“But when will all this end?” queried the girl, as together they strolled in the direction of Bayswater, passing many whispering couples sitting on seats.  London lovers enjoy the park at all hours of the twenty-four.

“It will only end when I am able to discover the truth,” he said vaguely.  “Meanwhile I am not disheartened, darling, because—­because I know that you believe in me—­that you still trust me.”

“That man whom I saw in Nice dressed as a cavalier, and who again came to me in Scotland, is a mystery,” she said.  “Do you really believe he is the person you suspect?”

“I do.  I still believe he is the notorious and defiant criminal ’Il Passero’—­the most daring and ingenious thief of the present century.”

“But he is evidently your friend.”

“Yes.  That is the great mystery of it all.  I cannot discern his motive.”

“Is it a sinister one, do you think?”

“No.  I do not believe so.  I have heard of The Sparrow’s fame from the lips of many criminals, but none has uttered a single word against him.  He is, I hear, fierce, bitter, and relentless towards those who are his enemies.  To his friends, however, he is staunchly loyal.  That is what is said of him.”

“But, Hugh, I wish you would be more frank with me,” the girl said.  “There are several things you are hiding from me.”

“I admit it, darling,” he blurted forth, holding her hand in the darkness as they walked.  The ecstasy and the bliss of that moment held him almost without words.  She was as life to him.  He pursued that soul-deadening evasion, and lived that grey, sordid life among men and women escaping from justice solely for her sake.  If he married Louise Lambert and then cast off the matrimonial shackles he would recover his patrimony and be well-off.

To many men the temptation would have proved too great.  The inheritance of his father’s fortune was so very easy.  Louise was a pretty girl, well educated, bright, vivacious, and thoroughly up to date.  Yet somehow, he always mistrusted Benton, though his father, perhaps blinded in his years, had reckoned him his best and most sincere friend.  There are many unscrupulous men who pose as dear, devoted friends of those who they know are doomed by disease to die—­men who hope to be left executors with attaching emoluments, and men who have some deep game to play either by swindling the orphans, or by advancing one of their own kith and kin in the social scale.

Old Mr. Henfrey, a genuine country landowner of the good old school, a man who lived in tweeds and leggings, and who rode regularly to hounds and enjoyed his days across the stubble, was one of the unsuspicious.  Charles Benton he had first met long ago in the Hotel de Russie in Rome while he was wintering there.  Benton was merry, and, apparently, a gentleman.  He talked of his days at Harrow, and afterwards at Cambridge, of being sent down because of a big “rag” in the Gladstonian days, and of his life since as a fairly well-off bachelor with rooms in London.