A jingling hansom swung from Piccadilly Circus into the Quadrant.  Its occupants were a short, Jewish-looking man with a big diamond in his shirt-front, and a woman who leaned forward more prominently than her companion.  She was richly dressed, and—­at least by gaslight—­strikingly beautiful, with great eyes of a purplish hue, and a mass of golden-red hair that might or might not have been natural; only at close range could one have detected the ravages of an unfortunate and unbridled life—­the tell-tale marks that the lavish use of powder and rouge could not utterly hide.

The vehicle very nearly ran Victor Nevill down—­he had been about to cross the street—­and as he dodged back to the sidewalk his face was for an instant close to the woman’s, and he saw her distinctly.  He uttered an exclamation of surprise, and started as though an unseen hand had dealt him a blow.  He hesitated briefly, seemingly dazed, and then started in pursuit.  But he ran into a couple of men at the outset, and by the time he had stammered an apology, and was free to look about him again, the swift-moving hansom was lost to sight in a maze of similar vehicles.

“It’s no use to follow in a cab,” muttered Nevill.  “And I must be mistaken, anyway.  It can’t be she whom I saw—­she is dead.”

He stood at the edge of the pavement, staring undecidedly up the curve of the street.  When a brace of painted women, emboldened by his attitude, shot covert remarks at him, he turned on them sharply.  But, seeing a policeman approaching, he walked on.

“By heavens, I was not mistaken!” he said to himself.  “The papers must have blundered—­such things often happen.  She is much altered, but they were her eyes, her lips.  To think that her peerless beauty should have brought her so low!  She is nothing to me now, though I nearly broke my heart over her once.  But she may serve as a useful tool.  She will be a trump card to play, if need be.  She has probably come to London recently, and if she stays any time it would not be a difficult matter for me to find her.  I daresay she drained the Russian’s purse, and then served him as she served me.  The heartless vampire!  But I am glad I saw her to-night.  With her aid it will be easier than I hoped, perhaps, to win Madge.”

* * * * *

Since ten o’clock an unexpected visitor had been waiting in Victor Nevill’s rooms on Jermyn street.  In a big basket-chair, drawn close to the light, sat Sir Lucius Chesney.  He had helped himself to cigars and brandy-and-soda, and had dipped into half a dozen late novels that were scattered about the table, but without finding any to interest him.  It was long past twelve now, and he was beginning to feel drowsy and out of temper.  He wished he had remained in the smoking-room of his hotel, or hunted up some old acquaintances at the Country Club.