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the last hour or two that they have been confirmed."

She said something which again I could not see; his reply suggested that she must have asked a question.

"I'll tell you what I mean by saying that my doubts have been confirmed. A man was passing through this afternoon with whom I have some acquaintance—the Rector of Leeds." I wonder he did not say the Bishop of London. "He saw—our friend——" He made a slight inclination of his head towards me. "At sight of her he exclaimed: 'Halloa, there's that Burnett girl!' For a parson he has rather a free and easy way of speaking; he's one of your modern kind." I believed him! "'Burnett girl?' I said. 'But her name's Lee—Judith Lee.' 'Oh, she calls herself Lee now, does she? That settles it.' 'Settles what?' I asked, because I saw that there was something in his tone. 'My dear Reggie,' he said (he always calls me Reggie; I've known him for years), 'at the beginning of the season that girl whom you call Judith Lee was at Pontresina, staying in the same hotel as I was. She called herself Burnett then. Robberies were going on all the time, people were continually missing things. At last a Russian woman lost a valuable lot of jewellery. That settled it—Miss Burnett went.'"

Miss Goodridge turned so that her face was hidden; but, as before, his reply gave me a pretty good clue as to the question she had asked.

"Of course I mean it. Do you think I'd say a thing like that if I didn't mean it? I won't tell you all he said—it wouldn't be quite fair. But it came to this. He said that the young lady whom we have all thought so sweet and innocent——"

Miss Goodridge interposed with a remark which, in a guessing competition, I think I could have come pretty near to. He replied:—

"Well, I've sometimes felt that you were rather hard on her, that perhaps you were a trifle prejudiced."

Miss Goodridge turned her face towards me, and then I saw her words.

"I'm a better judge of feminine human nature than you suppose. The first moment I saw her I knew she was a young cat, though I admit I didn't take her to be as bad as she is. What did your clerical friend say of her, of the Miss Burnett whom we know now as Miss Lee?"

I did not wait to learn his answer—I had learnt enough. What his sister thought of my demeanour I did not care; I had been dimly conscious that she had been talking to me all the while, but what she was saying I do not know. My attention had been wholly taken up with what I did not hear. Before he began his reply to Miss Goodridge's genial inquiry I got up from my chair and marched out of the lounge, without saying a word to Miss Sterndale. When I had gone a little way I remembered that I had left my handkerchief—my best lace handkerchief—on the table by which I had been sitting. Even in the midst of my agitation I was conscious that I could not afford to lose it, so went back for it.

Miss Sterndale had joined her brother and Miss Goodridge. Two or three other people were standing by them, evidently interested in what was being said. I found my handkerchief. As I was going off with it Miss Sterndale turned round in my direction, without, however, thinking it worth her while to break off the remark she was making, taking it for granted, of course, that it was inaudible to me. I came in, as it were, for the tail end of it.

". . . I am so disappointed in her; I have tried to like her, and now I fear it is only too certain that she is one of those creatures of whom the less said the better."

That these words referred to me I had not the slightest doubt. Yet, while they were still on her lips, presuming on her conviction that they were hidden from me, she nodded and smiled as if she were wishing me a friendly good-night.

The treachery of it! Now that I am able to look back calmly, I think it was that which galled me most. Her brother, with his gratuitous, horrible lies, had actually been pretending to make love to me—I am sure that was what he wished me to think he was doing. What a fool he must have thought me!

That was a sleepless night. It was hours before I got between the sheets, and when I did it was not to slumber. The feeling that I was so entirely alone, and that there was not a soul within miles and miles to whom I could turn for help, coupled with the consciousness that I had scarcely enough money to pay the hotel bill, and, what was even worse, that Mr. and Mrs. Travers had gone off with the return half of my ticket to London, so that I could not go back home however much I might want to—these things were hard enough to bear: but they seemed to be as nothing compared to that man and woman's treachery. What was their motive, what could have induced them, was beyond my comprehension. It