e say on Tuesday?"
His newly-found friend reflected a moment, and then replied in the affirmative.
"Excellent. Tuesday at eight--eh? You know my address."
"Yes--in Bruton Street."
THE SUSPICIONS OF ELISE
AT nine o'clock that same evening, in a well-furnished drawing-room half-way up Fitzjohn's Avenue, in Hampstead, a pretty, blue-eyed, fair-haired girl of twenty-one sat at the piano alone, playing a gay French chanson, to pass away the time.
Dressed in a dainty little dinner-gown of carnation pink, and wearing in her well-dressed hair a touch of velvet to match, she presented a pretty picture beneath the shaded electric-light which fell over the instrument set in a corner.
Her mother, Mrs. Shearman, a charming, grey-haired lady, had just gone out,
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