Jack turned pale, and crushed the paper in his hand.  Evening found him wandering on the heights of Hampstead, but the next morning he was at his easel.  He was a free man now in every sense, and the world looked brighter to him.  He worked as hard as ever, and with increasing success, but he spent most of his evenings with his comrades of the brush, with whom he was immensely popular.  He was indifferent to women, however, and they did not enter into his life.

But a few months before the opening of this story Jack had taken his new studio at Ravenscourt Park, in the west of London.  It was a big place, with a splendid north light, and with an admirable train service to all parts of town; in that respect he was better off than artists living in Hampstead or St. John’s Wood.  He had a couple of small furnished rooms at one end of the studio, in one of which he slept.  He usually dined in town, Paris fashion, but his breakfast and lunch were served by his French servant, Alphonse, an admirable fellow, who had lodgings close by the studio; he could turn his hand to anything, and was devoted to his master.

Jack had achieved success, and he deserved it.  His name was well known, and better things were predicted of him.  The leading magazines displayed his black-and-white drawings monthly, and publishers begged him to illustrate books.  He was making a large income, and saving the half of it.  Nor did he lose sight of his loftier goal.  His picture of last year had been accepted by the Academy, hung well, and sold, and he had just been notified that he was in again this spring.  Fortune smiled on him, and the folly of his youth was a fading memory that could never cloud or dim his future.

* * * * *

It was two days after the adventure on the river, late in the afternoon.  Jack was reading over the manuscript of a book, and penciling possible points for illustration, when Alphonse handed him a letter.  It was directed in a feminine hand, but a man had clearly penned the inclosure.  The writer signed himself Stephen Foster, and in a few brief sentences, coldly and curtly expressed, he thanked Mr. Vernon for the great and timely service he had rendered his daughter.  That was all.  There was no invitation to the house at Strand-on-the-Green—­no hope or desire for a personal acquaintance.

Jack resented the bald, stereotyped communication.  He felt piqued—­slightly hurt.  He had been trying to forget the girl, but now, thinking of her as something out of his reach, he wanted to see her again.

“A conceited, crusty old chap—­this Stephen Foster,” he said to himself.  “No doubt he is a money-grubber in the city, and regards artists with contempt.  If I had a daughter like that, and a man saved her life, I should be properly grateful.  Poor girl, she can’t lead a very happy life.”

He lighted a pipe, read a little further, and then tossed the sheaf of manuscript aside.  He rose and put on a hat and a black coat—­he wore evening dress as little as possible.