioning her presence in a place given over to men. Aunt Caroline's sneers were still fresh in her memory. When at last she escaped through a dirty iron gateway into a stuffy court, and thence into the Strand, she was well-nigh desperate. An idle cab conveyed her home, and the glances of the passers-by intensified her feeling of isolation. She had been accustomed to go about alone before, but since Aunt Caroline's scathing comments she was horribly self-conscious.

Yet what did it matter? She was alone forever now, and could not expect to go about wrapped in cotton-wool. An adventurer's daughter! A nameless thing in pretty clothes, unfit to associate with even the shabby City clerks or the humblest shop-girls!

A chaperone indeed! A wife without a husband, a daughter without a father, eating the bread of sin. She sought consolation in the fact that Jack had escaped. His aunt had not seen her, and apparently had no suspicion of their marriage. At any other time she would have laughed at the suggestion of Jack and Beatrice Carew marrying; now it was with a twinge of jealousy she realized that by opposing his aunt he would forfeit wealth in the future and very necessary comfort in the immediate present.

Yes, it was fortunate that she had not ruined Jack utterly. She choked down her sobs and set her teeth, and tried to look upon the world from a new point of view. So far she had been dependent upon friends for human society and sympathy, with the crowning joy of Jack's love. It was hard to realize that she was now but a straw on the current of the great stream of London life--homeless almost, for she could not stay at Stratton Street. The very clothes she wore belonged by right to some one else, since they must have been secured with tainted gold.

She wondered where she would be in a year's time, what humble, honest post she would be filling. Would it be in a dreadful shop? She was not skilled enough for a clerk, and even a girl in a shop must have a training and a beginning and honorable antecedents.

She thought of appealing to Lady Hester, as the only person who could understand her terrible plight. Lady Hester had faced a worse situation and come through the ordeal unscathed. But then Lady Hester was somebody before she fell into the toils of a bad husband, and could go back to what she had left. She was not leaving a man she loved to set behind her all that was worth having and go back to nothing, penniless, friendless, and helpless, with that ignorance of the way to work which comes of a life of comfort and luxury.

On her arrival home Voss opened the door of the flat, and a rank odor of cigars puffed into her face. She heard voices, the loudest of them easily recognizable as Blunt's; he was laughing and shouting triumphantly.

"The master wishes to see you the moment you return, miss," said Voss softly. "Mr. Blunt is here."

What a sickening memory the name recalled! She had no intention of watching the pigeon being plucked again, and would have escaped to her room; but her father heard the door close, and cried out--

"Who is that?"

Voss barred her progress to her room, and she was forced to enter the sitting-room.

"Ah! how d'you do? Good afternoon," cried Blunt, who was beaming. He gave one look up from his cards, crossed his right hand over his left to offer her a hand, and hardly took his eyes from the cards.

"I'm winning," he explained. "There you are! Fifty again. Ah, yes, I am winning to-day. My luck has turned, and your dad is fair wild. He can't win even on a bluff."

"Sit down, Mabel. That's a pretty rose you've got," observed Bannister, motioning to Voss to wheel forward an arm-chair.

"I think I'll take off my things," murmured Mabel, eager to escape, yet interested, in spite of herself, to hear that Blunt was winning.

"No, don't go," urged Blunt. He shuffled the cards and stuck his cigar in the corner of his mouth, and found time to give her an admiring glance. "Yes, a very pretty rose," he murmured, shifting the cigar to the other side with his lips and puffing out clouds. "Fair as the bosom that bears it--eh? Ha, ha! Not exactly what I meant, but--you know."

"I expect Blunt would like the rose if you could spare it, Mabel. He's a grower of roses, you know. A wonderful chap for flowers. Look at that bunch of lilies over there--his own growing, and brought for you."

"It was very kind," murmured Mabel mechanically. "But the rose is falling already. I--I think I'll put it in water."

"Ha, ha! Given her by some johnny!" chuckled Blunt. "Won't give it up--eh?"

She colored deeply, and Bannister gave her a swift look.

Blunt won again, and Voss hovered round. Mabel watched the fellow as a cat watches a mouse, but though he passed a sidelong look at the cards, she saw no secret signs. The stakes were very high, and her father would, of course, win in a minute. But he did not. She was puzzled. Was it, after all, a delusion? Had she jumped to dreadful conclusions without sufficient evidence?

She dropped back in the easy-chair and took up a newspaper, watching her father stealthily all the time. The genuine concern on his face was very puzzling. He seemed to be trying hard to win, and the cards were always against him. Voss brought forward whisky and her father drank freely, forgetting his guest in the interest of the game.

She went cold all over with doubt and fear. She had not yet measured her father's genius for deception. He was losing for Blunt's benefit and for hers, to throw dust in the eyes of both by losing heavily for once in a way, and making a great fuss about it for Mabel's edification. He had repented of his haste in allowing her a glimpse behind the scenes of his life. He liked everything to go smoothly and softly, for he was genuinely fond and proud of his beautiful daughter. There was really no need for her delicate susceptibilities to be wounded rashly.

He had decided many things in the last few hours. He, too, had been taking stock of the situation, and had made several noble resolves--noble, that is, for him.

Resolution 1: was that it would be wiser to keep the ugly side of his life from Mabel altogether.

Resolution 2: She should marry the Bishop's son at all costs.

Resolution 3: He would economize and labor feverishly for one year more, until that substantial dot at the bank was large enough for him to turn respectable.

Resolution 4: He was going to purchase the little place near Ripley, if on examination it proved to be all that the advertisement represented.

The idea of abandoning for ever the dangerous profession by which he had become rich had been steadily maturing for three years now--ever since Mabel had grown to womanhood. But it needed several big successes, several risky ventures yet, before he could amass the proper amount to maintain himself in respectability and luxury commensurate with his needs and usual habits of life. Each year he needed less and saved more, but it was slow work.

Voss brought in tea. Mabel poured it out with a trembling hand, keeping an eye on the game all the time. Voss waited near, in full view, behind Blunt's chair, and scratched his cheek idly, as if bored and indifferent. Bannister flashed an angry look at him and played his hand and--lost, muttering, "Extraordinary luck! extraordinary luck!" At which Blunt chuckled and jumped in his seat in ecstasy, like a delighted school-boy.

"It's turning at last--my luck's in! I told you it would. Thank you, I'll take tea. Don't often touch it, but from your fair hands--eh?"

She passed the cup, and her hand shook so badly that Voss raised his eyebrows in respectful surprise.

Gone was her wild resolution to denounce her father, regardless of consequences. The dust thrown in her eyes did not blind her, but it dimmed her vision, and caused her to flounder. She had too much sense to utterly disregard the evidence of her senses upon previous occasions; but somehow things did not seem so dreadful, and she quaked at her rashness in jumping to such frightful conclusions.

Oh, if she could only doubt more! If she could allow but a glimmer of hope! It meant--Jack and love!

Her father won the next deal. Blunt pushed aside his tea rudely. "I always lose if I touch the d----d stuff."

Mabel trembled again. Her father won once more, but it was only a temporary change of luck. Blunt grew desperate, doubled the stakes, and played excitedly, like a novice, and won. He laughed derisively in his joy, and Bannister pretended to lose his temper, which pleased Blunt almost as much as winning, for the languid exquisite usually never turned a hair. It was a triumph to excite the imperturbable Mr. Bannister.

Mabel would have escaped, but her father called her back. "We shall be done in a minute. Once more, Blunt, and then we stop, or you'll clean me out."

Play finished, Bannister rose and stretched himself and smoothed his pointed beard, and looked with pleasure upon his daughter. He recovered his broken spirits very quickly, and picked up a copy of a land agent's catalogue from the side table to show Blunt.

"Blunt, you're a man from the country; I want your advice. I'm thinking of buying a little place near Ripley. This is the advertisement, with a good photograph of the place. How does it strike you? I know nothing about the value of land and house property. My father discreetly left me his little fortune in funds."

The two men looked over the catalogue together, while Mabel surveyed them with growing stupefaction.

"You see, I'm going to settle down as a respectable old widower, with some good shooting to offer you youngsters. I shall want you to come down, and shoot with me, Blunt."

"Delighted, though I ain't much of a hand at that sort of thing. We kill our chickens in Africa by screwing their necks. None of your hand-reared stuff for me. But I suppose it's classy, and I've got to take to it. Oh, yes; I'll come down and see you in the country, especially with such a hostess," turning to Mabel with a grin and an offensive wink.

"Oh, Mabel won't be there," laughed Bannister; "she's going to marry Bishop Cardew's son."

"Indeed? You surprise me. My congratulations, miss."

Mabel was tongue-tied. She flushed painfully, yet managed to flash an angry glance at her father, who only looked amused.

"She's blushing, Blunt," he cried, playfully seizing her arm and drawing her in front of him so that he could place his hands upon her shoulders--a favorite trick with him when he wanted to survey his lovely possession with fatherly pride. She could have screamed. She held herself in check and bit her lip, resolved at all costs to suffer all that was demanded of her until the proper time for rebellion.

"Yes; she's going to marry the Bishop's son. It is all settled."

"Father, you are premature. You know it isn't settled."

"Oh, yes; Jack's father and I settled it this morning."

"This morning!" she murmured in surprise.

"Yes; I breakfasted with Panoli, the dramatist, this morning. He gathers to his table all the notabilities of the day, and the Bishop was in town and going to be there, so I invited myself. I was dreading my promised visit to the Palace; churchmen are not in my line. But when I saw the jolly old Bishop--fine old fellow he is, too,--and put the matter sensibly to him as father to father, he came round to my way of thinking. You see, it was all a matter of settlements. They're devils for cash, those church boys. He didn't want his son to marry a penniless nobody; but I explained that I could spare you a thousand a year, and he was as meek as a lamb. As a matter of fact, he didn't intend to allow his son as much as that, but he'll have to. You can manage on a thousand, Mabel." Then, turning to Blunt, "It ought to be enough for a girl--eh, Blunt?"

"Well, I reckon if she's got her father's tastes and freehandedness with money, it won't go far," chuckled Blunt, counting up his winnings on a bit of paper at the card table.

This indiscriminate revelation of family affairs before Blunt was done to disarm questioning on her part. She understood that; but her consternation at this news was written on her face.

"Then--then you are not going down to the Palace?" she stammered.

"Oh, dear, yes. I want to see your friend, Lady Hester. The dear old Bishop is a man of the world, and a jolly old boy. I've accepted his invitation there for a week."

Voss, who was clearing away the tea things, almost dropped a cup in his astonishment and joy. This was the first intimation he had received of his senior partner's next move.

"I think I'll put that rose in water," murmured Mabel chokingly, and rendered utterly dazed by the conflicting ideas aroused by these surprises. She was almost on the verge of a faint. The ground seemed to turn to cotton wool, the pictures on the walls swam before her eyes; she overturned the wine glass and dropped the rose. How she escaped from the room she scarcely knew.

When she came to herself she was seated on the side of her bed, with Jack's rose all crumpled in her hand.

Everything settled--and a thousand a year!

Either she had been the victim of an absurd delusion about her father's manner of life, or he was lying for Blunt's benefit.

The situation was confusing in the extreme. Doubt surged on doubt until she floundered in a sea of conflicting emotions. She recalled her father's lies to Mr. Bowman, the jeweler, about his collection of gems. Was this last pronouncement of the same order? Yet he never lied deliberately to her.

She had no knowledge whatever of his finances. He might be rich, for all she knew. She had supposed him to be a beggarly adventurer, living from hour to hour upon what he could filch from honest men. An allowance of a thousand a year sounded large, but not so large to a girl accustomed to the conversation of very wealthy people. Yet she knew school girl friends who had embarked on matrimony with three hundred for pin money from their parents, and considered themselves fortunate. Jack had talked of making a thousand a year at the Bar in the dim future, as though it would mean unlimited riches.

Again, her father's promises to the Bishop might be wilful deception. Yet the talk of buying property near Ripley argued considerable wealth, and she knew that it had been a cherished ambition with him to own a place in the country. His continuous interest in land agents' catalogues and occasional journeys, and oft-expressed admiration of places he spied from the railway carriage windows, all colored his assertion that he was in a position to become a landed proprietor. Before she would have taken all these things as a matter of course, never questioning where the money came from. But now the hopeless mystification of everything was maddening.