He called, he sent in his card.  The man went in, and came back with a sonorous “Not at home.”

“Not at home? nonsense.  Why, she is just come in from church.”

“Not at home,” said the man, evidently strong in his instructions.

Falcon turned white with rage at this second affront.  “All the worse for her,” said he, and turned on his heel.

He went home, raging with disappointment and wounded vanity, and—­since such love as his is seldom very far from hate—­he swore she should never know from him that her husband was alive.  He even moralized.  “This comes of being so unselfish,” said he.  “I’ll give that game up forever.”

By and by, a mere negative revenge was not enough for him, and he set his wits to work to make her smart.

He wrote to her from his lodgings:—­

Dear madam,—­What a pity you are never at home to me.  I had something to say about your husband, that I thought might interest you.

Yours truly,

R. Falcon.

Imagine the effect of this abominable note.  It was like a rock flung into a placid pool.  It set Rosa trembling all over.  What could he mean?

She ran with it to her father, and asked him what Mr. Falcon could mean.

“I have no idea,” said he.  “You had better ask him, not me.”

“I am afraid it is only to get to see me.  You know he admired me once.  Ah, how suspicious I am getting.”

Rosa wrote to Falcon:—­

Dear sir,—­Since my bereavement I see scarcely anybody.  My servant did not know you; so I hope you will excuse me.  If it is too much trouble to call again, would you kindly explain your note to me?

Yours respectfully,

Rosa Staines.

Falcon chuckled bitterly over this.  “No, my lady,” said he.  “I’ll serve you out.  You shall run after me like a little dog.  I have got the bone that will draw you.”

He wrote back coldly to say that the matter he had wished to communicate was too delicate and important to put on paper; that he would try and get down to Gravesend again some day or other, but was much occupied, and had already put himself to inconvenience.  He added, in a postscript, that he was always at home from four to five.

Next day he got hold of the servant, and gave her minute instructions, and a guinea.

Then the wretch got some tools and bored a hole in the partition wall of his sitting-room.  The paper had large flowers.  He was artist enough to conceal the trick with water-colors.  In his bed-room the hole came behind the curtains.

That very afternoon, as he had foreseen, Mrs. Staines called on him.  The maid, duly instructed, said Mr. Falcon was out, but would soon return, and could she wait his return?  The maid being so very civil, Mrs. Staines said she would wait a little while, and was immediately ushered into Falcon’s sitting-room.  There she sat down; but was evidently ill at ease, restless, flushed.  She could not sit quiet, and at last began to walk up and down the room, almost wildly.  Her beautiful eyes glittered, and the whole woman seemed on fire.  The caitiff, who was watching her, saw and gloated on all this, and enjoyed to the full her beauty and agitation, and his revenge for her “Not at homes.”