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was on top, and the coarse, light-colored paper underneath. But even that came from the oak panelling as easily as though it hung there from habit, and not because of paste.
    “Feel the weight of that,” I cried, handing him the sheet I had torn from the wall.
    “By Jove!” said the earl, in a voice almost of awe.
    I took it from him, and laid it, face downward, on the wooden table, threw a little water on the back, and with a knife scraped away the porous white paper. Instantly there gleamed up at us the baleful yellow of the gold. I shrugged my shoulders and spread out my hands. The Earl of Chizelrigg laughed aloud and very heartily.
    “You see how it is,” I cried. “The old man first covered the entire wall with this whitish paper. He heated his sovereigns at the forge and beat them out on the anvil, then completed the process rudely between the sheets of this paper from France. Probably he pasted the gold to the wall as soon as he shut himself in for the night, and covered it over with the more expensive paper before Higgins entered in the morning.”
    We found afterwards, however, that he had actually fastened the thick sheets of gold to the wall with carpet tacks.
    His lordship netted a trifle over a hundred and twenty-three thousand pounds through my discovery, and I am pleased to pay tribute to the young man’s generosity by saying that his voluntary settlement made my bank account swell stout as a City alderman.

THE ORDINARY HAIR-PINS
    E. C. BENTLEY
    A small committee of friends persuaded Lord Aviemore to sit for a presentation portrait, and the painter to whom they gave the commission was Philip Trent. It was a task that fascinated him, for he had often seen and admired in public places the high, halfbald skull, vulture nose, and grim mouth of the peer who was said to be deeper in theology than any other layman, and whose devotion to charitable work had brought him national honour. It was only at the third sitting that Lord Aviemore’s sombre taciturnity was laid aside.
    “I believe, Mr. Trent,” he remarked, abruptly, “that you used to have a portrait of my late sister-in-law here. I was told that it hung in this studio.”
    Trent continued his work quietly. “It was just a rough drawing I made, after seeing her in ‘Carmen’ before her marriage. It used to hang here. Before your first visit I removed it.”
    The sitter nodded slowly. “Very thoughtful of you. Nevertheless, I should much like to see it, if I may.”
    “Of course.” And Trent drew the framed sketch from behind a curtain. Lord Aviemore gazed long in silence at Trent’s very spirited likeness of the famous singer, while the artist worked busily to capture the first expression of feeling that he had so far seen on that impassive face. Lighted and softened by melancholy, it looked for the first time noble.
    At last the sitter turned to him. “I would give a good deal,” he said, simply, “to possess that drawing.”
    Trent shook his head. “I don’t want to part with it.” He laid a few strokes carefully on the canvas and went on: “You would like to know why, I dare say. I will tell you. It is my personal memory of a woman whom I found more admirable than any other I ever saw. Lillemor Wergeland’s beauty and physical perfection were a marvel. Her voice was a miracle. Her spirit matched them. I never spoke to her; but everybody in my world talked about her, and many of them knew her.”
    Lord Aviemore said nothing for a few minutes. Then he spoke slowly. “I do not think you were far wrong about Lady Aviemore. Once I thought differently. When I heard that my elder brother was about to marry a prima donna, a woman whose portrait was sold all over the world, who was famous for extravagance in dress and what seemed to me undignified, self-advertising conduct—I was appalled when I heard from him of this engagement. I will not deny that I was also shocked at the idea of a marriage with the daughter of plain Norwegian