"The next day I called on Wilson, the manager, who told me there was to be a matinée that afternoon. As I wanted his help I told him about the bet and what my plans were. At first he demurred to assisting me to carry them out, but I had been of some use previously to Wilson on several occasions, so I had not much difficulty in shewing him there was no harm in my scheme. By a little manœuvring I was soon introduced to the fair Marjorie and had her will well under my control. I saw her home that afternoon and made five hundred. The next day I met her after rehearsal; we took a cab to London Bridge, caught the mid-day train to Brighton, lunched at the Metropole, and got back to town by five. Witnesses were posted at both places to avoid disputes. Walkden was madder than ever and that night we had a big kick-up, on the strength of the thousand I had won."

"But what's become of Marjorie?" asked Tommy. "We never see her now."

"Oh, it appears that Lotty Carr, that stuck-up little minx who is jealous of her and everybody else, heard something about this business and asked Walkden, who, to save himself, told a lot of lies. Little Carr then proceeded to make mischief by going first to Wilson and then to Marjorie's mother. Wilson, of course, I was able to square, but the mother was an invalid and the affair so upset her that it ended in her death. Marjorie at once left the stage, forfeiting her salary. I was, of course, awfully sorry and sent her half my winnings, which she returned. Truth then took it up and added to the fuss."

"What's she doing now?"

"Dressmaking or something of that sort. And, poor devil, I believe she has two or three kids to support, brothers and sisters."

"Ah, well! I suppose she'll pick up with Sir Charles, now? He's got plenty of the needful."

"Fool if she doesn't," replied this elegant young gentleman, flippantly. Extremes meet. The naked savage has a fairly low estimate of the value of his womankind, but it is many degrees higher than that of this product of a highly-cultured civilization.

Tommy's curiosity was roused and he was anxious to draw more particulars of his peculiar gift from his friend, so he continued his catechism.

"I say, Wyck! I suppose if you wanted a girl to get properly struck on you, you could do it. Eh?"

"Rather, Tommy, I only want a girl to be in my company three or four times and I can mould her so that she will break her heart and pine away, if I leave her."

"Nonsense. But you don't go so far as that?"

"No, but I may do so for an experiment."

"I suppose you alluded to this power when you once said you had conquered every nation under the sun?"

"Oh! only that I had willed girls of most nationalities."

"And who are the two you are looking after now?"

"One I have found; she is a Swiss. The other I am looking for; she is an Australian."

"Australian, eh? I fancy I could fit you up there. I know a jolly girl from Australia."

"You do? By Jove, Tommy, that's glorious! Who is she?"

"I don't know her very well. She lives in one of the suburbs with some retired Australians, called Whyte. Her name is Amy Johnson."

"Is she good-looking?"

"She's more, she's sweetly pretty. But I believe she is engaged to a young fellow named Morris, also an Australian."

"That makes it all the more interesting. But how are we to meet?" said Wyck, really roused.

"I can arrange that, if you are game for a suburban ball-room. The Brixton Bachelors give their annual ball shortly. She will be there and I will get you an invite."

"Tommy, you're a brick," said his friend, slapping him on the back; a proceeding which ensured the success of his neat manœuvre, by which a note or two was transferred from Wyck's pocket-book to that of his friend, who was "rather hard-pressed, you know," and Wyck was "a devilish good chap for helping a fellow out of a hole."

In Piccadilly they parted, Tommy's last words being:

"'Ware young Australian, old chap. These colonial fellows are not to be trifled with."

"My dear boy, I've heard that before. They told me the same with regard to Americans, but three of my notches represent Yankee maidens. I'm all right. Don't forget the ticket for the ball. I must complete my score of fifty."

He waved him an adieu, and went his way, very well pleased with himself and full of self-confidence. The old pitcher in the fable succumbed at the hundredth journey, and Wyck's successful career will be cut short by the fiftieth notch.

CHAPTER III.

THE MIA-MIA.[A]

"How dare you do it, sir? You are too presumptuous."

"I am awfully sorry, Amy, but really I could not help myself."

"But you did help yourself, Reg," and the young girl turned upon her companion such a bewitchingly pretty face, her lips pouting with badly-simulated anger, that the young man had no compunction in taking her in his arms, and kissing the pouting lips till they smiled again.

This scene was enacted in a tiny summer-house of trellis-work, completely covered with hanging greenery, which stood in one of those pretty gardens that are still to be found in the suburb of Brixton. The summer-house appeared to be designed expressly for its two occupants. It held only two seats and was of dimensions just sufficiently confined to prevent them from being too far apart. Through the opening could be seen the full stretch of the carefully-tended garden, backed by a comfortable house with a verandah running round it. On the lawn, a couple of dogs were lying lazily; hanging in the verandah was an aviary and the noisy twittering of its occupants reached the ears of the two in the summer-house. Their eyes dwelt lovingly on the scene before them, with a sense of rest, for happiness and contentment seemed to be in the air.

An elderly man in shirt-sleeves was busily engaged in pruning some fruit trees. As he paused in his work to wipe his perspiring brow he formed a picture of contentment in complete harmony with the scene of which he was a part. This was Oliver Whyte, the owner of the house and garden, which he had christened, in true Australian fashion, "The Mia-Mia." He was a man of about sixty, short and thick-set in appearance with a tendency to corpulence. His character was written in his fine open face, clean-shaven save for a ring of white hair that set his honest countenance in an oval frame; was felt as one listened to the tones of his rough, good-natured voice. He was joined by an elderly woman, who despite her grey hair and heavy build, was as active as many a younger maid. Her voice had a genuine and pleasant ring in it and her face always wore a cheerful, contented smile. She was beloved by all who came in contact with her, for she was the embodiment of the word motherly. The dogs rose and stretched themselves and lazily rubbed their noses against her skirt, as she passed from one flower bed to another, snipping a dead leaf here and picking a faded blossom there. This was Mrs. Whyte or, as Oliver fondly calls her, "the missus."

Forty years before, Oliver Whyte, a young man in his prime, set out with two companions for the sunny shores of Australia. He had served his time as a carpenter, and his employers had cause to regret the loss of a fine workman when Whyte became fired with the ambition of travel at the time