"Surely that is not all," exclaimed Denis O'Hara as Norman Druce leant back in his chair and puffed a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.

"Well," answered Druce, with an odd little smile, "I think there is a sequel, if you care to hear it." He rose as he spoke, and took down from the mantel-shelf a box of cigarettes, which he handed to Denis.

"Three or four, are there not?" he said; "that's the sequel."

"But—but I don't understand," exclaimed Denis, looking somewhat bewildered.

"Don't you?" said Druce, puffing another cloud of smoke from the brierwood; "oh, its very simple. He married her—after she left that school in London."

"One sweep of the hand, and the face was disfigured."