struck the light. She was not able to reason
back in this way from the effect to the cause.
She could only feel that the suspicion had become
more than a suspicion already: conviction itself
could not have been more firmly rooted in her
mind.

Looking back at Magdalen by the new light
now thrown on her, Mrs. Lecount would fain
have persuaded herself that she recognised some
traces left of the false Miss Garth's face and
figure, in the graceful and beautiful girl who had
sat at her master's table hardly an hour since—
that she found resemblances now, which she
had never thought of before, between the angry
voice she had heard in Vauxhall Walk, and the
smooth well-bred tones which still hung on her
ears, after the evening's experience down stairs.
She would fain have persuaded herself that she
had reached these results with no undue straining
of the truth as she really knew it; but the
effort was in vain.

Mrs. Lecount was not a woman to waste
time and thought in trying to impose on herself.
She accepted the inevitable conclusion that the
guesswork of a moment had led her to discovery.
And, more than that, she recognised the plain
truth— unwelcome as it was—that the conviction
now fixed in her own mind was, thus far,
unsupported by a single fragment of producible
evidence to justify it to the minds of others.

Under these circumstances, what was the safe
course to take with her master?

If she candidly told him, when they met the
next morning, what had passed through her mind
that night, her knowledge of Mr. Noel Vanstone
warned her that one of two results could
certainly happen. Either he would be angry and
disputatious; would ask for proofs; and, finding
none forthcoming, would accuse her of alarming
him without a cause, to serve her own jealous
end of keeping Magdalen out of the house—or,
he would be seriously startled, would clamour
for the protection of the law, and would warn the
Bygraves to stand on their defence at the outset.
If Magdalen only had been concerned in the
conspiracy, this latter consequence would have
assumed no great importance in the
housekeeper's mind. But seeing the deception as she
now saw it, she was far too clever a woman to
fail in estimating the captain's inexhaustible
fertility of resource at its true value. "If I
can't meet this impudent villain with plain proofs
to help me," thought Mrs. Lecount, "I may
open my master's eyes to-morrow morning, and
Mr. Bygrave will shut them up again before
night. The rascal is playing with all his own
cards under the table; and he will win the
game to a certainty if he sees my hand at starting."

This policy of waiting was so manifestly
the wise policy—the wily Mr. Bygrave was so
sure to have provided himself, in case of emergency,
with evidence to prove the identity which
he and his niece had assumed for their purpose
—that Mrs. Lecount at once decided to keep
her own counsel the next morning, and to pause
before attacking the conspiracy, until she could
produce unanswerable facts to help her. Her
master's acquaintance with the Bygraves was
only an acquaintance of one day's standing.
There was no fear of its developing into a
dangerous intimacy if she merely allowed it to
continue for a few days more, and if she
permanently checked it, at the latest, in a week's
time.

In that period, what measures could she take
to remove the obstacles which now stood in her
way, and to provide herself with the weapons
which she now wanted?

Reflection showed her three different chances
in her favour—three different ways of arriving at
the necessary discovery.

The first chance was to cultivate friendly terms
with Magdalen,— and then, taking her unawares,
to entrap her into betraying herself in Noel
Vanstone's presence. The second chance was to
write to the elder Miss Vanstone, and to ask
(with some alarming reason for putting the
question) for information on the subject of her
younger sister's whereabouts, and of any peculiarities
in her personal appearance, which might
enable a stranger to identify her. The third
chance was to penetrate the mystery of Mrs.
Bygrave's seclusion, and to ascertain at a personal
interview whether the invalid lady's real
complaint might not possibly be a defective capacity
for keeping her husband's secrets. Resolving to
try all three chances, in the order in which they
are here enumerated, and to set her snares for
Magdalen on the day that was now already at
hand, Mrs. Lecount at last took off her dressing-
gown and allowed her weaker nature to plead
with her for a little sleep.

The dawn was breaking over the cold grey sea,
as she laid down in her bed again. The last idea
in her mind, before she fell asleep, was characteristic
of the woman— it was an idea that threatened
the captain. "He has trifled with the
sacred memory of my husband," thought the
Professor's widow. "On my life and honour, I
will make him pay for it!"

Early the next morning, Magdalen began the
day— according to her agreement with the
captain—by taking Mrs. Wragge out for a little
exercise, at an hour when there was no fear of her
attracting the public attention. She pleaded
hard to be left at home; having the Oriental
Cashmere Robe still on her mind, and feeling it
necessary to read her directions for dressmaking,
for the hundredth time at least, before (to use
her own expression) she could "screw up her
courage to put the scissors into the stuff." But
her companion would take no denial, and she was
forced to go out. The one guileless purpose of
the life which Magdalen now led, was the resolution
that poor Mrs. Wragge should not be made a
prisoner on her account — and to that resolution
she mechanically clung, as the last token left her
by which she knew her better self.