convince you. Do you know my cousin's
handwriting?"

"Yes."

Saxon took a card from his purse, and laid it
before her.

"Do you recognise it?"

"Yes—this is his hand."

"Read it."

The young lady read aloud: " ' Mrs. Rivière,
Beaufort Villa, St. John's Wood.' What does this
mean? We never lived at St. John's Wood."

"Yet that is the address which William
Trefalden left at Brudenell-terrace, when you
removed to Sydenham."

"That is very strange!"

Saxon produced a crumpled letter, and laid that
also before her.

"Do you recognise his handwriting here as
well?"

"Undoubtedly. Am I to read it?"

Saxon hesitated.

"It—it is his farewell letter to a poor woman
he once loved," he said. " There is nothing in
it that you may not read if you wish it."

Miss Rivière read, and returned it in silence.

"You observe the signature?"

"I do."

"You see that you have been imposed upon by
a false name, and that others have been imposed
upon by a false address?"

"Yes—I see it; but I do not understand . . . ."

"Will you tell me how it was that you could
not leave word with your landlady to what
seaport you were going when you left Sydenham?"

"Mr. Forsyth did not decide upon Clevedon
till we reached Paddington."

"Can you tell me why you have been taken
from London to Clevedon, from Clevedon to
Bristol, from Bristol to Bordeaux, instead of
embarking direct for the States from either
Southampton or Liverpool?"

"I do not know—I was not aware that we
were pursuing an unusual route."

"But you see it now?"

"I see that we have made an unnecessary
detour; but I do not know why . . ."

"Permit me to tell you why. Because this
journey is not the journey of an honest man, but
the flight of a felon—a flight planned for months
beforehand, and planned with no other end in
view than to baffle inquiry and defeat pursuit.
You leave Brudenell-terrace, and, thanks to the
false address given, all trace of you is lost. You
leave Sydenham, uncertain of your destination.
You spend a few days at an obscure watering-
place in the West of England, and then embark
on board a merchant steamer plying at uncertain
dates between Bristol and Bordeaux. With what
object?—simply that you may take your passage
out to America from a French port, instead of
sailing direct from London, Southampton, or
Liverpool. In order to do this, you perform a
tedious journey and lose many days by the way;
while, had you started from Liverpool, you would
by this time have been within a few hours of
New York. But then William Trefalden had
committed a gigantic fraud, and he well knew
that none of our great English ports were safe
for him. He knew that my agents might be
waiting for him at every point from which he
would be likely to escape; but who would suspect
him at Bristol? Who would confront him at
Bordeaux? Who would arrest him as he landed,
and say, 'Give up the two millions you have
stolen, and resign the lady you have wronged?' "'

Miss Rivière listened, her eyes fixed, her lips
parted, her face becoming gradually paler, as
Saxon, in the intensity of his earnestness, laid
his facts and inferences one by one before her.

Then the young man paused, seeing that she
was convinced, but grieved also at the cost of how
rude a shock that conviction was purchased.

"These are cruel truths," he said; " but what
can I do? I must undeceive you. I have tracked
you from house to house, from city to city, for
no other purpose than to save you from the fate to
which you are devoting yourself; and now the
minutes are going fast, and I am forced to speak
plainly, or it will soon be too late to speak at all!"

Miss Rivière wrung her hands despairingly.

"Oh, mother! mother!" she cried, piteously,
"why are you not here to tell me what I ought
to do?"

"You believe? You are convinced?"

"Yes alas! I am convinced; but shall I
forget that this man was my father's early friend
—my mother's benefactor?"

"If William Trefalden told you that he was
your father's early friend, Miss Rivière, it was as
false as the name under which he made himself
known to you!"

"Ah, you do not know all that he did to serve
us! You do not know how he sought us out
when we were in poverty, how he ... ."

"Pardon me—I do know it. He sought you
out, because I gave him your card, and requested
him to do so. He bought your father's paintings
on my account solely; and he never saw Mr.
Rivière, in his life. I never meant to tell you;
but this leaves me no option."

The young girl covered her face with her hands
and wept silently. Her tears went straight to
Saxon's heart. He felt an inexpressible desire to
take her in his arms, and tell her that he would
give his life to comfort and protect her. But not
daring to do this, he only said, in his boyish way:

"Pray don't cry. It makes me feel that I
have been very cruel to you!"

But she made no reply.

"I cannot tell you," he went on, " what I have
suffered in the thought of inflicting this suffering
upon you. I would have borne the double share
gladly, if I could. Do you forgive me?"

Still she wept on. He ventured a little nearer.

"I know how hard it is," he said, tenderly. " I
have had to go through it all. He was my
friend, and I thought he was the very soul of
honour. I would hardly have believed it if an
angel from heaven had told me that he woidd
be false to his trust!"

"But he was my only friend!" sobbed the
girl. " My only friend in all the world!"