said Captain Filby, rather rudely. " I've said
it all along. I went to half a dozen places, and
they all had the same story. As for Beaufort
Manor, and that rubbish, only wait till my friend
West, a shrewd fellow in his way, ferrets that
out. He's on the track."

"Well, I hope they'll give this ball first.
They've taken the large room in the establishment
expressly."

This was the most damaging conversation
about the Beauforts that had yet occurred.
There was something very convincing in the
ingenious test made by the captain. It was
soon whispered about. The Guernsey Beauforts
were told of it by Mr. Blacker, who was vastly
amused at the importance of the gossips, and
reported it as "an uncommon good thing."
Mr. Beaufort was amused. " We must send a
card to that Mr. West, though he has behaved
in an ungentlemanly way enough. By the
way, who was it was telling me that he knows
some friends in our county whom he was writing
to—  something of that sort? You know that
would be very fortunate."

Mr. Beaufort was a little disturbed at this
news, though he smiled carelessly; and, had Mr.
Blacker any real observation, he would have
seen a scared and terrified look in the wistful
face of Mrs. Beaufort, who was sitting over in
the window talking to Lucy. When the
gentlemen were gone out, she said to her friend:

"Would to Heaven we were away from
this place, or that we had never come! I am
wretched all day long, and all night too. These
stories and whispers, and this reckless expense!
And why Mr. West should behave so; we have
done no harm to him, never injured him. Why
does he persecute us in this way? Is he a
detective? What does he mean?"

"I know what he means," said Lucy, with a
trembling voice. " A spy! a detective! How
unworthy! how ungenerous! I could not believe
it of him. But I can explain it, dear Mrs.
Beaufort. It is his dislike to me. I could tell you a
history about that. He has never forgiven me,
because I could not force myself to marry him.
Perhaps I deserved it. But it is cruel to persecute
you, whom I love, for anything I have
done. I shall stand by you, never fear, dearest
Mrs. Beaufort, and shall never give you up."

"I am not worthy of such affection; I am
not, indeed," said the pale lady, drawing herself
away. " Oh, you don't know me, and will turn
against us, with all the rest of the world."

"Never!" said Lucy.

"Yes," said the other, hurriedly, "you will;
you must. But you will be indulgent, I know.
Most of us are not so accountable as we seem.
We are hurried along, and must go on, having
begun. But I loathe this life, I do, indeed, God
knows! And I am powerless to stop it, indeed
I am."

Tears were in her eyes. Lucy took her into
her arms passionately, and the two ladies
exchanged all their sorrows. When she left her,
she walked fast, full of a grand purpose.

"It must be stopped. If he is not so utterly
changed. He was once noble and generous; I
will humble myself so far as to appeal to him.
If that fails, I shall not be afraid to do battle
with him. What have I done to deserve his hate?"

She went to him straight, at his house; she
found him alone. He was sitting with his face
between his hands. He started up as he saw
her, his fiery eyes looking through her.

"A visit from you?" he said.

"Mr. West," she said, firmly, " I have come
to you to appeal to that generosity and good
feeling which you once had for me, and which I
cannot think you have lost."

He had recovered himself, and become bold.
"What do you wish me to do after these
compliments?"

"This does not promise well," she said,
colouring; " but still I feel it my duty to tell
you that I cannot find words to say how pitiful,
how unworthy," she added, vehemently, " I
think tiiis system you have taken up, to persecute
me through them."

He looked at her, confounded; then groaned.
"Oh, Lucy, Lucy," he said, "for you to say
this!"

His look, and the agony that was conveyed
in his voice, touched her.

"I put it too strongly, perhaps," she said;
"but it is unworthy— unworthy of your fine
nature, that used to be so noble, and generous,
and kind, and chivalrous."

"But whose change is it?" he answered.
"Whose cruelty, and coldness, and neglect have
turned me into what I am now? You might have
been gentle; you might have led me on."

Lucy's face expressed genuine astonishment,
for it never once for a second occurred to this
young lady that she was in the least in fault.

"What is this new charge? You cannot, be
in earnest, surely?"

"No," he said, bitterly, "you can see no
earnest in things of this sort. You have
destroyed me—undone me—wrecked my whole
life; and now you come because you fear I may
do harm to your friends. Look! see! do I
speak without warrant? I have a letter here.
This is what has come to me this morning.
Those are the people you make your friends!
There are grave doubts about them, and we shall
presently know the truth."

It had not the least effect on Lucy. Her
melodramatic mood was at its height. She put
back the letter, and, drawing herself up, poured
out bitter words.

"I ask—what I would ask of any gentleman—
is to give over playing the detective. That is
scarcely honourable, eh, Mr. West?"

He started indeed now, and looked at her
very wistfully. " What if it be for your sake
—for your cruel, ungrateful sake?"

"It would make no difference. I want no
such protection," she added, now in her full
dramatic bearing; "it offends, insults me.
My father can take care of me, and Mr. Vivian,
too!"

"Will he?" said he, scornfully. "You
cannot be sure of that."