It was not much after five, and the days were very long. Mrs. Vane found that she could reach East Winstead by seven, and, allowing for one hour at St. Elizabeth's, could be back in London by half-past nine. She, who was said to be an invalid, who never walked half a mile alone or exerted herself in any avoidable way, now showed herself as unwearied, as vigorous, as energetic as any able-bodied detective in the pursuit of his duty. She went first to the station where she had left Parker, and gave the maid her instructions. Parker was to go to the Grosvenor Hotel and engage rooms for the night for herself and her mistress, and to see that every requisite for comfort was provided for Mrs. Vane when she arrived. At half-past seven precisely she was to despatch a telegram which Flossy herself had written for the General's benefit, announcing her intention to stay the night in town. It was not to be sent earlier, as in that case the General would be rushing off to London to take care of his wife, and Flossy did not want him in the least. If he got the telegram between eight and nine, he would scarcely start that night, although she knew that she might fully expect to see him in the morning. He was a most affectionate husband, and never believed that his wife was capable of doing anything for herself.

Parker was much amazed by Mrs. Vane's proceedings, and did not believe that the dentist was responsible for them, or Mr. Hubert Lepel either, although Flossy was careful to put the blame of her detention upon these innocent persons. She was not allowed to know what her mistress was going to do, but was sent away from the station to the hotel at once in a hansom-cab. Then Flossy calmly provided herself with sandwiches and a flask of sherry, took a return-ticket for East Winstead and found herself moving out of the station in a fast train at exactly five minutes to six. It was quick work; but she had accomplished the task that she had set herself to do. Flossy had a genius for intrigue.

She reached East Winstead at seven, and found a cab at the station. The drive to St. Elizabeth's occupied twenty minutes—longer than she had anticipated. She would have to do her work—make all her inquiries—in exactly one quarter of an hour if she meant to catch the next train to London. Well, a quarter of an hour ought to tell her all that she wished to know.

She took little notice of the beauty of garden and architecture at St. Elizabeth's; these were not what she had gone to see. She asked at the door if she could see the Sister in charge of the girl's school.

"Which—the orphanage or the ladies' school?"

"The orphanage," was Flossy's prompt reply; and accordingly she was shown into the presence of Sister Louisa.

"I am afraid that I must appear very brusque and abrupt," said Mrs. Vane, with the soft graciousness of manner which proved so powerful a weapon in her armory; "but I shall have to come to the point at once, as I have only a few minutes to spare. Can you tell me whether you ever had a child in your orphanage called Cynthia West?"

Sister Louisa considered, and then shook her head.

"'Cynthia' is an uncommon name," she said. "I am sure what we never had—at least, within the last ten years."

"It would not be so long ago," said Mrs. Vane. "I have reason, however, to think that 'Cynthia West' is not her real name. Would the name of 'Westwood'—'Cynthia Janet Westwood'—recall any child to your memory?"

Sister Louisa started, and a flush covered her mild thin face.

"Is it possible," she said, "that you mean our lost child Jane Wood?"

"She may have been known under that name," said Florence. "You had a girl here called 'Jane Wood,' then? Why do you think that she has any connection with Cynthia West?""You mentioned the name of 'Westwood,'" said Sister Louisa eagerly. "Jane Wood's name was really 'Westwood'; but, as she was the daughter of a notorious criminal, Mrs. Rumbold of Beechfield, who placed her with us, asked that she should be called 'Wood.' She was the child of Westwood, who committed a dreadful murder at Beechfield, in Hampshire—a gentleman called Vane——" Here Sister Louisa glanced at the visitor's card. "You know perhaps," she went on in some confusion; but Flossy interrupted her.

"Mr. Vane, the murdered man, was my brother-in-law. I am the wife of General Vane of Beechfield. I had some notion that this girl Cynthia West was identical with Westwood's daughter, but I could not be sure of the fact. How long was she with you, may I ask?"

Then she heard the whole story. She heard how the child had come to St. Elizabeth's, and been gradually tamed and civilised; of her wonderful voice and talent for music; of the generosity of certain persons unknown, supposed to be the Vanes; of the outburst of passion when "Janey" heard the lay-sister's accusation of her father, and her subsequent disappearance; then—not greatly to Flossy's surprise—of Mr. Lepel's visit, and his search for the girl, which—so far as the Sister knew—seemed to have ended in failure.

"But you have found her after all!" cried the good Sister, when Flossy acknowledged that she was the sister of Hubert Lepel, and presumably interested in his charitable enterprises. "I am so glad! And she is growing quite famous? Dear me, I wonder that Mr. Lepel did not let us know!"

"Possibly he thought that you would be more grieved than delighted by the discovery of her present position," said Flossy, not sorry to aim an arrow at the unknown Cynthia behind her back, and perhaps deprive her of some very useful and affectionate friends. "Miss West, as she calls herself, does not bear a good character." She felt a malicious pleasure in bringing the color into the Sister's delicate cheeks, the moisture into those kindly, mild gray eyes. "She went upon the stage almost at once, and lived—well, I need not tell you how she lived perhaps; you can imagine it no doubt for yourself. I am afraid she was a thoroughly bad girl from the first.""Oh, no, no—I hope not!" exclaimed Sister Louisa, the tears flowing freely over her pale face. "Our poor Janie! She was a dear child, generous and kind-hearted, although impetuous and wilful now and then. If you see her, Mrs. Vane, tell her that our arms are always open to her—that, if she will come back to us, we will give her pardon and care, and help her to lead a good and honest life."

"I am afraid she will never return to you—she would probably be ashamed," said Mrs. Vane, rather venomously, as she took her leave. "I am so sorry to hurry away, Sister, but I am afraid that I must catch my train. You are quite sure then that Jane or Janie Wood, who had such a beautiful voice, and ran away from you in July, 187-, was really the daughter of the convict Westwood, and that Mr. Lepel and Mrs. Rumbold placed her with you and sought for her afterwards?"

"Quite sure," said Sister Louisa.

There was a vague trouble at her heart—an uneasiness for which she could not account. Something in Mrs. Vane's manner—something in her tone, her smile, her eyes—was distasteful to the unerring instincts of the pure God-fearing woman, as it had been to the trained observation of Maurice Evandale. Flossy might do her best to be charming—she might disarm criticism by the sweetness of her manner; but, in spite of her efforts, candid and unsullied natures were apt to discern in her a want of frankness—a little taint of something which they hardly liked to name. Sister Louisa grieved sorely over what she had heard of Cynthia; but she was also disturbed by an unconquerable distrust of this fair fashionable woman of the world.

"I think there is scarcely any link wanting in the chain," said Mrs. Vane to herself, when, having just caught her train, she was being whirled back to the metropolis. "Jane Wood was Cynthia Janet Westwood. She had a fine voice, and was about sixteen years old when she left St. Elizabeth's, July, 187-. In July, 187-, the same year, Lalli appeared at Mrs. Wadsley's with a girl of sixteen, who also had a fine voice, who had been at St. Elizabeth's, and who called herself Cynthia West. Mr. Lepel had put Jane Wood at school; Mr. Lepel turns up later on as the lover—protector—what not?—of Cynthia West. There is not the slightest reasonable doubt that Jane Wood and Cynthia West are one and the same person. That prosy old Sister would prove it in a moment if we brought them face to face. And Jane Wood was Westwood's daughter. Cynthia West is Westwood's daughter. Very easily traced! What will the world say when it knows that the rising young soprano singer is the daughter of a murderer? It won't much care, I suppose. But Hubert will care lest the fact be known. He has been too careful in hiding it for that not to be the case. Let me see—Cynthia West—presumably Westwood's daughter—meets a mysterious stranger in Kensington Gardens and addresses him as her father. The mysterious stranger comes from America, and has white hair and a white beard—quite unlike Mr. Andrew Westwood, be it remarked. Westwood escaped from Portland some years ago, and is rumored to have settled in the backwoods of America. I think there is very good reason for supposing that the mysterious stranger is Westwood himself, returned to England in order to secure his daughter's aid and companionship. And, if so, what a fool the man must be, when once he had got safely away, to run his head into a nest of enemies! He must be mad indeed! And, if mad," said Mrs. Vane, with a curiously cold and cruel smile, "the best thing for him will be incarceration at Portland prison once again."

It was growing dark, and she was beginning to feel a little tired. She put her feet upon the seat and closed her eyes. Before long she had fallen into a placid slumber, which lasted until she reached the London terminus. Then she drove straight to the Grosvenor Hotel, where she found Parker waiting, and a dainty little supper prepared for her.

Flossy did justice to her meal, and then went to bed, where she slept the sleep of the innocent and the righteous, until Parker appeared at her bedside the next morning with a breakfast-tray.

"And there's Miss Meldreth in the sitting-room inquiring for you, ma'am. Is she to come in? I wonder how she knew that you were here?"

"Oh, I saw her accidentally yesterday afternoon," said Mrs. Vane, "and told her to call! I want to know what she is doing in London. Yes—she can come in."

Parker accordingly summoned Miss Meldreth, and then, in obedience to a sign from her mistress, retired rather sulkily. She was not very fond of Mrs. Vane; but she resented any attempt on the part of a former servant to come between her and her mistress' confidences; and she had an impression that there was something between Mrs. Vane and Sabina which she did not know.

"Well, Sabina, how did the experiment succeed?" said Mrs. Vane easily. In spite of her look of fatigue and her languid attitude amongst the pillows, she spoke as if she had not a care in the world.

"It succeeded all right," answered Sabina, a little shortly.

"What did you find out?"

"They're not real—his hair and beard, I mean. It's a wig. He's got grayish dark-brown hair, and very little of it underneath, and whiskers. He ain't nearly so old as we thought."

"Tell me how you managed it," said Mrs. Vane—"from beginning to end."

"Well, ma'am, he came in about five, as usual, to his tea; and I says to aunt Eliza, 'I'll carry in the tray'; and I says, 'what a lot of milk you've given him! I'll pour a little back.' And says she, 'you'd better not, for he likes his tea half milk, and he'll only ring for more.' 'Well, then,' I says, 'it'll give me a chance of going in a second time—and, you know, I like that.' So I emptied part of the milk away, and then I put half of the stuff that you gave me into his jug, and I took it into Mr. Dare's sitting-room. He looked at me very sharp when I went in, almost as if he suspected me of something; but he didn't say nothing, and neither did I. I set down his tray before him, and he pours out the tea. Almost before I was out of the door, 'Miss Meldreth,' he says, 'a little more milk, if you please.' 'Oh, didn't I bring you enough, sir?' I says. 'If you'll pour that into your cup then, I'll send out for some more, and it'll be here by the time you've done your first cup. The cat knocked a basin of milk over this afternoon,' says I, 'and so there isn't as much as usual in the house.'"

"All that was pure invention, I suppose?" interrogated Mrs. Vane cynically.

"One had to say something, ma'am. He looked a little put out, and hesitated for a minute or two; then he took and emptied the milk-jug straight into his cup, and began to drink his tea; and I went out and filled the jug again. I waited for a few minutes before I came back, and I found him leaning back in his chair, with a sleepy look coming over him directly. 'Miss Meldreth,' he said, 'I'm sorry to have troubled you, for I really don't think I want any more tea'—and then he yawned fit to take his head off—'and I'm going to lie down on the sofa to get a little rest, for I am so uncommonly drowsy.'"

"That seems a little sudden," said Mrs. Vane thoughtfully. "Are you sure that he did not suspect anything?"

"No, ma'am—I don't think so. Well, he laid down, and I went in and out taking away the things; and, if you'll believe me, in ten minutes he was fast asleep and snoring like—like a grampus!"

"Well, Sabina?"

"I let him stay so for nearly half an hour, so as to be sure that he was thoroughly off, ma'am, and then I went up to him and touched his hair. It was very nicely fitted on; but it was a wig for all that, and one could easily see the dark hair underneath. The beard was more difficult to move—there was some sticky stuff to fasten it on as well as an elastic band behind the ears; but it was plainly a false one too. He's a dark-looking man, almost like a gipsy, I should say, with hair that's nearly black—something like his eyebrows. Do you think he's the man you want, ma'am?"

"I'm sure of it, Sabina. Do you want to earn three hundred pounds besides your twenty?"

"What, ma'am!"

"Three hundred pounds, I remember, was offered for the arrest of Andrew Westwood, escaped prisoner from Portland prison, five years ago. This man is Andrew Westwood, Sabina, who murdered Sydney Vane. You shall have the money to keep as soon as it is paid."

Sabina drew back aghast.

"A murderer," she said—"and him such a nice quiet-looking old gentleman! Why, aunt Eliza was always planning a match between him and me! It's awful!"

Flossy laughed grimly.

"People don't carry their crimes in their face, Sabina," she said. "Now you can go away and wait in the sitting-room until Parker has dressed me. Then you will come with me to Scotland Yard—I believe that is the place to go to. I want that man arrested before nightfall. Here are your ten pounds.""Oh," said Sabina—"I wish I'd known!"

"Do you mean that you would not have helped me?"

"I'm not sure, ma'am; I don't like the idea of shutting the poor man up for ever and ever in a gaol."

"Perhaps you don't mind the idea of murder?" said Mrs. Vane sarcastically. "Don't be a fool, Sabina! Think of the three hundred pounds too! You shall have it all, I promise you; and I will content myself with the satisfaction of seeing him once more where he deserves to be. Now call Parker."

Sabina went back to the sitting-room, not daring to disobey. Her reluctance, moreover, soon vanished as the thought of those three hundred pounds took possession of her. She was absorbed in golden dreams when Mrs. Vane rejoined her, and was quite prepared to do or say whatever she was told.