In Friendship's Guise

BY WM. MURRAY GRAYDON

AUTHOR OF "The Cryptogram," etc.

1899

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.—The Duplicate Rembrandt
CHAPTER II.—Five Years Afterwards
CHAPTER III.—An Old Friend
CHAPTER IV.—Number 320 Wardour Street
CHAPTER V.—A Mysterious Discussion
CHAPTER VI.—A Visitor from Paris
CHAPTER VII.—Love's Young Dream
CHAPTER VIII.—An Attraction in Pall Mall
CHAPTER IX.—Uncle and Nephew
CHAPTER X.—A London Sensation
CHAPTER XI.—A Mysterious Discovery
CHAPTER XII.—A Cowardly Communication
CHAPTER XIII.—The Tempter
CHAPTER XIV.—The Dinner at Richmond
CHAPTER XV.—From the Dead
CHAPTER XVI.—The Last Card
CHAPTER XVII.—Two Passengers from Calais
CHAPTER XVIII.—Home Again
CHAPTER XIX.—A Shock for Sir Lucius
CHAPTER XX.—At a Night Club
CHAPTER XXI.—A Quick Decision
CHAPTER XXII.—Another Chance
CHAPTER XXIII.—On the Track
CHAPTER XXIV.—A Fateful Decision
CHAPTER XXV.—A Fruitless Errand
CHAPTER XXVI.—A Thunderbolt from the Blue
CHAPTER XXVII.—An Amateur Detective
CHAPTER XXVIII.—A Discovery
CHAPTER XXIX.—The Vicar of Dunwold
CHAPTER XXX.—Run to Earth
CHAPTER XXXI.—Noah Hawker's Disclosure
CHAPTER XXXII.—How the Day Ended
CHAPTER XXXIII.—Conclusion

IN FRIENDSHIP'S GUISE.

CHAPTER I.

THE DUPLICATE REMBRANDT.

The day began well. The breakfast rolls were crisper than usual, the butter was sweeter, and never had Diane's slender white hands poured out more delicious coffee. Jack Clare was in the highest spirits as he embraced his wife and sallied forth into the Boulevard St. Germain, with a flat, square parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm. From the window of the entresol Diane waved a coquettish farewell.

"Remember, in an hour," she called down to him. "I shall be ready by then, Jack, and waiting. We will lunch at Bignon's—"

"And drive in the Bois, and wind up with a jolly evening," he interrupted, throwing a kiss. "I will hasten back, dear one. Be sure that you put on your prettiest frock, and the jacket with the ermine trimming."

It was a clear and frosty January morning, in the year 1892, and the streets of Paris were dry and glistening. There was intoxication in the very air, and Jack felt thoroughly in harmony with the fine weather. What mattered it that he had but a few francs in his pocket—that the quarterly remittance from his mother, who dreaded the Channel passage and was devoted to her foggy London, would not be due for a fortnight? The parcel under his arm meant, without doubt, a check