For in the days of his family’s prosperity he had been too young to enter London society.

And in these days of his adversity he was known to but a limited number of individuals in the city, and only by his common family name.

On the appointed evening, therefore, he put on his well-brushed dress-suit, spotless linen, and fresh gloves, and presented himself at Elmhurst House as well dressed as any West End noble or city nabob there.

He was shown up to the drawing-room by the attentive footman, who opened the door, and announced: 

“Mr. John Scott.”

And the young Marquis of Arondelle entered the room, where a brilliant little company of about half a dozen gentlemen and as many ladies were assembled.

The noble host came forward to welcome the new guest.  His lordship met him with much cordiality, and immediately presented him to Lady ——­, who received him with the graceful and gracious courtesy for which she was so well known.

Finally the minister took the young journalist across the room toward a very tall, thin, fair-skinned, gray-haired old gentleman, who stood with a pale, dark-eyed, richly-dressed young girl by his side.

They were standing for the moment, with their backs to the company, and were critically examining a picture on the wall—­a master-piece of one of the old Italian painters.

“Sir Lemuel,” said the host, lightly touching the art-critic on the shoulder.

The old gentleman turned around.

“Sir Lemuel, permit me to present to you Mr. John Jones—­I beg pardon—­Mr. John Scott, of the National Liberator—­Mr. Scott, Sir Lemuel Levison, our member for Lone,” said the minister.

Sir Lemuel Levison saw before him the young Marquis of Arondelle, whom he had know as a boy and young man for years in the Highlands, and of whom, indeed, he had purchased his life interest in Lone.  But he gave no sign of this recognition.

The young marquis, on his part, had every reason to know the man who had succeeded, not to say supplanted, his father at Lone Castle.  But by no sign did he betray this knowledge.

The recognition was mutual, instantaneous and complete.  Yet both were gravely self-possessed, and addressed each other as if they had never met before.

Then the banker called the attention of the young lady by his side: 

“My daughter.”

She raised her eyes and saw before her the idol of her secret worship, knowing him by his portrait at Lone.  She paled and flushed, while her father, with old-fashioned formality, was saying: 

“My daughter, let me introduce to your acquaintance, Mr. John Scott of the National Liberator.  You have read and admired his articles under the signature of Justus, you know!—­Mr. Scott, my daughter, Miss Levison.”

Both bowed gravely, and as they looked up their eyes met in one swift and swiftly withdrawn glance.