Women in general have a strong interest in jewels, and in stories connected with them, and Mrs. Temple of Woodlea was no exception to this rule. Thus the day after Kathleen Weir’s diamond case had been decided she was reading it in the morning papers, when her husband’s nephew John Temple entered the breakfast-room.

He shook hands with her and then with his uncle in his usual pleasant fashion, but had scarcely begun his breakfast when Mrs. Temple commenced talking about the actress’ diamonds.

“There is such a strange case in the papers this morning,” she said, addressing John Temple; “an actress, Kathleen Weir, has had her diamonds stolen in a most extraordinary manner.”

John Temple was in the act of helping himself to some toast from the toast-rack as Mrs. Temple made the remark, and for a moment his hand remained suspended, and a dusky wave of color rose to his face.

“Do you know her?” asked Mrs. Temple, quickly, instantly noticing these signs of agitation.

“No,” answered John Temple, a little huskily, and then he took the toast, but left it untasted on his plate.

“Have they recovered the diamonds then?” asked the squire.

“No, I suppose not; her maid had taken them and substituted false ones in the same settings. But here is the account; you had better read it.” And Mrs. Temple handed the newspaper to her husband.

John Temple said nothing; he began slowly eating his breakfast, but apparently without appetite, and then he opened another newspaper and turned to the column containing the trial of Margaret Johnstone for diamond stealing.

“So,” he said, a little scornfully, after he had read it, “this young lady, Miss Kathleen Weir, seemingly was tired of some of her diamonds, and wished to dispose of them?”

“Perhaps she was tired of the man who gave them to her?” replied Mrs. Temple.

“Very likely,” said John, with a little shrug of his shoulders; “of the poor fool who perhaps impoverished himself to give her gauds.”

“And then perhaps also tired of her?” retorted Mrs. Temple.

Again John Temple shrugged his shoulders and sat somewhat moodily glancing over the newspapers, while his uncle’s wife followed his movements with her handsome dark eyes. He interested her, this good-looking man who had taken her dead boy’s place, and having him at Woodlea made the house seem less dull. She had a strong craving for excitement, and to her anything was better than the wearisome company of her old husband. And she could not understand John Temple. He was always gentle and friendly in his manner to her, but he was never confidential. And this annoyed her. Unconsciously almost to herself she was beginning to regard him with warmer feelings than she would have cared to own. At all events she was jealous of him, and half-believed that for his sake May Churchill had left her home.

So when breakfast was over, and the squire after his usual fashion had retired to his library, Mrs. Temple went up to John, who was still reading the newspapers, and lightly touched his shoulder.

“If the truth were known, sir,” she said, smiling, “I believe you could tell us something about Miss Kathleen Weir’s diamonds.”

Again a flush rose to John Temple’s face, but this time it was an angry one.

“What makes you say such a thing?” he answered quickly.

“Because I was watching you when you first heard of the robbery. Ah, my nephew John, I fear you are not as good as you look.”

“You have a most brilliant imagination, my handsome aunt!”

“Do not call me by that odious name! But perhaps I have more discernment than you give me credit for.”

“I gave you credit for every good quality; discernment among the rest.”

Mrs. Temple nodded her head and stood by his side looking down at his face. She saw he was more annoyed than he cared to show. And she knew there must be some cause for this, for as a rule John Temple was very even tempered. But she did not say anything more about the diamonds, and after a moment or two she turned away, and John Temple was left to his own reflections.

His expression changed after she left the room, and he frowned, stirred uneasily, and once more read over the evidence given at Miss Kathleen Weir’s jewel case. And a bitter look came over his face as he did so; a look of contempt and scorn, and flinging down the newspaper he went to the window of the room, and stood looking out moodily at the wide park, which one day would be his own.

“I have paid pretty heavily for a boy’s folly,” he muttered, “and some day, my sweet flower, it may fall on you.”

And this thought stung him sharply. He loved his Mayflower, as he called her, with a true and passionate love, and he would have given up almost anything for her sake. Her beauty, her tenderness, and her devotion to himself had entirely won his heart. Before he had met May Churchill he had been almost indifferent to the consequences of the “boy’s folly,” which now galled him so deeply. But he little guessed how near the shadow of it was stealing across his path.

Yet this knowledge came to him only a day later after the conversation about the actress’ demands had taken place between himself and his uncle’s wife. He went down to breakfast on this particular morning rather earlier than usual, but the letters and newspapers had already arrived, and placed near his usual seat at the table was a large letter directed in the now well-known handwriting of Miss Webster.

He knew that this would contain an inclosure from May, and so he quietly put the envelope into his pocket without any comment.

“More bills?” said Mrs. Temple, looking at him with a curious little smile.

“I am afraid so,” he answered, and his uncle glanced up at him over his newspaper with some uneasiness in his expression as he spoke.

John Temple, however, did not seem at all disconcerted. He was always glad to hear from May, and the very fact that he had a letter in his pocket from her gave him a feeling of quiet happiness. He, therefore, talked cheerfully during the rest of the meal, but as soon as it was over he left the room, carrying his letters away with him, and Mrs. Temple looked after him as he went.

Let us follow him upstairs to the small suite of rooms which had been set apart for him by his uncle’s wish. These consisted of a sitting-room where he smoked, a bedroom adjoining, and a little ante-room which had a stone balcony overlooking the park.

John Temple went into his sitting-room, which opened from a corridor, and having pushed the door nearly close behind him, he pulled out his letter and began reading May’s fond tender words with a smile.

Then suddenly his face darkened.

“We have been all greatly interested,” he read, “about a diamond robbery, which, I dare say, you have seen in the newspapers. The maid of the popular and, I believe, pretty actress, Miss Kathleen Weir, had stolen her mistress’ diamonds and substituted false ones instead of them. How we came to hear so much about it is that Mr. Webster, the nephew of the Miss Websters, was one of the barristers in the case for the prosecution and Miss Kathleen Weir was so pleased by the way Mr. Webster conducted it that she invited him to her house. He says she is handsome and clever, but not exactly what he calls ‘nice.’ But all the same I think he rather admires her, and their acquaintance seems to progress, in spite of the alarm of his dear old aunts! Did you ever see her? Some time when you are in town—and when is that dear time to be?—you must take me to see her act.”

John Temple went on frowning as he read these innocent words. Here was a mine under his feet indeed! He knew the nature of Kathleen Weir; the outspoken frank nature, that was just as likely as not to confide her whole history to a stranger. What if she told of her early marriage to this Webster, who might repeat it to his aunts? He had warned the Misses Webster to keep his marriage to May a secret, and May did not bear his name. Still in some moment the old ladies might reveal it to their nephew, and then no one could tell where the mischief might end.

John Temple flung the letter on the table and began walking restlessly up and down the room, thinking what it would be best to do. “She must leave Pembridge Terrace at once,” he decided. But then, how could this be arranged? If he went up to town he might meet Webster, and May was too young and girlish to go about house-seeking alone.

“That confounded woman,” he thought bitterly of Kathleen Weir, “is forever in my way.”

He was full of impatience, chafing against fate and the mad folly of his youth. The door of the bedroom beyond was standing open, and farther still he could see from the balcony window of the ante-room a green patch of the park. He went into this ante-room, opened the window and stepped out on the balcony, still cursing his ill-luck. He did not see, as he leaned over the balustrade, that someone had entered his sitting-room, on the table of which the letter from May was lying open.

Yet this was so. Moved by curiosity, and a more subtle feeling still, Mrs. Temple had followed him upstairs, shortly after he had left the breakfast room. She sometimes—not often—went into his sitting-room if she had anything that she wished particularly to say to him, and something prompted her to go into it now. The door was very slightly ajar, and she pushed it open and entered the room, and in a moment her eyes fell on the open letter on the table.

She made a step forward and looked at it. Then she read the words with which it commenced:

“My dearest, dearest John.”

Her breath came fast, her heart beat quickly, and she put out her hand as if to take it up, but glancing to the open bedroom door she saw John Temple leaning on the balustrade of the ante-room balcony beyond, and her hand shrank back.

But again she looked at the letter; looked at the address in Pembridge Terrace, which was neatly printed on the paper. She noted this in an instant, but as she did so John Temple turned his head, and Mrs. Temple quickly moved back, and left the room, without his having ever been conscious that she had been there.

But she had made a discovery; a discovery which filled her heart with jealous anger. As she walked on to her room she decided in her own mind that it was the missing girl, May Churchill, who had addressed John Temple as “My dearest, dearest John.”

“Shameful!” she thought, bitterly; “absolutely shameful; and what a liar he is, but his uncle shall know—he shall bitterly repent the part he has played.”

She walked up and down her room in a state of the greatest excitement. It seemed to her as if John Temple had done her some personal wrong, which he certainly had not. She had allowed herself to be attracted by him—to fill the waste in her heart—but he had never for a moment forgotten she was his uncle’s wife. He had pitied her in her grief about her dead boy, and his manner was always gentle and kindly to women, but he did not even admire her; she was too excitable, too uncertain in her temper, for his taste.

“But I must bring it home to him,” she now told herself; “it’s no use striking until I can bring it home—I will send for young Henderson.”

She accordingly sat down at her desk and began a letter to Henderson. At first she thought of asking him to the Hall, but afterward remembered that this might look strange to her husband and John Temple. No, she must meet him somewhere about the country, and she paused, pen in hand, thinking where it should be.

She decided in a few minutes, and then addressed the following letter to Henderson:

“Dear Mr. Henderson: Will you meet me to-morrow in the lane that leads to the West Lodge, at half-past three o’clock? I shall be walking, as I do not wish anyone to know of this appointment, and if I am not there at the time I mention, it will only be that it is absolutely impossible that I can manage to go. In that case I will go on the following afternoon, at the same time. At last I have something to tell you on the subject we talked of before; it is almost a certainty this time. In haste, yours very truly,

“R. Temple.”

She took this letter with her own hands to the nearest village post-office, not caring to place it among the other letters in the post-bag lying on the hall table, and as she was returning from her errand she encountered John Temple on the road, who was also going to the post office.

Her face flushed deeply as she met him, and a scarcely repressible feeling of anger rose in her heart; while John Temple, ignorant of the cause, looked at her with his usually pleasant smile.

“So you are taking a walk?” he said.

She hardly answered him. She was a very passionate woman, and could not hide her feelings. She stood looking at him, burning to accuse him of what she deemed his treachery and deception.

“And are you,” she said, presently, very bitterly, “carrying a letter to some hidden lady-love; a letter that you do not wish the household to see?”

John Temple was conscious that he slightly changed color.

“You are always accusing me of something or other,” he said.

“Perhaps I have good cause,” she retorted, with such marked emphasis that John Temple felt somewhat uneasy.

“I hope not,” he replied; “I have always done my best to avoid offending you.”

Mrs. Temple deigned to make no reply. She gave a little toss of her head and walked on her way, and John went his, reflecting what a sad thing it was for a woman to have a bad temper!

And all the rest of the day it was the same thing. When Mrs. Temple spoke to him at all, it was either in taunting or bitter words. Her husband even noticed this, and asked why she spoke thus to his nephew.

“You will soon learn,” she answered, and the squire said nothing more. He was accustomed to the changeful temper of his handsome wife, but all the same he was sorry that her manner had changed to John Temple.

And the next morning, at breakfast, John noticed how restless she was. There was some disturbing element in her mind he plainly saw, though he had no idea it was caused by himself. He had, as we know, his own anxieties and troubles, but he never dreamed of Mrs. Temple’s being connected with them.

In the meantime at Stourton Grange her letter had caused the strongest excitement in young Henderson’s breast, for she had discovered something about May Churchill, he told himself; something connected with Temple, no doubt. He waited impatiently until the time she had appointed to meet him came, and then walked to the lane that led to the West Lodge at Woodlea Hall. Here he waited nearly half an hour before Mrs. Temple appeared. At last, however, he saw her, and went eagerly forward to meet her.

“You got my letter?” said Mrs. Temple, as she shook hands with him.

“Yes, this morning,” answered Henderson, quickly, and his brown face flushed as he spoke. “You have something to tell me?”

Mrs. Temple gave a little scornful laugh.

“I have discovered, I think, where the beauty that all you men raved about is hidden; but I must be sure,” she said. “You guess what I mean? A letter came for John Temple yesterday morning—a passionate love letter—from this address,” and as she spoke she drew out the address that she had seen on May’s letter to John, and placed it in Henderson’s hand. “I am almost sure this letter was from Miss Churchill.”

“Did you see it?” asked Henderson, eagerly, and with quivering lips.

“I saw the first lines of it. It was lying open on a table in his room when I went in, and I have no doubt it was from her. But I want you to find out this; to go up to town and see this girl yourself—I mean to watch the house until she comes out of it. Do not speak to her or call upon her, or perhaps she would again disappear. But if what I believe is true John Temple shall bitterly repent the gross deception he has practiced on us all.”

Henderson ground his strong white teeth together.

“And you believe,” he said, hoarsely, “that—that May Churchill—is anything to Temple?”

Mrs. Temple laughed bitterly.

“I believe she is everything to him,” she answered. “The letter I saw began, ‘My dearest, dearest John.’”

A fierce oath broke from Henderson’s lips.

“If I believed he had wronged this girl—” he began.

“He may have married her,” replied Mrs. Temple, scornfully. “At all events, if she wrote this letter there is no doubt of the connection between them.”

“Some other woman may have written it.”

“That is what I want you to find out. Will you go to town to learn the truth, and when?”

“I will go to-morrow; no, I will go to-night; I will be at the bottom of this, and if it is as you think, Mr. Temple will find his mistake.”

“Do not act like a fool, and get into any trouble about her. But find out, and then write to me at once all particulars. If you see her, follow her at a distance, and ask at the nearest shops what name she goes by. Keep the address safe, and now good-by.”

“I am not likely to lose the address,” answered Henderson, sullenly, as he placed it in his pocket-book. “Good-by, Mrs. Temple, I will let you know what I find out, and then—”

“Do nothing until you have heard from me. Good-by; I believe now you are on the right track.”