  Till Fate or Fortune near the place convey’d Helen Grahame, with her hand tightly clutching the wrist of the young man with whom she had been in such tender converse, retreated noiselessly into the deepest shadows of the small thicket where they had met, and there stood with her companion, as the Honorable Lester Vane advanced, motionless. Though greatly agitated by the unexpected appearance of her brother’s guest in the garden at such a moment, she betrayed no outward sign of emotion. She could hear the beating of her heart, but, by an almost superhuman exertion, she was calm, collected, prepared for action, if discovered, and even in such an emergency could have spoken without any visible symptom of embarrassment. The Honorable Lester Vane paused before the cluster of trees; he even took a step or two as though to enter its recess. Helen, had he but advanced one foot more, would have emerged from her place of concealment, and with some ready excuse for being there, have led him away, so that her companion might have escaped unobserved, but, as if satisfied that it possessed no outlet, he turned away and sauntered slowly and thoughtfully down the gravelled path by a separate route to that by which he had approached. As soon as he was out of hearing, Helen turned to her companion, exclaiming— “I must leave you, Hugh, and at once—nay, dearest, do not urge me to remain; you know what happiness it would be to me to share your dear society for hours—would it were for ever!—but it would be madness to risk discovery for a few minutes of stolen felicity.” “Helen, I cannot part from you thus,” returned the youth at her side, in a voice trembling with emotion. “I am quitting London—you know it—possibly by dawn in the morning; and these may be the last few precious moments I may pass with you for a long and dreary term.” “Nay, you will soon return, Hugh,” she said, with a seeming conviction that his absence would be brief. He shook his head sadly. “I do not know what are the intentions of my uncle with respect to my future movements,” he answered. “I know only that I am ordered to be in readiness to proceed at a minute’s notice to Southampton, there to await further instructions, and to be prepared for the possibility of having to undertake a far more distant journey.” “Far more distant journey, Hugh?” “Helen, I have very powerful reasons for believing that my destination is India.” An exclamation burst from the lips of the young girl. A thousand thoughts flashed through her brain at the vision of a long separation from him who now addressed her. Alas! for Hugh—they were not such thoughts as he could have wished to occupy her mind. She would regret his departure unquestionably: but it brought with it a sense of liberty, a freedom of action, an unquestioned license for listening to soft words from other lips, and for responding to meaning glances from admiring eyes, without the dullness of indifference or a flash of scorn. The suggestion of a protracted separation brought more strongly before her mind the ducal coronet of the young peer, now in her father’s mansion, and the impressive eyes of Lester Vane. She was silent. Her mind was too busy to permit her to speak a word. She had involuntarily uttered an exclamation when he revealed his fear that he was about to leave England for a lengthened term, and he attributed her subsequent silence to the grief he presumed she would necessarily feel at the occurrence of an event which, to him, was distracting. He twined his arms about her waist, and she rested her beautiful face upon his shoulder. He pressed the lips thus offered up to his own, and, with a groan of agony, murmured— “Oh, Helen! my own noble beautiful one, my life’s treasure, it will be death to me to part with you. I cannot, will not, go: I will submit to any sacrifice rather. I will not be torn from you, for, in truth, it will break my heart.” “Hugh, dearest, do not give way thus,” she rejoined, as her youthful companion, under the intense pressure of his feelings, suffered his head to fall upon her neck, and sobbed passionately; “this is not like you, Hugh: I have seen you brave enough in desperate peril—come, be brave now. Remember you are making yourself unhappy upon a surmise only.” “Would I could view it only as a surmise, Helen,” he returned, sadly. “Unhappily, I have too much occasion for faith in the presentiment which oppresses me.” “Mere childishness, Hugh! We have parted before, but only to meet again, and with increased happiness. You quitted me hopefully, you have returned to me joyously; why not again?” “It is clear, Helen,” he said, raising up his head, and dashing away the tear which yet trembled on his cheek, “that you can contemplate a separation with calmness and firmness.” “In expectation of meeting you soon again, certainly,” she replied. His quick ear detected a slight coolness, and a little impatience in the tone. “But in expectation of not soon meeting again?” he asked, sharply and with misgiving. “Why imagine that which is not likely to happen?” she returned, pettishly. “I have told you that it will happen.” “Hugh, I do not comprehend what of late has possessed you,” she retorted in the same fretful voice. “You have suffered the most ridiculous fancies and chimeras to seize upon your brain, and you not only make yourself miserable, but you seem to wish to compel everybody else to become so.” “Helen, you wrong me.” “Indeed, I fear I do not. Even to-night, when you must have been conscious that to accomplish a meeting with you was to me next to an impossibility, you insisted upon my complying with your request, and you bring me here only to entertain me with a string of doubts and fears, which are not worthy of you.” He started, and released her hand, of which, until now, he had retained possession. “You do not love me, Helen!” he exclaimed, passionately, as he recoiled from her. “Not love you, Hugh,” she replied, throwing up her head angrily; “you are ungrateful, sir. Ask your reason. At what sacrifice have I paused for you? You, at least, have had proof that my love for you was of no ordinary character; you——” “Oh, Helen!” he cried falling upon his knees before her, “pardon me, forgive me! I am frenzied at the prospect of losing you. I do love you so fondly, so dearly, so madly, that death in any shape seems to me preferable to being torn from you for years. You are my heart’s idol, its worship—my adoration; and if I am captious, full of strange conceptions and dread misgivings, attribute it alone to my passion for you, my Helen, my beloved!” It is rarely that a young girl who is possessed of genuine tenderness of feeling for a young and handsome man, remains an indifferent listener to his ardent expressions of passionate devotion. Helen Grahame was not less susceptible in this particular than the weakest of her sex. She bent over Hugh, parted with her soft white hand his rich glossy hair from his forehead, and pressed it with her ruby lips. “Rise, Hugh, rise,” she said, fondly and earnestly, “I entreat you. Pray, be more calm. Elevate yourself above this morbid feeling of unhappiness, and let me hear what you have to communicate to me, for indeed I must almost instantly return to the house. I am expected in the drawing-room, and, if missed, a messenger will be sent in search of me. I would not for worlds be discovered here.” “Helen dearest.” he exclaimed with a quivering lip as he rose to his feet and once more twined his arms about her graceful form, “I leave London to-morrow—I know not yet at what hour—for Southampton; if that were to be the limit of my journey I should not be thus depressed, but from a confidential source I have received the hint that I shall be called upon to proceed by the overland route, to India—to the city of Agra. I believe this is decided; our separation cannot, therefore, be less than for six months; it may be for years—it is this thought which wounds me so deeply, for what may not happen in my absence? What indeed!” He paused for a moment, overpowered by a throng of painful anticipations. Helen remained perfectly silent; and clearing his voice he went on. “I cannot ask you not to forget me,” he said. “I know that would be impossible, but—but I would ask you, Helen—I would ask you, when I am gone far, far hence, to remember what we have been to each other, and to continue to me as, I vow to Heaven I will ever to you remain—true, loving, and faithful.” “Hark” cried Helen, starting suddenly, “a footstep approaches—I must fly. Farewell, Hugh! God bless you, and guard you until we meet again!” She threw herself into his arms. He strained her passionately to his breast, and imprinted a thousand fervid kisses on her lips. “And you will be true to me, Helen?” he whispered. “I will, Hugh, I will,” she replied with an earnestness rivalling his own. “You swear it, dear Helen.” “I do! I do!” One more passionate embrace, many murmured but heart-spoken farewells, a long—long kiss, then she broke hastily from his arms, darted swiftly into the deep shadows of the over-arching trees, flitted like a phantom over the grassy lawn, and disappeared. With a melancholy gaze he caught the last wave of her white garments, as they vanished in the distance and in the darkness, and then, with a deep sigh, he proceeded slowly to quit the spot. Ere he had proceeded a dozen yards, a hand was placed somewhat vigorously upon his shoulder. He turned quickly: the figure of a man was before him, but in the darkness he could distinguish nothing further. A voice he did not recognise said, roughly, to him— “Fellow! why are you lurking here?” Hugh flung him fiercely hack. “Who are you who dare thus address me?” he cried, angrily. “That you shall know somewhat too soon for your satisfaction,” returned his questioner, again seizing him, and, with great strength, dragging him from the thicket towards the gravel path. “The lady, too,” he added, “can hardly escape detection. I have marked her down.” More he was unable to say, for the impetuous bands of Hugh clutched his throat, and prevented further utterance. A desperate struggle ensued. It was so far but a wrestle. Hugh sought to release himself from the grip of him who had seized him, and his captor did his utmost to retain his hold. In the course of the contention they emerged from the thicket into the moonlight, which fell upon the faces of both; each was thus able to distinguish clearly the features of his antagonist, but both were utter strangers to each other; simultaneously they detected they had not met before. Hugh Riversdale knew not that he was striving with Lester Vane, but he was sure that he should never forget the face, the pallid face, within a foot of his own, which the gray moonlight was tinting with the hue of death. Nor did Lester Vane fear he should fail to remember the features of one whom he instantly perceived was strikingly handsome and no common personage. He found his strength failing him, that Hugh would succeed in releasing himself from his custody, and he shouted loudly for help. The next instant he received a tremendous blow upon the temple, and was hurled to the ground with such force as to compel him to remain there stunned and insensible. Hugh cast a glance upon him as he lay motionless upon the gravel path. “I have seen that face in a dream.” he muttered; “mine enemy from henceforward. We have for the first time crossed each other’s path—we shall again. Woe to him who stumbles on it!” The sounds of persons running along the garden walk caught his ear at this moment. Servants, roused by the shouts of Lester Vane, were hastening to his assistance. Hugh plunged into the thicket, vaulted over the iron fencing upon the edge of the ornamental waters, plunged into the winding canal, and swimming briskly but noiselessly beneath the shadows of some weeping willows, continued his progress until he reached a bend of the stream, not visible from Mr. Grahame’s garden; and then, emerging from the water, he disappeared among the thick cluster of trees which there lined its banks. In the meanwhile, the form of Lester Vane, lying insensible, was discovered by two or three male servants, under the direction of Whelks. During the race from the house, he was absolutely last in it, but on finding that there was no enemy to encounter, he exhibited the most reckless display of daring, and rushed to the front. Directly his pale green eyes fell upon the prostrate form of Mr. Grahame’s guest, he exclaimed— “Oh, my ’evens! if it isn’t the ’onerbbel Mr. Lester Wane! Grashus! Is it the wine ’es overcom ’im, I wonder?” “No,” said one of the servants, “he’s got a hugly bump on his forrid; a precious whack that! Somebody about here must ha’ given it him.” “Some owdashus thief, no doubt,” suggested Whelks, with a swift glance over his left shoulder at the clump of trees, and a shudder which lifted his scalp, and pained him in the heels. “Jackson,” he added, quickly to the man who had just spoken, “you ’elp me to carry Mr. Lester Wane’s corpse—if he is a corpse—into the ’ouse, and you, Cussinks,” he continued, addressing the other servant, “you dash into that clump o’ trees, and ’unt about for the beggler.” Whelks and Jackson hurried on with their burden, and “Cussinks,” declining the verb to search proposed by Whelks, sallied out for that gallant official, the policeman, who is supposed to know no fear, and to be ever ready to seize the most ferocious ruffian in existence with the same promptness with which he would attack cold mutton down a deep area. By the time the house was gained by this little party, Mr. Grahame had been alarmed. With his son Malcolm and the Duke of St. Allborne he was hastening to the garden, when he encountered Whelks and Jackson bearing the body of Lester Vane. Almost at the same moment, the injured young man aroused from the stupor into which the blow he had received had flung him, recovered his feet, and gazed round him with an astonished air. He looked into the many eager faces bent upon his own, without recognising any of them. The Duke of St. Allborne laid his hand upon his shoulder, and shook him, saying, at the same moment— “Vane, wecovaw youawself, my good fellah. We aw all fwiends. I’m St. Allborne—don’t you wecog-nise me?” The sound of his voice brought back the absent recollection of Lester Vane. He put his hand over his eyes, as though to collect his thoughts, and then he exclaimed hastily— “I remember all now—all, distinctly, clearly.” He looked up, and addressing Mr. Grahame, he said—“My dear sir, if you will allow me to retire for a few minutes to collect myself, I will join you with the ladies in the drawing-room, where I will relate to you the strange incident in which I have, I believe, borne the worst part.” “But, Mr. Vane,” responded Mr. Grahame quickly, “the attack you have suffered”—— “Was made by no common individual, Mr. Grahame! one who is by this time, I have no doubt, far beyond pursuit.” “But the object, Mr. Vane?” observed Mr. Grahame, with an air of mystified wonder. “Neither plunder nor violence,” returned Lester Vane, adding hastily—“Pray interrogate me no further now. A few minutes hence, and I will relate all that occurred. I beg now to be allowed to retire to my room.” Mr. Grahame bowed, and directed Whelks to show Mr. Vane to his chamber, while he, with the Duke and Malcolm, his son, took their way to the drawing-room, talking over the mysterious event. The ladies had entered the room a moment before them, and they now heard from the gentlemen, with astonishment, that the Honorable Lester Vane, walking in the garden, had been suddenly attacked and felled to the earth by some unknown assailant. Not the least astounded of the party present was Helen Grahame. The blood rushed from her heart to her brain; she felt as though a thousand bells were ringing in her ears. Then the life-stream swept back to her heart, leaving her as cold as death—and as colourless. Hugh Riversdale and Lester Vane had encountered each other. What had passed? Her first impulse was to dart out of the room—the house, and flee anywhere—anywhere! The next, to remain where she was, face all that might be brought forward to crush her for ever, and to deny every charge firmly, steadfastly; even to deny Hugh Riversdale, if in custody he were brought forward to confront her. Oh! that she could only know what had actually occurred, so that she might be prepared to enact the part it would be best for her to play. Why did Lester Vane refuse to explain what had happened, when he first recovered, in Mr. Grahame’s presence? Why did he defer it until all were assembled in the drawing-room? Did he know that she had had an interview with Hugh Riversdale? This was remarkable, and much disturbed her. Yet if he did know that she had a clandestine meeting with his assailant, he could surely entertain no feeling of animosity towards her—that seemed impossible. The acquaintance of an hour could hardly have raised up in his breast a wish to injure her. Yet why did he pursue the strange course of refusing to relate what had passed, unless he knew she would be present to hear the recital? Her anxious surmises were the suspicions that haunted a guilty mind, for she had no just reason to believe that he would connect her with the mystery at all. She was perplexed, disconcerted, plunged into an agony of mind, as she pursued this train of reasoning. Still she saw the imperious necessity of appearing calm, collected, and full of wonder only, to the extent she would have been had she had no further share in the event than her sister Margaret. By an effort of her will, she knew she could achieve this much, and she resolved to do it. As she formed the resolution, the door opened, and Lester Vane entered. He was pale; there was a slight wound on his forehead, strapped up, but otherwise he was as self-possessed, and had the same cold smile playing upon his lips as when first he entered the sitting-room in the earlier part of the day. A thrill of pain ran through the frame of Helen as she felt his large, dark eye settle upon her. Then a sudden sense of her danger roused her to exertion, and she forced down all outward sign of the conflict going on within her breast. She turned her glittering eyes slowly but full upon Lester Vane’s. Met him on his own battle-field, and drove him back, for her gaze was so firm and unwavering, that he turned his eyes, after a searching glance at her, upon the ground. All crowded round him save Evangeline, who, as usual, sat quietly and unobtrusively in a retired part of the room—if there was, in that brilliantly lighted apartment, such a spot. Helen was among the first of those who called upon Lester Vane to explain the remarkable affair which had had so unpleasant a termination for him. Her inquiries were dictated by the most intense desire to ascertain if her suspicions were correct, but her acting was a masterpiece; it had the air of a very natural curiosity only. The ordeal, however, was yet to come. By general request, eagerly urged, Lester Vane commenced his recital. Helen perceived that he closely and scrutinisingly perused her features while he spoke, and a strange feeling took sudden possession of her. It was a contemptuous consciousness of a superiority in the power of deception. She knew that he was trying to read what was passing within her heart. She applied herself to the task of baffling him, feeling that she could accomplish it with ease. It was her first direct essay in simulation under strong pressure, but she went to the task with the skill of a practised adept. Cunning is not alone an art—it is necessarily a part of human organisation: but to become subtle and refined, it requires to be cultivated with careful discrimination, and to be pursued with merciless indifference to the feelings of the object upon whom it is exercised. The crafty rarely fails to detect the crafty, unless the more crafty with consummate ability assumes genuine simplicity—then as there appears to be nothing to guard against, cunning is to be effectively deceived by an affectation of its absence. Helen never troubled herself to reason upon the point, though she had plenty of natural shrewdness to have reached this conclusion, if she had addressed her mind to the task. She was naturally an accomplished actress, and with no great effort could have seemed as full of natural wonderment at what had happened as her sisters Margaret and Evangeline, but she decided upon adopting a defiant aspect—one which should say to Vane, “You seek by an attempt to confuse me with your steadfast gaze, to compel me to make an admission—I defy you.” It was a mistake, because that look at once raised up an impression in his mind that she had something to conceal—that though she listened to his story attentively, met his gaze at certain parts of the recital unflinchingly, made remarks, and put questions—all tending to disconnect her with any share in the transaction—she was in some degree mixed up with, if she was not one of, the principal actors in the little drama. It is true that Evangeline exhibited emotions of distress and confusion, but he detected in her conduct no sign of guilt, nothing by which he could presume her to have been a participator in the scene he believed himself to have disturbed, if even she were a confidante; but Helen, by her manner, challenged his suspicions, and, as it appeared to him, laughed them to scorn; yet in doing so, gave him reason to form a conviction that they were well grounded. He set his teeth, and felt the blood mount to his sallow features. It was but for a moment, and he became as pale as before, but he determined to apply himself to the task of making himself master of Helen’s secret, and by its possession master of her, to be used as his own selfish interests might dictate. He related to his marvelling auditors how he had escaped from the dining room to allay the heat of his fevered blood in the cool air which had been playing among the fragrant flower-beds, and sighing through the graceful trees in the elegantly arranged garden. For the sake of effect, the speaker adopted a poetical style of narration, not without success upon the majority of his listeners. The lip of Helen curled; to her the chosen language was another proof of this man’s art, and she scarcely attempted to disguise from him that such was her impression. A sense of her estimate of his display, added only to the intensity of his resolve to obtain entire power over her, that he might make her endure tenfold the annoyance—it was something more—which she made him suffer now. He could not quite comprehend why they so suddenly stood in an antagonistic position to each other. It was enough for him that they did so, and that he believed that he should be able to avenge himself upon one who viewed him in a light insulting to his vanity. Proceeding with his tale, he said that, as he slowly paced the gravelled walk in the broad moonlight, he fancied that he heard the murmur of voices in a retired part of the garden; low and subdued, in truth, but still he was struck by the peculiarity of the sound, which was that of two persons in secret conference. He gained the spot from whence it appeared to come, and found himself fronting a small cluster of trees, into which he directed his gaze; but, not observing any figure or sign of a human being, he assured himself that he had been deceived, that he had mistaken the soft bubbling of the flowing waters beyond for tones of the human voice. He continued his walk; but he had not proceeded far ere the sounds which had previously attracted his attention were renewed. The position he had gained enabled him to command a view of the thicket. He fixed his deep, dark eyes upon Helen as he arrived at this part of his narrative, but her eyelid never wavered, nor did her face undergo any change. He felt himself baffled for a moment—then he went on to say that he retraced his footsteps, and when near the clump of trees paused, with the intent of catching, if possible, some of the words which passed between the two persons who were engaged in such deep and earnest conversation. Not, he added, hastily, as he saw the eye of Helen glitter with scorn, to play the part of a paltry eaves-dropper, but to ascertain whether he had unconsciously encountered a couple of enamoured servants deep in a love-passage—with what withering emphasis he used those words!—or had detected a brace of thieves in the act of concerting measures to rob the house of Mr. Grahame. While standing irresolute as to the steps he should take, a female emerged from the thicket, and fled past him towards the house. “Towards my house!” cried Mr. Grahame, elevating his eyebrows with astonishment. “Even so,” cried Lester Vane. “Surely she did not enter it?” he cried, his eyes sparkling with fury; “no shameless person world dare”—— “My impression is,” said Lester, observing how intently, and with what remarkable self-possession Helen regarded him, “that she disappeared in the shrubbery in front of the house. I cannot be positive, for the next moment I was in contact with her companion.” Still Helen’s face was rigid, her features composed, and her eye steadily fixed upon his. But there was no expression of wonder upon her countenance, as upon that of all the rest. What more needed Lester to tell him that it was she whom he had seen flitting from the grove of trees across the garden to the house, and that she held secret meetings with some person unknown to her family? “And this wretch—this insolent scoundrel,” cried Mr. Grahame, “you fastened upon him, I presume, and thus was most murderously assaulted?” “No,” said Lester Vane, speaking slowly, and with distinctness, “the moonlight fell upon his face—that I saw clearly and well defined.” “You would know it again?” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, with eagerness. “Amid a million faces,” he answered, between his teeth, and then added: “He was a common-looking person, and I should have let him pass, but he made a desperate blow at me, although he did not utter a word. I avoided his first attack, and collared him, determined to punish him for his cowardly and dastardly conduct. I called for assistance, as I had no intention of entering into a personal conflict with a low ruffian about whom I knew nothing, but he inflicted upon my forehead a blow with some weapon which rendered me insensible. And so ends my history.” “Most monstrous!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, with an air of indignant pride. “I never heard of such an outrage. You can describe the man, Mr. Vane, so that the police may be able to track him, and take him into custody?” “Oh, accurately,” replied Lester, “but not to-night. My head aches, and the task would be an annoyance—to-morrow with pleasure, but to-night excuse me.” “But the creature with this desperate person—could you not, my dear Mr. Vane, describe her—if it were only her attire?” urged Mr. Grahame. “She may be in the house,” interposed Mrs. Grahame, feeling that a deadly outrage had been committed upon the family pride. “She may be in the house,” returned Lester, with a peculiar glance directed to Helen; “all I can inform you, in reply to your question, is that her dress was of some light fabric, but as she fled past me like a phantom, I was not able to observe her sufficiently well to give a description of the lady.” “The lady, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Grahame, in a tone of immeasurable contempt. “To-morrow, Mr. Grahame, this strange affair must be thoroughly sifted.” “Indeed, Mrs. Grahame, it shall be,” he replied. “How widiculously womantic, Miss Gwahame,” laughed the Duke of St. Allborne, addressing Helen. Helen started as he spoke. She had listened to the sneering sarcasms of Lester, and to her mother’s expressions of withering contempt, as though she had been exposed to an atmosphere of flame, and was bound to endure its tremendous torture without one sob of pain. But, great as was her agony, her thoughts would fly away with her to him who had occasioned this scene. She was, therefore, thankful to the Duke for thus checking an absence of mind, which might have excited attention and caused remark. She replied to him with a vivacity which somewhat astonished Lester Vane, though it helped to confirm the suspicions he entertained connecting her with the interview in the thicket. She adroitly contrived to place the affair in a ridiculous light, without openly giving cause of offence to him; because, with affected sympathy, she deplored the injury he had received; but she went so far as to cause him to observe, with a sickly smile— “Perhaps, Miss Grahame, you conceive that the affair, after all, was a mere fancy, occasioned by the fatigues of my journey to-day?” “Or the stwength of our fwiend Gwahame’s fine old pawt,” exclaimed the Duke, with a loud laugh. Mr. Grahame instantly took Helen to task in so serious and so stately a manner, that Lester Vane interfered to obtain pardon for her, which was granted, at his instance, in a manner that mortified her only more bitterly than she had yet been. “I will bring him a suppliant to my feet,” she said, mentally, as her eyes, sparkling like a star, fastened upon him, “and when he is prostrate, abject, I’ll crush him remorselessly.” The next evening, Helen and Lester were walking in the garden together. She had already begun to weave her web round him, and he seemed likely to become so enmeshed as never more to escape from it. Suddenly, when near the ornamental water, he paused. He drew from his breast a small but exquisitely fine cambric handkerchief. “I beg your pardon, Miss Grahame,” he said, “if I betray any impertinent curiosity, but I am desirous of knowing whether you are acquainted with this handkerchief?” She looked at it. In a corner, embroidered, were the initials “H. G.” It was her own, and one of value. She smiled. “Indeed,” she answered, “I ought to know it well, Mr. Vane.” “I found it beneath a tree, there,” he added, pointing to the thicket in which she had parted with Hugh Riversdale. She had, no doubt, dropped it on leaving Hugh the night before. She felt an acute pain run through her brain, as she saw in what direction his finger pointed, and that as he spoke his eyes were absolutely glaring upon her. She detected, in an instant, how much depended upon her answer. Controlling, as before, with a remarkable exertion of self-will, the expression of her features, she assumed an air of indifference, and flinging the handkerchief into the stream, upon the brink of which she was standing, she answered— “Possibly; it is one I some time since gave to my maid, Chayter.” Lester was unable to utter a word in reply; he was baffled. He watched the handkerchief float away, and he said to himself— “Yet it was you who stood last night in the thicket along with the fellow who felled me to the earth. Despite this check, I will proye it, and to you.”
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