Then came an incident that deeply impressed the Lefevres.  Julius went to a cage in which, he said, there was a recent arrival—­a leopard from the “Land of the Setting Sun,” the romantic land of the Moors.  The creature crouched sulking in the back of the cage.  Julius tapped on the bars, and entreated her in the language of her native land, “Ya, dudu! ya, lellatsi!” She bounded to him with a “wir-r-r” of delight, leaned and rubbed herself against the bars, and gave herself up to be stroked and fondled.  When he left her, she cried after him piteously, and wistfully watched him out of sight.

“Do you know the beautiful creature?” asked Lady Lefevre.

“Yes,” answered Julius quietly; “I brought her over some months ago.”

Lefevre had explained to his mother that Julius had always been on friendly or fond terms with animals, but never till now had he seen the remarkable understanding he clearly maintained with them.

“Look!” said Lady Lefevre to her son as they turned to leave the Gardens.  “He seems to have fascinated Nora as much as the beasts.”

Nora stood a little aloof, regarding Julius in an ecstasy of admiration.  When she found her mother was looking at her, her eyes sank, and as it were a veil of blushes fell over her.  Mother and son walked on first, and Julius followed with Nora.

“He is a most charming and extraordinary man,” said the mother.

“He is,” said the son, “and amazingly intelligent.”

“He seems to know everything, and to have been everywhere,—­to have been a kind of rolling stone.  If anything should come of this, I suppose he can afford to marry.  You ought to know about him.”

“I believe I know as much as any one.”

“He has no profession?” queried the lady.

“He has no profession; but I suppose he could afford it,” said Lefevre musingly.

“You don’t like the idea,” said his mother.

“Not much.  I scarce know why.  But I somehow think of him as not having enough sense of the responsibility of life.”

“I suppose his people are of the right sort?”

“I suppose they are; though I don’t know if he has any people,” said he, with a laugh.  “He is the kind of man who does not need parents or relations.”

“Still, hadn’t you better try to find out what he may have in that line?”

“Yes,” said Lefevre; “perhaps I had.”

Chapter II.

A Mysterious Case.

The two friends returned, as they had arranged, to the Hyacinth Club for dinner.  Courtney’s coruscating brilliancy sank into almost total darkness when they parted from Lady and Miss Lefevre, and when they sat down to table he was preoccupied and silent, yet in no proper sense downcast or dull.  Lefevre noted, while they ate, that there was clear speculation in his eye, that he was not vaguely dreaming, but with alert intelligence examining some question, or facing