The Red Rat's Daughter

  Produced by Al Haines

  Cover art]

  [Frontispiece: "At last .... he drew her up."]

  THE RED RAT'S DAUGHTER

  By Guy Boothby

  AUTHOR OF "DOCTOR NIKOLA," "THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL," "PHAROS, THE EGYPTIAN," ETC, ETC

  ILLUSTRATED BY HENRY AUSTIN

  LONDON

  WARD, LOCK AND CO LIMITED

  NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE

  1899

  CHAPTER I

  If John Grantham Browne had a fault--which, mind you, I am not preparedto admit--it lay in the fact that he was the possessor of a cynical witwhich he was apt at times to use upon his friends with somewhatpeculiar effect. Circumstances alter cases, and many people would haveargued that he was perfectly entitled to say what he pleased. When aman is worth a hundred and twenty thousand pounds a year--which, workedout, means ten thousand pounds a month, three hundred and twenty-eightpounds, fifteen shillings and fourpence a day, and four-and-sixpencethree-farthings, and a fraction over, per minute--he may surely beexcused if he becomes a little sceptical as to other people's motives,and is apt to be distrustful of the world in general. Old Brown, hisfather, without the "e," as you have doubtless observed, started lifeas a bare-legged street arab in one of the big manufacturingcentres--Manchester or Birmingham, I am not quite certain which. Hishead, however, must have been screwed on the right way, for he made fewmistakes, and everything he touched turned to gold. At thirty his bankbalance stood at fifteen thousand pounds; at forty it had turned thecorner of a hundred thousand; and when he departed this transitorylife, a young man in everything but years, he left his widow, youngJohn's mother--his second wife, I may remark in passing, and the thirddaughter of the late Lord Rushbrooke--upwards of three and a halfmillion pounds sterling in trust for the boy.

  As somebody wittily remarked at the time, young John, at his father'sdeath and during his minority, was a monetary Mohammed--he hoveredbetween two worlds: the Rushbrookes, on one side, who had not twosixpences to rub against each other, and the Brownes, on the other, whoreckoned their wealth in millions and talked of thousands as we humblermortals do of half-crowns. Taken altogether, however, old Brown wasnot a bad sort of fellow. Unlike so many parvenus, he had the goodsense, the "e" always excepted, not to set himself up to be what hecertainly was not. He was a working-man, he would tell you with atwinkle in his eye, and he had made his own way in the world. He hadnever in his life owed a halfpenny, nor, to the best of his knowledge,had he ever defrauded anybody; and, if he _had_ made his fortune out ofsoap, well--and here his eyes would glisten--soap was at least a usefularticle, and would wash his millions cleaner than a good many othercommodities he might mention. In his tastes and habits he wassimplicity itself. Indeed, it was no unusual sight to see the oldfellow, preparatory to setting off for the City, coming down the stepsof his magnificent town house, dressed in a suit of rough tweed, withthe famous bird's-eye neck-cloth loosely twisted round his throat, andthe soft felt hat upon his head--two articles of attire which noremonstrance on the part of his wife and no amount of ridicule from thecomic journals could ever induce him to discard. His stables were fullof carriages, and there was a cab-rank within a hundred yards of hisfront door, yet no one had ever seen him set foot in either. The solesof his boots were thick, and he had been accustomed to walk all hislife, he would say, and he had no intention of being carried till hewas past caring what became of him. With regard to his son, the appleof his eye, and the pride of his old age, his views were entirelydifferent. Nothing was good enough for the boy. From the moment heopened his eyes upon the light, all the luxuries and advantages wealthcould give were showered upon him. Before he was short-coated, upwardsof a million had been placed to his credit at the bank, not to betouched until he came of age. After he had passed from a dame's schoolto Eton, he returned after every holiday with sufficient money loose inhis pocket to have treated the whole school. When, in the proper orderof things, he went on to Christ Church, his rooms were the envy and theadmiration of the university. As a matter of fact, he never knew whatit was to have to deny himself anything; and it says something for thelad's nature, and the father's too, I think, that he should have comeout of it the honest, simple Englishman he was. Then old John died;his wife followed suit six months later; and on his twenty-fifthbirthday the young man found himself standing alone in the world withhis millions ready to his hand either to make or mar him. Littlethough he thought it at the time, there was a sufficiency of trouble instore for him.

  He had town houses, country seats, moors and salmon-fishings, yachts(steam and sailing), racehorses, hunters, coach-horses, polo-ponies,and an army of servants that a man might very well shudder even tothink of. But he lacked one thing; he had no wife. Society, however,was prepared to remedy this defect. Indeed, it soon showed that it wasabnormally anxious to do so. Before he was twenty-two it had beenrumoured that he had become engaged to something like a score of girls,each one lovelier, sweeter, and boasting blood that was bluer than thelast. A wiser and an older head might well have been forgiven had itsuccumbed to the attacks made upon it; but in his veins, mingled withthe aristocratic Rushbrooke blood, young John had an equal portion ofthat of the old soap-boiler; and where the one led him to acceptinvitations to country houses at Christmas, or to be persuaded intodriving his fair friends, by moonlight, to supper at the Star andGarter, the other enabled him to take very good care of himself whilehe ran such dangerous risks. In consequence he had attained theadvanced age of twenty-eight when this story opens, a bachelor, andwith every prospect of remaining so. But the Blind Bow-Boy, as everyone is aware, discharges his bolts from the most unexpected quarters;and for this reason you are apt to find yourself mortally wounded inthe very place, of all others, where you have hitherto deemed yourselfmost invulnerable.

  It was the end of the second week in August; Parliament was up; andBrowne's steam-yacht, the _Lotus Blossom_, twelve hundred tons, lay inthe harbour of Merok, on the Gieranger Fjord, perhaps the mostbeautiful on the Norwegian coast. The guests on board had beenadmirably chosen, an art which in most instances is not cultivated ascarefully as it might be. An ill-assorted house party is bad enough;to bring the wrong men together on the moors is sufficient to spoil anotherwise enjoyable holiday; but to ask Jones (who doesn't smoke, whois wrapped up in politics, reads his leader in the _Standard_ everymorning, and who has played whist every afternoon with the same men athis club for the last ten years) and De Vere Robinson (who never readsanything save the _Referee_ and the _Sportsman_, who detests whist, andwho smokes the strongest Trichinopolis day and night) to spend threeweeks cooped up on a yacht would be like putting a kitten and acat-killing fox-terrier into a corn-bin and expecting them to have ahappy time together. Browne, however, knew his business, and hisparty, in this particular instance, consisted of the Duchess ofMatlock, wife of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and hertwo pretty daughters, the Ladies Iseult and Imogen; Miss Verney, thebeauty of the season; the Honourable Silas Dobson, the AmericanAmbassador; his wife and daughter; George Barrington-Marsh, of the 1stLife; and little Jimmy Foote, a man of no permanent address, but ofmore than usual shrewdness, who managed to make a good income out ofhis friends by the exercise of that peculiar talent for pleasing whichrendered him indispensable whenever and wherever his fellow-creatureswere gathered together. In addition to those I have mentioned therewas a man whose interest in this story is so great that it is necessaryhe should be described at somewhat greater length.

  Should you deem it worth your while to make inquiries at any of theChancelleries in order to ascertain whether they happen to beacquainted with a certain Monsieur Felix Maas, you would probably besurprised to learn that he is as well known to them as-
-well--shall wesay the Sultan of Turkey himself? though it would be difficult tomention in exactly what capacity. One thing is quite certain; it wouldbe no easy task to find a man possessed of such peculiarcharacteristics as this retiring individual. At first glance his namewould appear to settle his nationality once and for all. He would tellyou, however, that he has no right to be considered a Dutchman. At thesame time he would probably omit to tell you to which kingdom or empirehe ascribes the honour of his birth. If you travelled with him youwould discover that he speaks the language of every country west of theUral Mountains with equal fluency; and though he would appear to be thepossessor of considerable wealth, he never makes the least parade ofit. In fact, his one and only idea in life would seem to be alwaysirreproachably dressed and groomed, never to speak unless spoken to,and at all times to act as if he took no sort of interest whatever inany person or thing save that upon which he happened to be engaged atthe moment. When necessity demands it he can be exceedingly amusing;he never allows himself to be seen with a man or woman who would belikely to cause him the least loss of prestige; he gives charminglittle dinners _a la fourchette_ at his rooms in town twice or thriceduring the season, and is rumoured to be the author, under a _nom deplume_, of one of the best works on Continental politics that has seenthe light since Talleyrand's day. So much for Felix Maas.

  At one time or another there have been a number of exquisite yachtsbuilt to satisfy the extravagances of millionaires, but never one soperfect in every detail, and so replete with every luxury, as Browne's_Lotus Blossom_. The state-rooms were large and airy; beds occupiedthe places of the usual uncomfortable bunks; the dining-saloon wassituated amidships, where the vibration of the screw was least felt;the drawing-room was arranged aft; and a dainty boudoir for the ladiesextended across the whole width of the counter. The smoking-room wasin a convenient position under the bridge, and the bathrooms, four innumber, were luxury and completeness itself. Add to the otheradvantages the presence of Felicien, that prince of _chefs_, and littleGeorges, once so intimately connected with the English Embassy inParis, and it is unnecessary to say more.

  Browne himself was an excellent host; and by the time the Norwegiancoast had been sighted the party had settled down comfortably on board.They visited Christiania, the Bukn, Hardanger, and Sogne, andeventually found themselves at anchor in the harbour of Merok, on theGieranger Fjord. It is in this lovely bay, overshadowed by itsprecipitous mountains, that my story may be properly said to commence.

  It is sometimes asserted by a class of people who talk of the EiffelTower as if it were a bit of natural scenery, and of the Matterhorn asthough it were placed in its present position simply for theentertainment of Cook's tourists, that when you have seen one Norwegianfjord you have seen them all. But this statement is, as are themajority of such assertions, open to contradiction. The Ryfylke bearsno sort of resemblance, save that they are both incomparably grand, tothe Hardanger, or the Fjaerlands to the Gieranger. There is, ofcourse, the same solemnity and the same overwhelming sense of man'sinsignificance about them all. But in every other essential theydiffer as completely as Windermere does from the Bitter Lakes ofSuez--shall we say?--or the Marble Arch from the Bridge of Sighs.

  "Knowing what we know, and seeing what we see," Maas remarkedconfidentially to the Duchess of Matlock as they sat in their chairs ondeck, gazing up at the snow-capped mountains at the head of the fjord,"one is tempted to believe that Providence, in designing Europe, laidit out with the express intention of pleasing the British tourist."

  "I detest tourists," replied her Grace, as she disentangled the strapsof her field-glasses. "They cheapen everything, and think nothing ofdiscussing their hotel bills in the Temple of the Sphinx, or ofcomparing and grumbling at their _dhobie's_ accounts under the facadeof the Taj Mahal."

  "The inevitable result of a hothouse education, my dear Duchess," saidJimmy Foote, who was leaning against the bulwarks. "Believe a poor manwho knows, it is just those three annas overcharge in a _dhobie's_ billthat spoil the grandeur of the Sphinx and cast a blight over the GreatPyramid; as far as I am personally concerned, such an imposition wouldspoil even the Moti Masjid itself."

  "People who quarrel over a few annas have no right to travel," remarkedMrs. Dobson, with the authority of a woman who rejoices in thepossession of a large income.

  "In that case, one trembles to think what would become of the greaterportion of mankind," continued Miss Verney, who was drawing on hergloves preparatory to going ashore.

  "If that were the law, I am afraid I should never get beyond the whitewalls of Old England," said Jimmy Foote, shaking his head; "it is onlyby keeping a sharp eye on the three annas of which we have beenspeaking that I manage to exist at all. If I might make a suggestionto the powers that be, it would be to the effect that a universityshould be founded in some convenient centre--Vienna, for instance. Itwould be properly endowed, and students might be sent to it from allparts of the world. Competent professors would be engaged, who wouldteach the pupils how to comport themselves in railway trains and onboard steamboats; who would tell them how to dress themselves to suitdifferent countries, in order that they might not spoil choice bits ofscenery by inartistic colouring. Above all, I would have theminstructed in the proper manner of placing their boots outside theirbedroom doors when they retire to rest in foreign hotels. I remember aruffian in Paris some years ago (truth compels me to put it on recordthat he was a countryman of yours, Mr. Dobson) who for three weeksregularly disturbed my beauty sleep by throwing his boots outside hisdoor in the fashion to which I am alluding. It's my belief he used tostand in the centre of his room and pitch them into the corridor,taking particular care that they should fall exactly above my head."

  "It seems to me that I also have met that man," observed Maas quietly,lighting another cigarette as he spoke. "He travels a great deal."

  "Surely it could not be the same man?" remarked Mrs. Dobson, with anincredulous air. "The coincidence would be too extraordinary." Asmile went round the group; for an appreciation of humour was not thelady's strong point.

  "To continue my proposal," said Foote, with quiet enjoyment. "Inaddition to imparting instruction on the subjects I have mentioned, Iwould have my pupils thoroughly grounded in the languages of thevarious countries they intend visiting, so that they should not inquirethe French for Eau de Cologne, or ask what sort of vegetable _pate defoie gras_ is when they encountered it upon their menus. A properappreciation of the beautiful in art might follow, in order to permitof their being able to distinguish between a Sandro Botticelli and a'Seaport at Sunrise' by Claude Lorraine."

  "A professor who could give instruction upon the intricacies of aContinental wine list might be added with advantage," put inBarrington-Marsh.

  "And the inevitable result," said Browne, who had joined the partywhile Marsh was speaking, "would be that you might as well not travelat all. Build an enormous restaurant in London, and devote a portionof it to every country into which modern man takes himself. Hang thewalls with tricky, theatrical canvases after the fashion of acyclorama; dress your waiters in appropriate costumes, let them speakthe language of the country in which you are supposed to be dining, letthe tables be placed in the centre of the hall, have a band todiscourse national airs, and you would be able to bore yourself todeath in comfort, for the simple reason that every one would talk, eat,drink, and behave just as respectably as his neighbour. Half the funof moving about the world, as I understand it, lies in the studies ofcharacter presented by one's fellow-creatures. But, see, the boat isalongside; let us go ashore while it is fine."

  Beautiful as Merok undoubtedly is, it must be admitted that itsamusements are, to say the least of it, limited. You can lunch at thehotel, explore the curious little octagonal church, and, if you are awalker, climb the road that crosses the mountains to Grotlid. Theviews, however, are sublime, for the mountains rise on every hand,giving the little bay the appearance of an amphitheatre.

  "What programme
have you mapped out for us?" inquired Miss Verney, who,as was known to her companions, preferred an easy-chair and aflirtation on the deck of the yacht to any sort of athletic exerciseashore.

  Browne thereupon explained that the Duchess, who was dressed inappropriate walking costume, had arranged everything. They were tovisit the church, do the regulation sights, and, finally, make theirway up the hillside to the Storfos Waterfall, which is the principal,and almost the only, attraction the village has to offer. The usualorder of march was observed. The Duchess and the Ambassador, being theseniors of the party, led the way; the lady's two daughters, escortedby Barrington-Marsh and Jimmy Foote--who was too obvious a detrimentalto be worth guarding against--came next; Maas, Mrs. and Miss Dobsonfollowed close behind them; Miss Verney and Browne brought up the rear.

  Everything went merrily as a marriage bell. After those who hadbrought their cameras had snap-shotted the church, and made the usualmistake with regard to the angles, the party climbed the hill in thedirection of the waterfall. It was only when they reached it thatthose in front noticed that Miss Verney had joined the trio next beforeher, and that Browne had disappeared. He had gone back to the boat,the lady explained, in order to give some instructions that had beenforgotten. From her silence, however, and from the expression ofannoyance upon her beautiful lace, the others immediately jumped to theconclusion that something more serious must have happened than herwords implied. In this case, however, popular opinion was altogetherat fault. As a matter of fact, Browne's reason for leaving his gueststo pursue their walk alone was an eminently simple one. He strolleddown to the boat which had brought them ashore, and, having despatchedit with a message to the yacht, resumed his walk, hoping to overtakehis party before they reached the waterfall. Unfortunately, however, athick mist was descending upon the mountain, shutting out the landscapeas completely as if a curtain had been drawn before it. At first hewas inclined to treat the matter as of small moment; and, leaving theroad, he continued his walk in the belief that it would soon pass off.Stepping warily--for mountain paths in Norway are not to be treatedwith disrespect--he pushed on for upwards of a quarter of an hour,feeling sure he must be near his destination, and wondering why he didnot hear the voices of his friends or the thunder of the fall. At lasthe stopped. The mist was thicker than ever, and a fine but penetratingrain was falling. Browne was still wondering what Miss Verney'sfeelings would be, supposing she were condemned to pass the night onthe hillside, when he heard a little cry proceeding from a spot, as hesupposed, a few yards ahead of him. The voice was a woman's, and theejaculation was one of pain. Hearing it, Browne moved forward again inthe hope of discovering whence it proceeded and what had occasioned it.Search how he would, however, he could see nothing of the person whohad given utterance to it. At last, in despair, he stood still andcalled, and in reply a voice answered in English, "Help me; help me,please."

  "Where are you?" Browne inquired in the same language; "and what is thematter?"

  "I am down here," the voice replied; "and I am afraid I have sprainedmy ankle. I have fallen and cannot get up."

  Browne has since confessed that it was the voice that did it. Theaccent, however, was scarcely that of an Englishwoman.

  "Are you on a path or on the hillside?" he inquired, after he hadvainly endeavoured to locate her position.

  "I am on the hillside," she replied. "The fog was so thick that Icould not see my way, and I slipped on the bank and rolled down,twisting my foot under me."

  "Well, if you will try to guide me, I will do all in my power to helpyou," said Browne; and as he said it he moved carefully towards thespot whence he imagined the voice proceeded. From the feel of theground under his feet he could tell that he had left the path and wasdescending the slope.

  "Am I near you now?" he asked.

  "I think you must be," was the reply. And then the voice added, with alittle laugh, "How ridiculous it all is, and how sorry I am to troubleyou!"

  Had she known to what this extraordinary introduction was destined tolead, it is very doubtful whether she would have considered it so fulleither of humour or regret as her words implied.

  Inch by inch Browne continued his advance, until he could justdistinguish, seated on the ground below him, and clinging with both herarms to a stunted birch-tree, the figure of the girl for whom he wassearching. At most she was not more than five feet from him. Then,with that suddenness which is the peculiar property of Norwegian mists,the vapour, which had up to that moment so thickly enveloped them,rolled away, and the whole landscape was revealed to their gaze. As hetook in the position, Browne uttered a cry of horror. The girl hadwandered off the path, slipped down the bank, and was now clinging to atree only a few feet removed from the brink of one of the most terribleprecipices along the Norwegian coast.

  So overwhelmed was he with horror that for a moment Browne foundhimself quite unable to say or do anything. Then, summoning to hisassistance all the presence of mind of which he was master, headdressed the girl, who, seeing the danger to which she was exposed,was clinging tighter than ever to the tree, her face as white as thepaper upon which I am now writing. For a moment the young man scarcelyknew how to act for the best. To leave her while he went forassistance was out of the question; while it was very doubtful, activeas he was, whether he would be able, unaided, to get her up in herinjured condition to the path above. Ridiculous as the situation mayhave appeared in the fog, it had resolved itself into one of absolutedanger now, and Browne felt the perspiration start out upon hisforehead as he thought of what would have happened had she missed thetree and rolled a few feet farther. One thing was quitecertain--something must be done; so, taking off his coat, he lowered itby the sleeve to her, inquiring at the same time whether she thoughtshe could hold on to it while he pulled her up to the path above. Shereplied that she would endeavour to do so, and thereupon the strugglecommenced. A struggle it certainly was, and an extremely painful one,for the girl was handicapped by her injured foot. What if her nerveshould desert her and she should let go, or the sleeve of the coatshould part company with the body? In either case there could be butone result--an instant and terrible death for her.

  Taken altogether, it was an experience neither of them would ever belikely to forget. At last, inch by inch, foot by foot, he drew her up;and with every advance she made, the stones she dislodged went tinklingdown the bank, and, rolling over the edge, disappeared into the abyssbelow. When at last she was sufficiently close to enable him to placehis arm round her, and to lift her into safety beside himself, thereaction was almost more than either of them could bear. For someminutes the girl sat with her face buried in her hands, too muchovercome with horror at the narrowness of her escape even to thank herpreserver. When she _did_ lift her face to him, Browne became awarefor the first time of its attractiveness. Beautiful, as Miss Verneywas beautiful, she certainly could not claim to be; there was, however,something about her face that was more pleasing than mere personalloveliness could possibly have been.

  "How did you come to be up here alone?" he inquired, after she hadtried to express her gratitude to him for the service he had renderedher.

  "It was foolish, I admit," she answered. "I had been painting on themountain, and was making my way back to the hotel when the fog caughtme. Suddenly I felt myself falling. To save myself I clutched at thattree, and was still clinging to it when you called to me. Oh! how canI thank you? But for you I might now be----"

  She paused, and Browne, to fill in the somewhat painful gap, hastenedto say that he had no desire to be thanked at all. He insisted that hehad only done what was fit and proper under the circumstances. It wasplain, however, from the look of admiration he cast upon her, that hewas very well satisfied with the part he had been permitted to play inthe affair.

  While, however, they were progressing thus favourably in one direction,it was evident that they were not yet at an end of their difficulties,for the young lady, pretend as she might to ignore the fact,
wasundoubtedly lame; under the circumstances for her to walk was out ofthe question, and Merok was fully a mile, and a very steep mile,distant from where they were now seated.

  "How am I to get home?" the girl inquired. "I am afraid it will beimpossible for me to walk so far, and no pony could come along thisnarrow path to fetch me."

  Browne puckered his forehead with thought. A millionaire is apt toimagine that nothing in this world is impossible, provided he has hischeque-book in his pocket and a stylographic pen wherewith to write anorder on his banker. In this case, however, he was compelled toconfess himself beaten. There was one way out of it, of course, andboth knew it. But the young man felt his face grow hot as the notionoccurred to him.

  "If you would only let me carry you as far as the main road, I couldeasily find a conveyance to take you the rest of the distance," hefaltered.

  "Do you think you _could_ carry me?" she answered, with a seriousnessthat was more than half assumed. "I am very heavy."

  It might be mentioned here, and with advantage to the story, that inhis unregenerate days Browne had won many weight-lifting competitions;his modesty, however, prevented his mentioning this fact to her.

  "If you will trust me, I think I can manage it," he said; and then,without waiting for her to protest, he picked the girl up, and, holdingher carefully in his arms, carried her along the path in the directionof the village. It was scarcely a time for conversation, so that thegreater portion of the journey was conducted in silence. When at lastthey reached the mountain road--that wonderful road which is one of theglories of Merok--Browne placed the girl upon the bank, and, calling aboy whom he could see in the distance, despatched him to the hotel forassistance. The youth having disappeared, Browne turned to the girlagain. The pain she had suffered during that short journey had driventhe colour from her face, but she did her best to make light of it.

  "I cannot thank you enough for all you have done for me," she said, anda little shudder swept over her as the remembrance of how near she hadbeen to death returned to her.

  "I am very thankful I happened to be there at the time," the otherreplied with corresponding seriousness. "If you will be warned by me,you will be careful for the future how you venture on the mountainswithout a guide at this time of the year. Fogs, such as we have hadto-day, descend so quickly, and the paths are dangerous at the best oftimes."

  "You may be sure I will be more careful," she replied humbly. "But donot let me keep you now; I have detained you too long already. I shallbe quite safe here."

  "You are not detaining me," he answered. "I have nothing to do.Besides, I could not think of leaving you until I have seen you safelyon your way back to your hotel. Have you been in Merok very long?"

  "Scarcely a week," the girl replied. "We came from Hellesylt."

  Browne wondered of whom the _we_ might consist. Was the girl married?He tried to discover whether or not she wore a wedding-ring, but herhand was hidden in the folds her dress.

  Five minutes later a cabriole made its appearance, drawn by a shaggypony and led by a villager. Behind it, and considerably out of breath,toiled a stout and elderly lady, who, as soon as she saw the girlseated on the bank by the roadside, burst into a torrent of speech.

  "Russian," said Brown to himself; "her accent puzzled me, but now Iunderstand."

  Then turning to the young man, who was experiencing some slightembarrassment at being present at what his instinct told him was awigging, administered by a lady who was plainly a past mistress at theart, the girl said in English:--

  "Permit me to introduce you to my guardian, Madame Bernstein."

  The couple bowed ceremoniously to each other, and then Browne and thevillager between them lifted the girl into the vehicle, the man tookhis place at the pony's head, and the strange cortege proceeded on itsway down the hill towards the hotel. Once there, Browne prepared totake leave of them. He held out his hand to the girl, who took it.

  "Good-bye," he said. "I hope it will not be long before you are ableto get about once more."

  "Good-bye," she answered; and then, with great seriousness, "Pray,believe that I shall always be grateful to you for the service you haverendered me this afternoon."

  There was a little pause. Then, with a nervousness that was by nomeans usual to him, he added:--

  "I hope you will not think me rude, but perhaps you would not mindtelling me whom I have had the pleasure of helping?"

  "My name is Katherine Petrovitch," she answered, with a smile, and thenas frankly returned his question. "And yours?"

  "My name is Browne," he replied; and also smiling as he said it, headded: "I am Browne's Mimosa Soap, Fragrant and Antiseptic."