tapping the note with his forefinger. "I see
the cunning of insanity, the suspicion of insanity,
the feline treachery of insanity in every line of
this deplorable document. There is a far more
alarming reason, sir, than I had supposed for
Mrs. Lecount's behaviour to my niece. It is
clear to me, that Miss Bygrave resembles some
other lady who has seriously offended your housekeeper
—who has been formerly connected,
perhaps, with an outbreak of insanity in your
housekeeper—and who is now evidently
confused with my niece, in your housekeeper's
wandering mind. That is my conviction, Mr.
Vanstone. I may be right, or I may be
wrong. All I say is this—neither you, nor
any man, can assign a sane motive for the
production of that incomprehensible document, and
for the use which you are requested to make of
it."

"I don't think Lecount's mad," said Mr. Noel
Vanstone, with a very blank look, and a very
discomposed manner. "It couldn't have escaped
me—with my habits of observation—it couldn't
possibly have escaped me if Lecount had been
mad."

"Very good, my dear sir. In my opinion she
is the subject of an insane delusion. In your
opinion she is in possession of her senses, and
has some mysterious motive which neither you
nor I can fathom. Either way, there can be
no harm in putting Mrs. Lecount's description
to the test, not only as a matter of curiosity, but
for our own private satisfaction on both sides.
It is of course impossible to tell my niece that
she is to be made the subject of such a
preposterous experiment as that note of yours suggests.
But you can use your own eyes, Mr. Vanstone;
you can keep your own counsel; and—mad or
not—you can at least tell your housekeeper, on
the testimony of your own senses, that she is
wrong. Let me look at the description again.
The greater part of it is not worth two straws
for any purpose of identification; hundreds of
young ladies have tall figures, fair complexions,
light brown hair, and light grey eyes. You
will say, on the other hand, hundreds of
young ladies have not got two little moles close
together on the left side of the neck. Quite
true. The moles supply us, with what we
scientific men call, a Crucial Test. When my
niece comes down stairs, sir, you have my full
permission to take the liberty of looking at her
neck."

Mr. Noel Vanstone expressed his high
approval of the Crucial Test, by smirking and
simpering for the first time that morning.

"Of looking at her neck," repeated the
captain; returning the note to his visitor, and then
making for the door. "I will go up-stairs
myself, Mr. Vanstone," he continued, "and inspect
Miss Bygrave's walking dress. If she has
innocently placed any obstacles in your way—if her
hair is a little too low, or her frill is a little too
high—I will exert my authority, on the first
harmless pretext I can think of, to have those
obstacles removed. All I ask is, that you
will choose your opportunity discreetly, and
that you will not allow my niece to suppose
that her neck is the object of a gentleman's
inspection."

The moment he was out of the parlour,
Captain Wragge ascended the stairs at the top of his
speed, and knocked at Magdalen's door. She
opened it to him, in her walking dress—obedient
to the signal agreed on between them which
summoned her down stairs.

"What have you done with your paints and
powders?" asked the captain, without wasting a
word in preliminary explanations. "They were
not in the box of costumes which I sold for you
at Birmingham. Where are they?"

"I have got them here," replied Magdalen.
"What can you possibly mean by wanting them
now?"

"Bring them instantly into my dressing-room
—the whole collection, brushes, palette, and
everything. Don't waste time in asking
questions; I'll tell you what has happened as we go
on. Every moment is precious to us. Follow
me instantly!"

His face plainly showed that there was a
serious reason for his strange proposal.
Magdalen secured her collection of cosmetics,
and followed him into the dressing-room. He
kicked the door, placed her on a chair close
to the light, and then told her what had
happened.

"We are on the brink of detection," proceeded
the captain, carefully mixing his colours with
liquid glue, and with a strong "drier" added
from a bottle in his own possession. "There is
only one chance for us (lift up your hair from
the left side of your neck)—I have told Mr. Noel
Vanstone to take a private opportunity of looking
at you; and I'm going to give the lie direct
to that she-devil Lecount, by painting out your
moles."

"They can't be painted out," said Magdalen.
"No colour will stop on them."

"My colour will," remarked Captain Wragge.
"I have tried a variety of professions in my
time—the profession of painting among the rest.
Did you ever hear of such a thing as a Black
Eye? I lived some months once in the
neighbourhood of Drury-lane, entirely on Black Eyes.
My flesh-colour stood on bruises of all sorts,
shades, and sizes—and it will stand, I promise
you, on your moles."

With this assurance, the captain dipped his
brush into a little lump of opaque colour, which
he had mixed in a saucer, and which he had
graduated, as nearly as the materials would permit,
to the colour of Magdalen's skin. After first
passing a cambric handkerchief with some white
powder on it, over the part of her neck on which
he designed to operate, he placed two layers of
colour on the moles, with the tip of the brush.
The process was performed in a few moments—
and the moles, as if by magic, disappeared from
view. Nothing but the closest inspection could