William Le Queux, one of the most popular of present-day authors, was born in London on July 2, 1864. He has followed many callings in his time. After studying art in Paris, he made a tour on foot through France and Germany. Then he drifted into journalism, attaching himself to the Paris “Morning News.” Later, he crossed to London, where he joined the staff of the “Globe” in the Gallery of the House of Commons. This was in 1888, and he continued to report Parliament till 1891, when he was appointed a sub-editor on the “Globe.” Along with his work as a journalist he developed his faculty for fiction, and in 1893 resigned his position on the press to take up novel-writing as a business. His first book was “Guilty Bonds” published in 1890. Since that date he has issued an average of three novels a year. One of Mr Le Queux’s recreations is revolver practice, and that may account for the free use of the “shooting iron” which distinguishes some of his romances.
“The Ladybird will refuse to have anything to do with the affair, my dear fellow. It touches a woman’s honour, and I know her too well.”
“Bah! We’ll compel her to help us. She must.”
“She wouldn’t risk it,” declared Harry Kinder, shaking his head.
“Risk it! Well, we’ll have to risk something! We’re in a nice hole just now! Our traps at the Grand, with a bill of two thousand seven hundred francs to pay, and ‘the Ladybird’ coolly sends us from London a postal order for twenty-seven shillings and sixpence—all she has!”
“She might have kept it and bought a new sunshade or a box of chocolates with it.”
“The little fool! Fancy sending twenty-seven bob to three men stranded in Paris! I can’t see why old Roddy thinks so much of her,” remarked Guy Bourne to his companion.
“Because she’s his daughter, and because after all you must admit that she’s jolly clever with her fingers.”
“Of course we know that. She’s the smartest woman in London. But what makes you think that when the suggestion is made to her she will refuse?”
“Well, just this. She’s uncommonly good-looking, dresses with exquisite taste, and when occasion demands can assume the manner of a high-born lady, which is, of course, just what we want; but of late I’ve noticed a very great change in her. She used to act heedless of risk, and entirely without pity or compunction. Nowadays, however, she seems becoming chicken-hearted.”
“Perhaps she’s in love,” remarked the other with a sarcastic grin.
“That’s just it. I honestly think that she really is in love,” said the short, hard-faced, clean-shaven man of fifty, whose fair, rather scanty hair, reddish face, tightly-cut trousers, and check-tweed suit gave him a distinctly horsey appearance, as he seated himself upon the edge of the table in the shabby sitting-room au troisième above the noisy Rue Lafayette, in Paris.
”‘The Ladybird’ in love! Whatever next!” ejaculated Guy Bourne, a man some ten years his junior, and extremely well, even rather foppishly, dressed. His features were handsome, his hair dark, and outwardly he had all the appearance of a well-set-up Englishman. His gold sleeve-links bore a crest and cipher in blue enamel, and his dark moustache was carefully trained, for he was essentially a