seem about of a size—we can change behind that pillar."
"But," stammered the young man, "it's too much—I can't—"
"It's nothing at all, Sir," said the man with the grey beard warmly; "nothing compared to the way you stood by my girl! Shake! John B. Warner don't forget."
"I can't thank you," said the other, when they had shaken hands. "If you will—just for a short time! I'll be back in half an hour—"
He was back in two minutes. The first face he saw when he had made his duty bows was the face of the Beautiful Lady. She was radiant: and beside her stood her Jew, also radiant. They had made it up. And what is more—though he never knew it—they had made it up in that half-hour of delay caused by the Boots. The Lady passed our hero without a word or even a glance to acknowledge acquaintanceship, and he saw that the game was absolutely up. He swore under his breath. But the next moment he laughed to himself with a free heart. After all—for any docu-
