The atmosphere was stormy at No. 3, Indenture Buildings, Temple. It was four o’clock, and Mr. Blodwell had come out of court in the worst of bad tempers. He was savage with George Neston, who, being in a case with him, had gone away and left him with nobody to tell him his facts. He was savage with Tommy Myles, who had refused to read some papers for him; savage with Mr. Justice Pounce, who had cut up his speech to the jury,—Pounce, who had been his junior a hundred times!—savage with Mr. Timms, his clerk, because he was always savage with Timms when he was savage with other people. Tommy had fled before the storm; and now, to Mr. Blodwell’s unbounded indignation, George also was brushing his hat with the manifest intention of departure.

“In my time, rising juniors,” said Mr. Blodwell, with sarcasm, “didn’t leave chambers at four.”

“Business,” said George, putting on his gloves.

“Women,” answered his leader, briefly and scornfully.

“It’s the same thing, in this case. I am going to see Mrs. Witt.”

Mr. Blodwell’s person expressed moral reprobation. George, however, remained unmoved, and the elder man stole a sharp glance at him.

“I don’t know what’s up, George,” he said, “but take care of yourself.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Then why did you jump?”

“Timms, a hansom,” cried George. “I’ll be in court all day to-morrow, and keep you straight, sir.”

“In Heaven’s name, do. That fellow Pounce is such a beggar for dates. Now get out.”

Mrs. Witt was living at Albert Mansions, the “swell villa” at Manchester having gone to join Mr. Witt in limbo. She was at home, and, as George entered, his only prayer was that he might not find Gerald in possession. He had no very clear idea how to proceed in his unpleasant task. “It must depend on how she takes it,” he said. Gerald was not there, but Tommy Myles was, voluble, cheerful, and very much at home, telling Neaera stories of her lover’s school-days. George chimed in as he best could, until Tommy rose to go, regretting the convention that drove one man to take his hat five minutes, at the latest, after another came in. Neaera pressed him to come again, but did not invite him to transgress the convention.

George almost hoped she would, for he was, as he confessed to himself, “funking it.” There were no signs of any such feeling in Neaera, and no repetition of the appealing attitude she had seemed to take up the night before.

“She means to bluff me,” thought George, as he watched her sit down in a low chair by the fire, and shade her face with a large fan.

“It is,” she began, “so delightful to be welcomed by all Gerald’s family and friends so heartily. I do not feel the least like a stranger.”

“I came last night, hoping to join in that welcome,” said George.

“Oh, I did not feel that you were a stranger at all. Gerald had told me so much about you.”

George rose, and walked to the end of the little room and back. Then he stood looking down at his hostess. Neaera gazed pensively into the fire. It was uncommonly difficult, but what was the good of fencing?

“I saw you recognised me,” he said, deliberately.

“In a minute. I had seen your photograph.”

“Not only my photograph, but myself, Mrs. Witt.”

“Have I?” asked Neaera. “How rude of me to forget! Where was it? Brighton?”

George’s heart hardened a little. Of course she would lie, poor girl. He didn’t mind that. But he did not like artistic lying, and Neaera’s struck him as artistic.

“But are you sure?” she went on.

George decided to try a sudden attack. “Did they ever give you that guinea?” he said, straining his eyes to watch her face. Did she flush or not? He really couldn’t say.

“I beg your pardon. Guinea?”

“Come, Mrs. Witt, we needn’t make it more unpleasant than necessary. I saw you recognised me. The moment Mr. Blodwell spoke of Peckton I recognised you. Pray don’t think I mean to be hard on you. I can and do make every allowance.”

Neaera’s face expressed blank astonishment. She rose, and made a step towards the bell. George was tickled. She had the amazing impertinence to convey, subtly but quite distinctly, by that motion and her whole bearing, that she thought he was drunk.

“Ring, if you like,” he said, “or, rather, ask me, if you want the bell rung. But wouldn’t it be better to settle the matter now? I don’t want to trouble Gerald.”

“I really believe you are threatening me with something,” exclaimed Neaera. “Yes, by all means. Go on.”

She motioned him to a chair, and stood above him, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece. She breathed a little quickly, but George drew no inference from that.

“Eight years ago,” he said, slowly, “you employed me as your counsel. You were charged with theft—stealing a pair of shoes—at Peckton Quarter-Sessions. You retained me at a fee of one guinea.”

Neaera was motionless, but a slight smile showed itself on her face. “What are Quarter-Sessions?” she asked.

“You pleaded guilty to the charge, and were sentenced to a month’s imprisonment with hard labour. The guinea I asked you about was my fee. I gave it to that fat policeman to give back to you.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Neston, but it’s really too absurd.” And Neaera relaxed her statuesque attitude, and laughed light-heartedly, deliciously. “No wonder you were startled last night—oh, yes, I saw that—if you identified your cousin’s fiancÉe with this criminal you’re talking about.”

“I did and do identify her.”

“Seriously?”

“Perfectly. It would be a poor joke.”

“I never heard anything so monstrous. Do you really persist in it? I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you deny it?”

“Deny it! I might as well deny—but of course I deny it. It’s madness.”

“Then I must lay what I know before my uncle and Gerald, and leave them to act as they think best.”

Neaera took a step forward as George rose from his seat. “Do you mean to repeat this atrocious—this insane scandal?”

“I think I must. I should be glad to think I had any alternative.”

Neaera raised one white hand above her head, and brought it down through the air with a passionate gesture.

“I warn you not!” she cried; “I warn you not!”

George bowed.

“It is a lie, and—and if it were true, you could not prove it.”

George thought this her first false step. But there were no witnesses.

“It will be war between us,” she went on in growing excitement. “I will stand at nothing—nothing—to crush you; and I will do it.”

“You must not try to frighten me,” said George.

Neaera surveyed him from head to foot. Then she stretched out her white hand again, and said,

“Go!”

George shrugged his shoulders, took his hat, and went, feeling very much as if Neaera had detected him in theft. So great is the virtue of a good presence and dramatic instincts.

Suddenly he paused; then he went back again, and knocked at the door.

“Come in,” cried Neaera.

As he entered she made an impatient movement. She was still standing where he had left her.

“Pray pardon me. I forgot to say one thing. Of course I am only interested in this—matter, as one of the family. I am not a detective. If you give up Gerald, my mouth is sealed.”

“I will not give up Gerald,” she exclaimed passionately. “I love him. I am not an adventuress; I am rich already. I——”

“Yes, you could look higher than Gerald, and avoid all this.”

“I don’t care. I love him.”

George believed her. “I wish to God I could spare you——”

“Spare me? I don’t ask your mercy. You are a slanderer——”

“I thought I would tell you,” said George calmly.

“Will you not go?” she cried. And her voice broke into a sob.

This was worse than her tragedy airs. George fled without another word, cursing himself for a hard-hearted, self-righteous prig, and then cursing fate that laid this burden on him. What was she doing now, he wondered. Exulting in her triumph? He hoped so; for a different picture obstinately filled his mind—a beautiful woman, her face buried in her white arms, crying the brightness out of her eyes, all because George Neston had a sense of duty. Still he did not seriously waver in his determination. If Neaera had admitted the whole affair and besought his mercy, he felt that his resolution would have been sorely tried. But, as it was, he carried away the impression that he had to deal with a practised hand, and perhaps a little professional zeal mingled with his honest feeling that a woman who would lie like that was a woman who ought to be shown in her true colours.

“I’ll tell uncle Roger and Gerald to-morrow,” he thought. “Of course they will ask for proof. That means a journey to Peckton. Confound other people’s affairs!”

George’s surmise was right. Neaera Witt had spent the first half-hour after his departure in a manner fully as heart-rending as he had imagined. Everything was going so well. Gerald was so charming, and life looked, at last, so bright, and now came this! But Gerald was to dine with her, and there was not much time to waste in crying. She dried her eyes, and doctored them back into their lustre, and made a wonderful toilette. Then she entertained Gerald, and filled him with delight all a long evening. And at eleven o’clock, just as she was driving him out of his paradise, she said,

“Your cousin George was here to-day.”

“Ah, was he? How did you get on with him?”

Neaera had brought her lover his hat. He needed a strong hint to move him. But she put the hat down, and knelt beside Gerald for a minute or two in silence.

“You look sad, darling,” said he. “Did you and George quarrel?”

“Yes—I—— It’s very dreadful.”

“Why, what, my sweet?”

“No, I won’t tell you now. He shan’t say I got hold of you first, and prepossessed your mind.”

“What in the world is wrong, Neaera?”

“You will hear, Gerald, soon. But you shall hear it from him. I will not—no, I will not be the first. But, Gerald dear, you will not believe anything against me?”

“Does George say anything against you?”

Neaera threw her arms round his neck. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Then let him take care what it is. Neaera, tell me.”

“No, no, no! He shall tell you first.”

She was firm; and Gerald went away, a very mass of amazement and wrath.

But Neaera said to herself, when she was alone, “I think that was right. But, oh dear, oh dear! what a fuss about”—she paused, and added—“nothing!”

And even if it were not quite nothing, if it were even as much as a pair of shoes, the effect did threaten to be greatly out of proportion to the cause. Old Dawkins, and the fussy clerk, and the fat policeman could never have thought of such a coil as this, or surely, in defiance of all the laws of the land, they would have let that nameless damsel go.