enterprise for some time, and had made great fortunes for the four or five gifted individuals whose second sight revealed to them the right hour at which to withdraw their capital from the scheme.
Yes, it had been a glorious Paris in those days, a city in which a young Englishman with a mathematical brain could court the goddess Fortune more profitably than in his native capital. Julian Wyllard had earned his bread upon the London Stock Exchange for some years before he changed the scene of his labours to Paris; but it was upon the Paris Bourse that he began to make his fortune.
Dora was tired after her journey, for she had been too full of thought to sleep in the train, and even now her brain was too active for the possibility of rest. So, after dressing and breakfasting, she accompanied her husband to the great Parisian auction rooms to look at the Rochejaquelin collection.
The inspection of the pictures lasted over two hours. Julian Wyllard was an ardent connoisseur, and his wife sympathised with him in his love of art. Together they criticised the gems of the collection, and stood in silent admiration before the famous Raffaelle.
"It will fetch thousands," said Wyllard.
"Why not buy it, if you really wish to possess it?" said Dora. "Why should we hoard our money? There is no one to come after us. Penmorval may be a show place when you and I are gone, and your picture-gallery will give pleasure to hundreds of tourists."
"Ah, there is the rub," sighed her husband, conscious of the latent melancholy in his wife's speech. "'No son of mine succeeding.' When you and I are gone there will be no one to care for Penmorval—no one to cherish your garden, and say, 'My mother planted these roses, or planned these walks'—no one to treasure the pictures I have collected, for any reason except their intrinsic value."
"Will you take me to see the house in which you lived and worked?" asked Dora, as they were leaving the auction-room.
"My dear Dora, I can show you the outside of that historic spot," answered her husband lightly; "but I doubt if I can introduce you to the rooms in which I worked. The present occupant may not be inclined to sympathise with your hero-worship.".
"O, but I should so like to see those rooms, and I am sure if the occupier is a gentleman, he will not refuse such a natural request. Here comes Mr. Heathcote," she exclaimed, as they turned into the Boulevard.
"I was coming to the Hôtel Drouot in quest of you," said Heathcote, as they shook hands. "I called at your hotel, and
