When the light was fading a little, there was a new sound in Hubert Lepel's sick-room—the rustle of a silk dress, the tripping of little high-heeled shoes across the floor. Cynthia looked round hastily, ready to hush the intruder; for Hubert was much quieter than he had been, and only murmured incoherent sentences from time to time. A fresh outburst of delirium was of all things to be warded off if possible, and there was a faint hope that he might sleep. If he slept, his life, humanly speaking, was saved. But it was hardly likely that sleep would come so soon.

Cynthia looked round, prepared to rebuke the new-comer—for she had taken upon herself all the authority of nurse and queen-regent in the sick man's room; but her eyes fell upon a stranger whose face was yet not altogether unknown to her. She had seen it years before in the Beechfield lanes; she remembered it vaguely without knowing to whom it belonged. In her earlier years at school that face had stood in her imagination as the type of all that was cold and cruel and fair in ancient song or story, fable or legend. It had figured as Medusa—as Circe; the wonderful wicked woman of the Middle Ages had come to her in visions with just such subtle eyes, such languorous beauty, such fair white skin and yellow hair; the witch-woman of her weirdest dream had had the look of Florence Lepel; just as Hubert's far different features, with the dark melancholy expression of suffering stamped upon them, had stood for her as those of FouquÉ's ideal knights, or of Sintram riding through the dark valley, of Lancelot sinning and repenting, of saint, hero, martyr, paladin, in turn, until she grew old enough to banish such foolish dreams. She had been a strangely imaginative child; and these two faces seemed to have haunted her all her life. That of her hero lay beside her, stricken with illness, fevered, insensible; that of the evil woman—for this Cynthia instinctively believed Florence Vane to be—confronted her with a strange, mocking, malignant smile.

Cynthia put up her hand.

"Hush!" she said quietly. "He is not to be disturbed."

"Are you the nurse?" said Mrs. Vane's cool light voice.

"I am a friend," replied Cynthia quietly. "If you wish to talk to me, I will come into the other room."

"Upon my word, you take things very calmly!" said Florence. "I really never dreamt——It is a most embarrassing situation!"

But she did not look embarrassed in the least; neither did Cynthia.A heavier step on the boards now made itself heard, and the General's face, ruddy and framed in venerable gray hairs, pressed forward over his wife's shoulder.

"Oh, dear—oh, dear—this is very bad!" he grumbled, either to himself or to Flossy. "Poor lad—poor lad! He looks very ill—he does indeed!"

Flossy came closer to the bed. As soon as she drew near, her brother seemed to grow uneasy; he began to turn his head from side to side, to move his hands, and to mutter incoherent words.

"You disturb him," said Cynthia, looking at Mrs. Vane. "The Doctor says that he must be kept perfectly quiet. Will you kindly go into the other room, and, if you want me, I will come to you."

"We are not particularly likely to want you, young woman," said Florence coldly. "If you are not a qualified nurse, I do not see why you should try to turn Mr. Lepel's own sister out of the room. It is your place to go—not mine."

For all answer, Cynthia turned again to Hubert, and began applying ice to his fevered head. She seemed absorbed by her task, and took no further notice of the visitors. For once Flossy felt herself a little quelled.

She turned to Mrs. Jenkins, who had followed her into the room.

"Has not the doctor procured a proper nurse yet for Mr. Lepel?" she said.

Mrs. Jenkins fidgeted, and looked at Cynthia.

"The young lady," she said at last, "seems to be doing all that is required, ma'am. The doctor says as we couldn't do better."

"In that case, my dear," said the pacific General, "I think that we had better not interfere with existing arrangements. We will go back to the hotel and inquire again in the morning."

"Go back to the hotel, and leave that person in possession?" cried Flossy, with fine and virtuous scorn. "Are you mad, General? I will not put up with such a thing for a moment! She will go out of this house before I go!"

These words reached Cynthia's ears. The girl simply smiled. The smile said, as plainly as words could have done, that she would not leave Hubert Lepel's rooms unless she was taken away from them by force.Meanwhile Mrs. Jenkins was whispering and explaining, the General was expostulating, and Flossy waxed apparently more and more irate every moment. Cynthia, with her hand on Hubert's pulse, felt it growing faster; his incoherent words were spoken with energy; he was beginning to raise his head from the pillow and gaze about him with wild excited eyes. She turned sharply towards the visitors.

"Go into the other room at once!" she said, with sudden decision. "You have aroused him already—you have done him harm! Keep silence or go, if you wish to save his life!"

The passionate ring of her voice, low though it was, had its effect. The General stopped short in a sentence; Mrs. Jenkins looked at the bed with a frightened air; Flossy, with an impatient gesture, walked towards the sitting-room. But at the door she paused and looked back at Cynthia, whose eyes were still fixed upon her. What there was in that look perhaps no one else could see; but it magnetised Cynthia. The girl rose from her knees, gently withdrew her hand from Hubert's nerveless fingers, and signed to Mrs. Jenkins to take her place. Then, after watching for a moment to see that the patient lay quietly and did not seem distressed by her departure, she followed Mrs. Vane into the other room. The General hovered about the door, uncertain whether to go or to remain.

The two women faced each other silently. They were both beautiful, but they bore no likeness one to the other.

There could not have been a more complete contrast than that presented by Florence Vane and Cynthia Westwood as they confronted each other in the dim light of Hubert's sitting-room. Cynthia stood erect, looking very tall and pale in her straight black gown; her large dark eyes were heavy from fatigue and grief, her lips had taken a pathetic downward curve, and her dusky hair had been pushed back carelessly from her fine brow. There was a curious dignity about her—a dignity which seemed to proceed chiefly from her own absence of self-consciousness, swallowed up as this had been in the depth of a great sorrow. Opposite to her stood Florence, self-conscious and alert in every nerve and vein, but hiding her agitation under an exterior of polished grace and studiedly haughty courtesy, her fair beauty framed in an admirable setting of exquisite colors and textures, her whole appearance indescribably dainty and delicate, like that of some rare Eastern bird which hesitates where to set its foot in a strange place.

Thus the two saw each other; and Flossy felt vaguely that Cynthia ought to be at a disadvantage, but that in some strange and miraculous manner she was not. Indeed it was Cynthia who took the lead and spoke first.

"If you wish to speak to me," she said, "I am here; but I cannot leave Mr. Lepel for long."

"I have no wish to speak—necessity alone compels me," said Mrs. Vane, giving the girl a haughty stare from under her half-closed eyelids. "I am compelled, I fear, to ask you a few questions. I presume that a nurse is coming?"

"I think not. The doctor said that he need not send one so long as Jenkins and I were here."

"And pray how long do you mean to remain here?"

"As long as he has need of me."

"You are under a mistake," said Mrs. Vane loftily. "Mr. Lepel did not send for you, I believe?"

"He called for me in his delirium," answered Cynthia, whose eyes were beginning to be lighted up as if from an inward fire. "He is quiet only when I am here."

Flossy laughed derisively.

"A good reason! Is he not quiet now, with the woman Jenkins at his side? You will perhaps allow that his relatives—his family—have some right to attend to him during his illness; and I must really say very plainly—since you compel me to do so—that I should prefer to see him nursed by a professional nurse, and not by a young girl whose very presence here is a scandal to all propriety."

Cynthia drew herself up to her full height.

"I think I can scarcely understand you," she said. "I am acting under the doctor's orders, and am here by his authority. There can be no scandal in that. When Mr. Lepel is conscious and can spare me, I will go."

"Spare you! He will be only too glad to spare you!" cried Mrs. Vane. "I do not know what your connection with him has been—I do not want to know"—the insinuation conveyed by her tone and manner was felt by Cynthia to be in itself an insult; "but this I am fully convinced of, that my poor brother could not possibly have known that you were the daughter of that wretched criminal, Andrew Westwood—the man who murdered Sydney Vane! If he had known that, he would never have wished to see your face again!"

She saw the girl wince, as if she had received a cut with a whip, and for a moment she triumphed.

The General, who was just inside the room, listening anxiously to the conversation, now came to her aid. He stepped forward hurriedly, his face growing crimson, his lower jaw working, his eyes seeming to turn in his head as he heard the words.

"What is that? What—this young person the daughter of Westwood the murderer? Abominable! What business has she here? It is an insult to us all!"

Cynthia turned upon him like a wild animal at bay, defiance flashing in her mournful magnificent dark eyes.

"My presence insults you less than the words Mrs. Vane has spoken insult me!" she cried, tossing back her head with the proud stag-like gesture which Hubert had learned to know so well. "She is more cruel than I ever thought one woman could be to another! She must know that I have nothing to reproach myself with—that my life is as pure as hers—purer, if all one hears is true." She could not deny herself the vengeful taunt, but was recalled to her better self when she saw Florence blanch under it and suddenly draw back. "But about myself I do not choose to speak. Of my father I will say one word—to you, sir, who I am sure will be just at least to one who craves only for justice—my father, sir, was innocent of the crime for which he was condemned; and some day his innocence will be manifested before all eyes. Mr. Lepel knows—he knew before he was taken ill—that I am Andrew Westwood's daughter. I told him a few days ago."

"And he was so much horrified by the news that this illness is the result. I see now," said Mrs. Vane coolly, "why this break down has taken place. The poor boy, General, has been so harassed and overcome by the discovery that his brain has for the time being given way. And yet this girl pretends that he wants her to remain!"

"I appeal to the doctor!" said Cynthia, suddenly turning as white as Florence herself had done. "If he supports me, you will yield to his decision? If he says that I am not necessary here, I will go. I have no wish to inflict my presence on those to whom it is unwelcome."

She glanced proudly from Mrs. Vane to the General. The old man was much perturbed. He was walking about the room, muttering to himself, his lips protruding, his brow wrinkled with anger and disgust.

"Too bad—too bad!" Cynthia heard him say. "Westwood's daughter—nursing Hubert too! Tut, tut—a bad business this!"

Cynthia resolved upon a bold stroke—she would address him.

"Sir," she said, taking a step towards him, "will you listen to me for a moment? I promise you that I will go if the doctor says that I am not wanted. You need not fear that I shall force myself upon you. I only ask you to forgive me the fact of being my father's daughter until Mr. Lepel is a little stronger—if the doctor says that I must not leave him yet. When he is better, I vow—I swear that you shall see and hear no more of me! I shall leave the country, and you will never be troubled by me again. But, till then, have pity! Let me help to nurse him; he has been my best friend in the whole world, and I have never yet been able to do anything for him! When he is better, I will go away. Till then, for pity's sake, sir, let me stay!"

Her voice broke; she clasped her hands before her and held down her head to hide her tears. The General, brought to a sudden stop by her appeal to him, eyed her with a mixture of native pity and long-cultivated detestation. He could not but be sorry for her, although she was Westwood's daughter and, by all reports, not much better perhaps than she should be; for he firmly believed in the truth of all Flossy's malignant hints and innuendos. But Cynthia was a handsome woman, and the General was weak; he could not bear to see a handsome woman cry.

"My good girl," he stammered—and then Flossy's significant smile made him stammer all the more—"my girl, I—I do not wish to blame you—personally, of course—not your fault at all—we can't help its being painful, you know."

"Painful—yes," cried Cynthia eagerly; "but pain is sometimes necessary! You will not drive me away from Hubert's bedside if I can be of any use to him?""No, no—I suppose not," said the General, melting in spite of himself. "I wouldn't for the world do anything to harm poor Hubert. Suppose we hear what the doctor says?"

Cynthia's hand was on the bell immediately, and Jenkins showed himself at the door without delay.

"Jenkins," she said, "it is very important that we should have the doctor here at once. Mrs. Vane—General Vane—want——"

"Give your own orders, General," said Flossy abruptly. She could not lose a chance of annoying and insulting Cynthia.

"H'm, ha—the doctor, my man," said the General, rather taken aback by the demand upon him—"get us the doctor as soon as you can. Tell him—tell him that Mr. Lepel's relatives are here, and no doubt he will come at once."

There was a little silence in the room when Jenkins had disappeared upon his errand. The General stood, with his hands clasped behind him, looking out of a window; Mrs. Vane had sunk into a chair, in which she lay back, her graceful neck turned aside, as if she wanted to avoid the sight of Cynthia, who meanwhile stood upon the hearthrug, head bent and hands folded, waiting gravely and patiently for what she felt to be the decision on her fate.

Presently Mrs. Vane moved a little, fixed her cold eyes on the motionless figure before her, and spoke in tones so low that they did not reach the General's ears.

"What have you done with your father?" she asked.

Cynthia raised her eyes to Mrs. Vane's face for a moment with a flash of scorn in their lustrous depths. She made no other answer.

"You need not think," said Florence deliberately, "that I do not know where he has been until to-day. I know all about him."

"Yes; you set your spies on him," said Cynthia, in equally low but bitter tones. "I was aware of that."

"I know of his movements up to eleven o'clock this morning, and so do the police," said Mrs. Vane. "He came to you this morning—perhaps by appointment, perhaps not—how do I know?—and you drove away with him to St. Pancras Station. There you took his ticket to Liverpool—there you said good-bye. Why did you not wait to see him off? The answer is easy to read—because he never went to Liverpool at all. Did you think we were children like yourself that you could throw dust in our eyes as easily as that?"

Cynthia's dilated eyes asked a question that her lips would not utter. Flossy smiled.

"You want to know if he has been taken?" she said. "Not yet; but he soon will be. You should not have been seen with him if you wanted him to escape. I suppose you were not aware that the relationship was known?"

No, this certainly Cynthia had not known.

"You have been the means of identifying him to the police," Mrs. Vane went on, with the cruel smile still playing about her thin lips; "otherwise we should hardly have been sure that he had changed his disguise. I almost wonder that you never thought of that."

Then Cynthia made a desperate attempt to stem the tide.

"You are mistaken," she said—Mrs. Vane laughed softly.

"You had better not try to tell lies about it—it is not your forte. Brazen it out, as you have done hitherto, and you may succeed. A detective has been to Madame della Scala's house already, and he will probably find you out—if you stay here—before long. I am afraid that you are not a very good hand at keeping a secret; but I have put you on your guard, and you should thank me."

"I do not thank you for torturing me," said Cynthia, with a hard dry sob that seemed to be born of agony. "I would rather face all the police and the magistrates of London than you! They will have no difficulty about finding me. If I cannot stay here, I will go back to Madame's house."

"Which you will find closed to you," said Flossy. "After the story that she has heard, Madame della Scala refuses to receive you there again. You seem to think very little of your father's crime, Miss Westwood; but you will not find society condone it so easily."

Cynthia's face flushed hotly, but she did not reply.

"You had better go away," said Mrs. Vane, leaning forward and speaking almost in a whisper. "Go, and tell no one where you are going—it will be better for you. The police will be here before very long, and possibly they may arrest you.""I do not think they can do that. No, I shall not hide myself."

"It would be safer for your father," said Flossy, almost inaudibly. "Listen—I will make a bargain with you. If you go, I will hide part of my own knowledge—I will not let the woman Meldreth describe him accurately—I will help you to put the detectives off the track; and, in return, you will go away at once—where I care not—and never see Hubert again. You may save your father then."

"I will make no bargain with you," said Cynthia solemnly. She looked straight into the white, subtle face—straight into the velvet-brown languorous eyes, full now of a secret fear. "You forget that God protects the innocent and punishes the guilty. I will stay with Hubert; and God will defend my father and the right."

"Your father will be hanged yet," said Flossy, turning away restlessly. It was her only answer to the girl's courageous words.