’ ‘What young lady?’ demanded a voice from the back of the hall. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. "There it is!" cried Sir James, eagerly. Nothing would stop her, and she was prepared to face the consequences. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House. Innumerable little puzzles were instantly solved. The jealous burn at his eyes subsided and his finger came up. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. ’ ‘Yes, but in fact you’ve offered me far more entertainment than any French spy could have done. Her name was Rhea. He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. "I didn't imagine for a moment that you'd accept it, but I thought it right to make you the offer. Long ago.
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