"No," I said. "I venture to think that I
thoroughly understand it."

She was far above the paltry affectation of
being confused. She answered me as she might
have answered a brother or a father.

"You have relieved me of indescribable
wretchedness; you have given me a new life.
How can I be ungrateful enough to have any
concealments from you? I love him," she said
simply, "I have loved him from first to last—
even when I was wronging him in my own
thoughts; even when I was saying the hardest
and the cruellest words to him. Is there any
excuse for me, in that? I hope there is—I
am afraid it is the only excuse I have. When
to-morrow comes, and he knows that I am in
the house, do you think——?"

She stopped again, and looked at me very
earnestly.

"When to-morrow comes," I said, "I
think you have only to tell him what you have
just told me."

Her face brightened; she came a step nearer
to me. Her fingers trifled nervously with a
flower which I had picked in the garden, and
which I had put into the button-hole of my coat.

"You have seen a great deal of him lately,"
she said. "Have you, really and truly, seen
that?"

"Really and truly," I answered. "I am
quite certain of what will happen to-morrow.
1 wish  I could feel as certain of what will
happen to-night."

At that point in the conversation, we were
interrupted by the appearance of Betteredge, with
the tea-tray. He gave me another significant
look as he passed on into the sitting-room.
"Aye! aye! make your hay while the sun
shines. The Tartar's up-stairs, Mr. Jennings
—the Tartar's up-stairs!"

We followed him into the room. A little
old lady, in a corner, very nicely dressed, and
very deeply absorbed over a smart piece of
embroidery, dropped her work in her lap, and
uttered a faint little scream at the first sight of
my gipsy complexion and my piebald hair.

"Mrs. Merridew," said Miss Verinder, "this
is Mr. Jennings."

"I beg Mr. Jennings's pardon," said the old
lady, looking at Miss Verinder, and speaking at
me. "Railway travelling always makes me
nervous. I am endeavouring to quiet my mind
by occupying myself as usual. I don't know
whether my embroidery is out of place, on this
extraordinary occasion. If it interferes with
Mr. Jennings's medical views, I shall be happy
to put it away of course."

I hastened to sanction the presence of the
embroidery, exactly as I had sanctioned the
absence of the burst buzzard and the Cupid's
wing. Mrs. Merridew made an effort—a grateful
effort—to look at my hair. No! it was not
to be done. Mrs. Merridew looked back again
at Miss Verinder.

"If Mr. Jennings will permit me," pursued
the old lady, "I should like to ask a favour.
Mr. Jennings is about to try a scientific experiment
to-night. I used to attend scientific
experiments when I was a girl at school. They
invariably ended in an explosion. If Mr.
Jennings will be so very kind, I should like to
be warned of the explosion this time. With a
view to getting it over, if possible, before I go
to bed."

I attempted to assure Mrs. Merridew that an
explosion was not included in the programme
on this occasion.

"No," said the old lady. "I am much
obliged to Mr. Jennings—I am aware that he
is only deceiving me for my own good. I
prefer plain dealing. I am quite resigned to the
explosion—but I do want to get it over, if
possible, before I go to bed."

Here the door opened, and Mrs. Merridew
uttered another little scream. The advent of
the explosion? No: only the advent of Betteredge.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Jennings," said
Betteredge, in his most elaborately confidential
manner. "Mr. Franklin wishes to know where
you are. Being under your orders to deceive
him, in respect to the presence of my young
lady in the house, I have said I don't know.
That you will please to observe, was a lie.
Having one foot already in the grave, sir, the
fewer lies you expect me to tell, the more I
shall be indebted to you, when my conscience
pricks me and my time comes."

There was not a moment to be wasted on the
purely speculative question of Betteredge's
conscience. Mr. Blake might make his appearance
in search of me, unless I went to him at once
in his own room. Miss Verinder followed me
out into the corridor.

"They seem to be in a conspiracy to persecute
you," she said. "What does it mean?"

"Only the protest of the world, Miss Verinder
—on a very small scale—against anything that is
new."

"What are we to do with Mrs. Merridew?"

"Tell her the explosion will take place at
nine to-morrow morning."

"So as to send her to bed?"

"Yes—so as to send her to bed."

Miss Verinder went back to the sitting-room,
and I went upstairs to Mr. Blake.

To my surprise, I found him alon; restlessly
pacing his room, and a little irritated at being
left by himself.

"Where is Mr. Bruff?" I asked.
He pointed to the closed door of communication
between the two rooms. Mr. Bruff had looked
in on him, for a moment; had attempted to
renew his protest against our proceedings; and
had once more failed to produce the smallest
impression on Mr. Blake. Upon this, the lawyer
had taken refuge in a black leather bag, filled to
bursting with professional papers. "The serious
business of life," he admitted, "was sadly out
of place on such an occasion as the present.
But the serious business of life must be carried
on, for all that. Mr. Blake would perhaps
kindly make allowance for the old-fashioned
habits of a practical man. Time was money—