When Effie said these words, Lawson gave her a startled glance, and George's sulkiness seemed to vanish magically. He opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them again; a rush of color spread over his face, and he turned his head aside.

"I fear it is impossible that you can do the least vestige of good, Miss Staunton," said Lawson. "All the same it is a brave thought, and worthy of you."

George looked round when Lawson said this; he fully expected Effie to explain herself more fully, to argue the point, and to give her reasons for approaching Mr. Gering. To the surprise of both the men, however, she was silent. After a little pause, she said, turning to Lawson:

"Do you think George will be safe here until the morning?"

"I do—perfectly safe," answered Lawson.

"Then I will say good-night. I will come to you, George if I have news, in the morning."

"Oh, you won't have news," replied George; "there never was such a hard nut to crack as old Gering."

Effie made no reply.

"Good-night," she said to her brother.

He did not offer to kiss her, but he took her hand and gave it a silent squeeze. It seemed to Effie then that she got near his heart.

Lawson took her downstairs and put her into a cab.

"You are only wasting your time in going to Mr. Gering," he said, as he stood for a moment at the cab door.

"I must waste it, then," replied Effie; "for, whatever the consequence, I am going."

"Then, if you will go, you had better do so early. Gering is always at his office by nine o'clock. George may quite possibly be arrested to-morrow morning, and brought before the magistrates at Bow Street at ten or ten-thirty. When once he is arrested, Mr. Gering can do nothing. The law then takes up the case, and prosecutes on its own account. You will see, therefore, that if you wish to save your brother you must be astir betimes."

"I quite see, and thank you very much," said Effie.

Lawson said good-by, the cab rolled away, and Effie soon found herself back again at her own lodgings.

She ran upstairs, to find that her mother was still sound asleep. She sent the two tired girls to bed, and, lying down on the sofa in the sitting room, tried to sleep. She had left her mother's door slightly ajar, and knew that she would hear the least movement in the room. All was perfect stillness, however, and presently Effie fell into a light doze.

She awoke long before the dawn of day, thought carefully over the whole complex situation, and then rose and dressed herself. She slipped softly into her mother's room. The opiate was still taking effect. Mrs. Staunton's face looked pinched and drawn as it lay on the pillow, there were blue lines under the eyes, and a blue tint round the lips which spoke of heart trouble; but just at the present moment the spirit was at peace, and the body resting calmly.

"Poor mother!" murmured Effie; "poor, tried, faithful heart! If you really knew what I know, you could not survive the shock. Oh, George! who could have thought of this who remembered you in the old days? Yes, I will do what I can to save mother and to rescue you. It is true that I am only a weak girl, but sometimes girls like me have power. I will not be afraid; I will go now to exercise all the power that is in me."

Effie left the room; she went to the one where her sisters slept, changed her dress and washed herself, and then waking Agnes, to tell her to be sure to look after her mother, she ran downstairs.

The landlady, Mrs. Robinson, met her in the passage.

"Why, surely, Miss Staunton," she said, "you are not going out on a raw, foggy morning like this without breakfast?"

"Oh, I can't wait for breakfast," exclaimed Effie.

"I have some tea in my sitting room—do come in, and let me give you a cup, miss. Do, now—you're so white, you look as if you'd drop."

"Thank you," said Effie, after a little pause. "I should be very glad of a cup of tea," she added.

The landlady bustled her into her little sitting room, seated her by the fire, and would not leave her alone until she had swallowed a cup of tea and a piece of toast.

"I'm all the better for the tea," said Effie; "thank you very much."

The unlooked-for kindness cheered the poor girl; she looked upon it as a good omen. She walked quickly up the narrow street which led into the larger thoroughfare, and was soon on her way to Mr. Gering's office in Leadenhall Street.

She arrived there just as the clock was striking nine. She did not allow herself even to feel nervous, but, walking boldly in, asked to see Mr. Gering at once.

"Have you an appointment with him?" asked the clerk whom she addressed.

"No; but I hope he will see me without that; my business is very pressing."

"What is your name, miss?"

"Staunton." Effie hesitated for a minute, then she said abruptly, "I am the sister of George Staunton, who is a clerk here."

The moment she uttered the words every clerk in the place looked up with interest, and one, coming up in a somewhat familiar way, said cavalierly:

"I don't think there's the least use in your troubling Mr. Gering; I may as well tell you beforehand that he certainly won't see you."

At this moment a man came out of an inner room. He spoke to the head clerk, who gave him a bundle of letters.

"Take these to Mr. Gering at once," he said.

Effie followed this man with her eyes.

The other clerks stared at her, expecting her to go.

She looked at the one to whom she had first spoken.

"Will you take my message to Mr. Gering?" she said. "Will you tell him that Effie Staunton—George Staunton's sister—wishes to see him on most important business?"

There was much distress in her tone, but withal such firmness that the clerk could not help looking at her with admiration.

"I would gladly take your message, Miss Staunton, but it would be useless. I know beforehand that nothing will induce Mr. Gering to see you."

"He must see me," replied Effie in a firm voice. "If no one here will be polite enough to take him my message, I will go to him myself."

Before one of the clerks could prevent her, Effie walked across the large room, opened the door where the clerk who took Mr. Gering his letters had vanished, and found herself the next moment in a handsomely furnished room, where a portly old gentleman was seated at a desk.

He looked up in unfeigned astonishment when he saw a pretty girl standing near the door.

As she did not speak for an instant, he raised his voice with an inquiry.

"May I ask what you are doing here?" he said.

"I have come to speak to you about my brother," said Effie.

"Your brother! What do you mean? Who is your brother?"

"George Staunton."

"Then, Miss Staunton, let me tell you that you have taken a great liberty in coming to see me. You have forced your way into my room unannounced. I must ask you to have the goodness to retire as quickly as you came. If you do not leave my room this moment, I shall be forced to compel you to go."

"No, you will not," said Effie—"no, that is not like you. You would not willingly be unkind to a suffering and innocent girl, when she forces herself, against her true inclinations, against her real modesty, to seek an interview with you. I come in great sorrow and despair, and you are not the man who will treat me roughly—I don't fear it. You like to say harsh words, but your heart is not harsh. I beg of you, therefore, to listen to my story. I will not keep you long."

"You are a very queer, courageous sort of girl," said Gering, after a pause. "As you have come, I suppose I may as well listen to you; but please understand at once that I have no mercy for your brother; that his career here is ended."

"That is only just and right. I have not come to plead with you to take George back—I know that that would be asking too much. What I have come to say I can say in a very few words."

"They must be very few if you expect me to leave my business to attend to them."

Effie came close to where Mr. Gering was seated; he did not rise, nor motion her to a chair. At this moment the clerk who had refused to take her message entered the room.

"Leave us for a moment, Power," said Mr. Gering. The man withdrew immediately.

"Thank you," said Effie. Then she added abruptly, "I won't keep you a moment. I will tell you quite simply what I want. My brother George has behaved very badly."

"To put it plainly," interrupted Mr. Gering, "your brother George is a scoundrel."

"You may call him any names you please," said Effie; "I have not come here to defend him. I know that he stole fifty pounds from you yesterday."

"Oh, you know that, do you?"

"Yes. Forty-five pounds of that money he put into the City Bank in my mother's name. That forty-five pounds you can have back within an hour. We shall then be in your debt five pounds, which I want you to let me pay you back. I have just secured a very good situation as a governess, and am to be in receipt of one hundred and twenty pounds a year. I can pay you back the money in about a month's time out of my own salary."

"You are very conscientious," said Mr. Gering, with a slight sneer, "and I shall be glad to have my money back. If that is all your business, perhaps you will leave me."

"No, it is not all my business. I want you to forgive George,—not to prosecute him,—not to give him up to the law."

"Ah! I thought that was coming. And why, pray, should I not prosecute the young rascal? Don't you think he richly deserves punishment?"

"Honestly, I do."

When Effie said this, Mr. Gering's eyes twinkled for the first time.

"Eh, eh!" he exclaimed. "I am glad we're of one mind on that point. We both doubtless believe that punishment would be good for him."

"We do."

"Then why deprive him of anything so beneficial?"

"Because of my mother."

"Your mother! Is there a mother in the case?"

"There is—a mother who lies now at the point of death. Let me tell you her story."

"I haven't read my letters yet, Miss Staunton."

"Oh, never mind your letters! Let me tell you about my father and my mother. Four months ago my father was alive. He was a country doctor. He was very good, everyone loved him. He caught diphtheria, and died. My mother has heart disease, and my father felt sure that the shock of losing him would kill her. He loved her most tenderly. When he lay dying he was certain that God would allow them both to leave the world together. My mother was kneeling by his bedside; and George, my brother, knelt there too. And my brother said. 'Don't take mother away, father;' and then father said to mother, 'Stay with George.' At that moment something strange must have happened—all my mother's great love seemed suddenly directed into a new channel. Her love for George since that moment has been the passion of her life. He was not strong-minded."

"No, indeed," interrupted Mr. Gering.

"No; and he yielded to temptation and got into trouble, and—and lost money. But all the time my mother has been imagining that he is the best and steadiest fellow in London. She lives in a sort of golden dream about him. If she learns the truth she will certainly die, and George will be lost. He will then, as he himself expresses it, 'go under' forever. He won't be able to stand the thought that through his sin and weakness he has killed his mother."

"I should hope not," interrupted Mr. Gering.

"Therefore I want you to forgive him—it is your duty."

"My duty, child! What right have you to come and talk to me about my duty?"

"Every right, if I can only make you perform it."

"You are either impertinent or very brave, young lady. I was never spoken to in this strain before."

"Well, you see, it is a matter of life and death," said Effie. "I can't mince words when life and death hang in the balance."

"You're a queer girl—a queer girl; I don't know what to make of you. 'Pon my word, I'm sorry for that mother of yours—poor soul, poor soul! It's a pity she didn't bring up her son as conscientiously as she did her daughter. Now, you wouldn't have taken fifty pounds out of my till?"

"No," said Effie.

"I wish you were a boy—I'd give you that lad's place within an hour."

"Thank you, but I don't think I should care to have it. Will you come now and do your duty?"

"Come! Where am I to come?"

"To see George."

"The rascal! Where is he?"

"I'll take you to him."

"Do you know that you are bullying me in the most shameful way, Miss Staunton?"

"I know that you have a very kind heart," answered Effie.

At this moment the room door was opened, and Power came in again.

"Mr. Fortescue has called, sir."

"Tell Mr. Fortescue that I can't see him."

"And Ford has sent round about that shipping order. When can you give him his answer?"

"Some time this afternoon."

"But they want it this morning."

"Well, they can't have it; I'm going out for a bit. Come along, Miss Staunton; we can't let the grass grow under our feet."