Mabel had spent most of the day watching Voss. The man had become a terror to her. Under plea of a headache she had stayed in her room with the door ajar. Three or four times she had gone in the direction of Lady Hester's boudoir, and each time Voss was hovering somewhere near, chatting to a servant--especially to Harriet. Harriet Banks was neither young nor foolish, but she believed that Mr. Voss's interest in her was purely spontaneous and disinterested. As the valet and confidential servant of Mr. Bannister, who was to be one of the family, he seemed entitled to special privileges and confidences. The artful rascal's loud praise of her mistress' beauty and goodness went straight to Banks' heart. Mr. Voss was a man of discernment, and his devotion to his young mistress--according to his own account--was chivalrous to a fault.

From the gallery over the hall Voss heard Bannister's brag about the family jewels, and did not hesitate to make capital out of it with Harriet. He had never seen these jewels, he declared, but he had heard wonderful stories about them. Harriet, not to be outdone, refused to admit that anybody's gems could be so fine as the hallowed heirlooms of the Cardews, which her mistress wore on certain special occasions--memorable days to Harriet, whose point of view had not widened one little bit with the expansion of her master's fortunes; she was still the impecunious vicar's housekeeper of the old days, and she never ceased to wonder at the beauty and gorgeousness of Lady Hester on festive occasions. She was proud of the fact that she was often trusted with the key of the safe by her mistress. At this Voss marvelled, yet shook his head deprecatingly. He personally would never undertake such a responsibility, and would refuse to touch the key of his master's safe. He thought it argued great courage on Harriet's part, and wonderful trust on the side of Harriet's mistress.

He asked what precautions were taken to safeguard the heirlooms, and gathered that there were none, beyond the fact that the safe was let into the wall of Lady Hester's bedroom, and that she kept the key in the same apartment. The house was well guarded below, and Chubb, the Bishop's pet mastiff in the stable yard, was always let loose in the night. She mentioned that poor Chubb--he was jocularly called Chubb by the Bishop because he was a safe dog--was ailing at the present time from some unknown cause, and did not seem at all himself. He was probably sickening for mange, or what seemed more likely, had been kicked in the stable, and was going about with all the life knocked out of him.

At this information Voss smiled behind his hand and stroked his chin, and when he passed had another peep into Lady Hester's room--and ran into Mabel.

That evening, when the household was dressing for dinner, there was a gentle knock at Lady Hester's door. Mabel begged to come in. Her eyes were dilated with excitement, and she was shaking with fright. She was afraid to be alone. While her father and the Bishop were chatting, and Lady Hester and Aunt Caroline were upon the scene, things seemed real, and it was hard to believe that a fateful crisis was approaching. Yet it must be drawing nearer and nearer. The conviction that her father was a thief, and that Voss was clearing the way for deliberate robbery, grew with every hour. The man's movements, seen from behind her bedroom door, were certainly mysterious; and on several occasions she had surprised him examining window fastenings and staircases where he had no business to be.

So far there had been no opportunity of making fuller confession to Lady Hester; and she was terrified now by the Bishop's suggestion that his wife should bring down the emeralds to-night for Mr. Bannister's benefit.

Her unhappy mother was torn by worse fears; yet she was glad to see her daughter. She opened her arms and folded her to her heart, and took her face in her hands and looked into the tear-stained eyes.

"My poor Mabel, you are making yourself ill."

"Oh, Lady Hester, I haven't been able to explain. You are in danger. You won't wear the emeralds to-night?"

"Of course not. I should never dream of such a thing."

"You know what I mean? It is true--true, I'm sure of it. That man is watching your room, and has been gossiping with your maid about jewels. I heard them laughing and talking; I heard them mention emeralds. It is all my father has come down here for. He doesn't think I'm married to Jack, and his brag about money and jewelry is all lies--lies."

"I know it, my dear, I know it, to my cost."

"Do you understand, Lady Hester--do you realize that the Bishop is treating him as an honored guest? He must be told. I myself will tell him if you do not. I can't bear it. It is wicked. Oh, I have ruined Jack."

"Hush, hush, child, silence is best. You mustn't anger your father. We are both in his power. We are helpless."

"I am, but you are not, Lady Hester. He is my father; but you have met him before. You know what he is, and can warn the Bishop. It is your duty. Don't consider me--because I am Jack's wife. If Jack knew, he wouldn't keep silence."

"My dear, your father knows that you are married to Jack."

"Knows?" cried Mabel incredulously.

"So you see, Mabel, we are utterly at his mercy. He can snap his fingers at us."

"At me, but not at you. You're not obliged to have him in your house. Oh, send him away--send him away! I'll go too, and Jack shall never see me again. It's all my fault. If I had taken your advice we should never have been married; and you would have been spared the humiliation of having a girl brought into the family whose relations decent people would shudder to meet. My father has come here to rob you, to rob you of thousands, and he will do it."

"No, he will not," cried Lady Hester fiercely. "If it is the emeralds he wants, they can be removed. I can hide them. See here, the key of the safe is in this drawer. I'll take them out now. They'll pack into a very small space."

"No, no, surely they will be more secure in that iron cupboard," exclaimed Mabel, as Lady Hester threw open the door of the safe.

"No, my child. They must be put where he will never dream of looking for them. Ah, I know him better than you do. If I could only tell you--no, no, I must not. We are in the power of an unscrupulous man who will not hesitate to ruin us all to gain his own end--to sacrifice me, and you, and laugh at our sufferings. But he shan't have the emeralds. If I must deceive my husband I won't rob him as well. I am not utterly helpless--oh no. I know things about him that would send him to jail. But, alas! he knows things about me--he can tell a secret--oh, my God! a secret--oh, give me strength to keep my brain steady and my tongue still!"

She beat her forehead with her hands, and walked up and down while Mabel stood by the open door of the safe.

"Why should you be so afraid of my father, Lady Hester? If he is a bad man he must be told that you know it and be sent away. He mustn't be allowed to deceive the Bishop. It is your duty as a wife to tell your husband and take counsel with him. He can help you. He is powerful. My father would not dare to show his face here if the Bishop knew."

"Ah, if the Bishop knew--if he knew!" echoed Lady Hester mechanically, wringing her hands and breaking down hopelessly before the girl. "Can't you see, Mabel, can't you understand, that your father has met me before? He holds a secret of mine. You remember that I told you I had secrets which I kept too well when I married again?"

"You mean that you were married before, and did not tell the Bishop?"

"Was that not bad enough?"

"Do you mean that my father knows that?"

"Yes, child, he knows it only too well, and he would use it against me. Oh, my child--my child--my daughter, my daughter!" cried the agonized woman, flinging herself into Mabel's arms and sobbing piteously. "Ruin stares us in the face. I have sinned enough; I must sin no more. I can keep it to myself no longer."

She seized the girl by the shoulders and held her at arms' length.

"Mabel, look into my face--look into my eyes. Can you not read my awful yet wonderful secret there? Your father has done me one good turn. Have you not noticed my strange emotion whenever I look upon you?"

"You have been very sweet and kind to me. I thought you were sorry for me."

"It is more than that. Look again, child, look again. Does no instinct within you speak? Think--question your soul. Am I not more to you than other women are? Does not my voice ring in your ears with a familiar note, as yours does in mine--as it ever did from the moment we met? Are we not alike--so alike that people say you are the very image of what I was at your age?"

Mabel still had no glimmering of the other's meaning. She saw that something was coming, and waited for more light.

"Mabel, when I told you the secret of those dark days of my girlhood I little dreamed that you were soon to be linked with me in the network of lies that I had woven about myself. I told you of a man who lured me away by plausible words and made me his wife. I told you that he died. God knows, I thought he did. But he lives--he lives."

"Ah, yes, and the man you told me of was a thief, too, was he not?"

"Yes, child, a plausible rogue who played for high stakes and spent money with both hands; who pretended always to be wealthy, and preyed upon fools--a swindler, but yet my husband. He is not dead. Now do you understand, child? Think--think--don't force me to tell you. You must guess it, for I can never confess all. My first husband is not dead. He lives."

"Your first husband lives?" murmured Mabel. "Then the Bishop----"

"Yes, yes--don't look at me like that! Of course, the Bishop isn't my husband now."

"My father knows this, then? Oh, how dreadful!"

"I was deceived. The man tricked me. I thought he was dead, but he has come back to terrify me."

"When did you learn of his existence?" whispered Mabel, forgetting her own troubles and trembling for her friend.

"I learnt it the moment I met your father."

The words were said with impressive deliberation; the two women stood eye to eye, the elder appealing as if for mercy, for forgiveness, for pity. Mabel screamed and started back. She understood, but not all. Lady Hester covered her face.

"My father--my father--you mean my father? He--your husband?"

"Hush, hush, not so loud, girl. The secret must still be kept, hidden forever. When I am dead--when I am dead----"

"What do you mean, Lady Hester--what do you mean? My father?"

"If the worst comes to the worst I shall kill myself. He will be powerless then. But I don't want to die, Mabel, I don't want to die--now that I know--oh, my child, can't you understand the other part of my secret? You don't realize all yet. In that miserable year of married life I had a child--a daughter, who was taken from me--and they told me she was dead. My little girl did not die."

"Who told you she was alive still--my father?"

"Yes."

There was a pause. Mabel's mind was quite incapable of grasping what the other intended to convey. The fact that Lady Hester was her father's wife was more than she could absorb at present. At last the chain of ideas formed in her brain, and she murmured wonderingly, "My father's wife? Then whose child am I? Who was my mother?"

"Mabel, my darling--my daughter--think, think--and understand--and forgive!"

Lady Hester flung herself sobbing into her daughter's arms, and her meaning was plain at last. Mabel screamed, and pushed her away, staring like one demented.

"Mabel, forgive! forgive!" cried the other, dropping to her knees, and appealing passionately with outstretched arms. "I am your mother. Love me--come to me--I did not know."

Mabel still held off, and looked at the appealing woman with wonderment only in her eyes. For a few moments she doubted the other's sanity. The things she was asked to understand were too vast and amazing to be grasped within the space of a minute. Lady Hester's supreme agitation left her quite unmoved, and she regarded her with cold, hard eyes; but her brain was working rapidly. She recalled all the things that had been said, and tried to piece together the broken mosaic of circumstance and relationship. Yet still the only real thing to her was the fact that Lady Hester and her father had met before, and had known one another intimately. Then the truth gradually took shape--the simple possible fact, fraught with unknown terrors and suggestions of deadly sin, flashed out with hideous distinctness. She was Lady Hester's child.

The wretched mother mistook the wild, questioning gaze of the startled girl for loathing and condemnation. She covered her face and wept, still kneeling, and for a long time there was silence, broken at last by Mabel.

"Explain to me--tell me again," she murmured. "You mean that you are my mother?"

Lady Hester nodded, without uncovering her face.

"Then you were never married to my father?"

Lady Hester bowed her head still lower. "I was married, indeed, yes--and I have never ceased to curse the hour that linked me to him forever."

"I don't understand you yet," said the girl quietly, nervously fingering the gold chain at her throat. "You are married to--the Bishop. How could you be married to my father? Besides, my mother died when I was a child."

Lady Hester shook her head and made no further sign. She had said enough--almost too much--and she let it sink in. Mabel's eyes were drawn with pain, her lips paled to bloodlessness, and she swayed with faintness. She put out one hand and tottered helplessly to a chair.

Lady Hester rose wearily, almost afraid to look her daughter in the eyes. She, too, dropped into a chair, the one that was opposite her mirror, and, resting her elbows upon the table, sobbed piteously.

After a pause, Mabel spoke again, this time in a strained, unnatural voice. "Tell me again," she urged. "What you have stated is so amazing, so impossible."

"It is all very simple. I told you the story of my early married life, of my secret marriage with a man who turned out to be a rogue."

"But he died."

"He led me to believe so, in order to be rid of me, or--as he swears now--to free me from the bonds I regretted. I really believed that he was dead. But there was a child which he had already taken from me in order that our secret might be kept; and that died, too, so he declared at the time. I heard of your supposed death first; then of the death of my husband, and I thought I was free to hide my sorrow and my shame, and begin life afresh."

"But if the child died," murmured Mabel, "how was it you knew nothing about it until he told you?"

"The child did not die. Can't you understand, Mabel?--you are the child--he took you from me--he robbed me of you. I am your mother, girl--don't look at me like that. Oh, why are you not glad, Mabel?"

"But you are married to the Bishop--you are respected, and admired by all--yet you say my father was your husband. Were you divorced?"

"He was not so merciful as that. Have I not told you that he led me to believe that he was dead?"

"Dead! Did you not make inquiries?"

"What inquiries could I make? A clergyman came to me with a lie on his lips and declared that he was with him in his last hours, and brought me dying messages. You were supposed to have died a little while before, and I had mourned you deeply."

"Really, I am very stupid," murmured Mabel, passing her hand across her brow as if to clear away the cobwebs of stupefaction; "but where was the child--was I--at the time?"

"You were put out to nurse, taken from me the day you were born. I was then Lady Hester Lennox, you must remember. I never used my husband's name."

"You mean that you were never really married?"

"Oh, yes, we were married. That was the only thing about which there was no doubt."

"And yet you let them take away your child."

"My dear girl, you know your father. Have you ever seen him turned from his purpose by the pleading of a woman? Besides, I thought I was only losing you for a little time. In the interval between your birth and my recovery, I learned your father's true character, and grew to wish that you had never been born. When they told me you were dead I wept, but I was almost glad that you were spared a life of humiliation, of suffering--perhaps of infamy."

"And you accepted the news of your baby's death without question? You never went to see it, or to look at the place where it was buried?"

"No, no, child. It was little more than a name to me. I had borne it, but scarce held it in my arms for an hour. I was very ill when they took you away; that was all I ever saw of you. But fate has brought us together again, Mabel; and now you will love me, and I shall realize my dearest ambition. I have a daughter--ah! and such a beautiful daughter, too! Mabel----"

She came over impulsively, and dropped on one knee before the girl, seizing her hand. Mabel drew away as if shocked--she could not have explained why. It was all unreal and baffling. She had suffered much already from the realization of her father's true character; now her best friend was suddenly transformed into a guilty mother.

Mother! A thing possessed by other girls, a being who belonged to the tender period of infancy and childhood, a sympathetic guide who led tottering footsteps in wise and gentle paths. But to her, mother was only a name. She had never known such guidance; and now that she had grown to womanhood, and her whole heart was absorbed in the one great love of a husband, she did not seem to want a mother.

Women rarely judge women justly. They are ever ready to suspect a fault, to believe that there is worse behind.

"I can't really believe or understand what you have told me yet awhile," she murmured faintly, rising and moving blindly towards the door. "I must think about it."

"Mabel, don't go--don't go like that, without a word of love for me, your mother. I am your mother. Think--think--understand! Believe me. You don't doubt the truth of what I have told you?"

"I don't doubt anything you say; but I--I seem to have been deceived ever since I was born, to have been in the way, and to have belonged to nobody. Now you say that you are my mother. I can't tell you why I am not pleased. I thought you were just my friend, Lady Hester Cardew. I often wished that you were my mother. Once or twice, while I was here, and you were very kind to me, I wept, thinking that I had no mother like you, but now I have no tears. We women seem only to be the curse of men. Poor Jack knows nothing of this. What will he do when he finds out? What will he do?"

"He must never know--he must never know," cried the wretched mother. "Oh, Mabel," again appealing to her on her knees, "Mabel, don't drive me to kill myself. I'm a wretched sinful woman; but I have sinned without real wickedness. My motives were never evil. I've always done what I thought best, and I struggled hard--oh, so hard--to atone for that foolishness of marrying your father. I loved him well enough then; but love dies when respect is gone. He has us both at his mercy, Mabel. We must stand and fall together, you and I--Mabel, don't leave me like that!"

But the girl had gone. She fled from her guilty mother's presence, maddened by the piteous cries which were beginning to find a dull echo in her heart. She dared not stay. She wanted to be alone, to think over the things that she had heard, and sort out the evil from the good. This peaceful old house had become a hot-bed of intrigue and infamy, in which everybody seemed to be conspiring to deceive the one good and noble person in it--the Bishop.

Lady Hester was disappointed to the verge of despair. Her confession had cost much, and she had expected great things from it--a friend, a daughter, an ally, a confidante. Instead, she was left alone in the middle of an appeal, shunned, deserted, spurned.

Mabel had not intended to convey that impression. She was simply overwhelmed, and fled for solitude; but when she had gone, the unhappy mother collapsed, and fell prone upon the floor, sobbing as though her heart would break.

She was recalled to the urgent need of self-control by the slamming of a door near by. The Bishop had come up to dress for dinner. He had just parted from Bannister in the corridor, where they had been laughing hugely over some joke.

There was no time to be lost; she struggled to her feet, and moved rapidly to the mirror, where she saw a white-faced, haggard woman; but the eyes were very little tear-stained; they had grown accustomed to the salt flow of sorrow's balm, and showed scarce a trace of weeping. She mastered herself with a great effort, smoothed her disarranged hair and dabbed some eau de cologne on her throbbing temples.

She was dressed in a plain black satin gown, a frock chosen with feminine instinct, in the hope that it would not inflame Dick Gordon's admiration. He had praised her gown of the night before and talked of it on their motor ride, showing an intimate knowledge of its every detail. But the simple black gown, instead of concealing the voluptuous lines of her generously-moulded figure, only intensified them.

There were still fifteen minutes before dinner, fifteen minutes in which to get herself in hand, and face her two husbands at the dinner table--and Mabel. The ordeal was more dreaded for Mabel's sake than her own. She had been well schooled in suffering, and had become accustomed to the hard usage of fate, as revealed in the last few hours; but the girl was young and tender, impressionable and bewildered. She began to understand her daughter's brusque departure, when she critically reviewed the situation, and grew calmer, herself.

The Bishop was tramping about heavily in the next room humming as he dressed. She hoped that he would not call her, or come in, as he often did, to chat about the day's doings while he dressed. Her one idea now was to avoid him until other people were present.

She was afraid to go down stairs for fear of encountering Bannister--and afraid of going outside her room for fear of meeting Aunt Caroline, and having to listen to the old lady's tirades against the proposed marriage. Besides, she was conscious that the Bishop's sister was a woman with sharp eyes, who could see things where the Bishop was blind.

"Hester, my darling," cried a voice in the next room. The Bishop walked across the resounding parquet to her bedroom door. She choked down a lump in her throat, and answered with assumed indifference. He stopped at the door, and did not come in.

"Hester, my dear, don't forget the emeralds."

"What about them?" she asked, remembering in a flash Mabel's warning.

"I want you to wear them to-night, my dear. It would please Bannister. He is a collector of gems, a judge, an enthusiast. You never wear jewels now. Put them on--just to please me."

"Oh, not to wear them, dear," she murmured wearily. "They really are so heavy; besides, they are locked away, and I can't get at them."

He tried the handle of the door. "May I come in?"

She attempted to say no, but only a gasping sound escaped her lips. He entered in his shirt sleeves, fastening his collar round his red fat throat. He never before seemed so big and unwieldy, or so unprepossessing. His face was deeply lined, his nose was big, and his eyes were large and prominent--a fine face in a photograph or in a pulpit; but a great contrast to her own delicate, flower-like personality.

With feminine inconsistency she caught herself vaguely comparing him with the graceful and handsome Dick Gordon down stairs, and there was no comparison possible. The great-hearted, clumsy old man and the polished, dandified idler were totally dissimilar.

"You are still looking pale, my dear," murmured the Bishop, thrusting her gently aside from the mirror, and with characteristic egotism adjusting his collar to a nice finish. "Why can't you wear the emeralds, my dear? I wish it."

"They are so hideous."

"I'm sure I don't see why. I remember my grandmother wore them with great pride, and looked well in them. Sir Thomas Lawrence painted her with the emerald necklace; and surely he would have made her discard it rather than paint anything that would detract from the artistic value of his picture."

"They're in the safe, buried away."

"Then let's have them out, dear. Why, they've been writing about them in the papers lately. I thought they were forgotten; but Sinclair tells me that they have taken to paragraphing us both, in our peculiarities and virtues, family pedigree and all, for the benefit of servant girls and old ladies who glory in the family affairs of the people whom they never see and cannot possibly meet. Is this collar straight, my dear? You might just settle it at the back."

She adjusted the collar with shaking fingers, and he looked down at her from his six feet with a benevolent smile of proud possession; but when he held her by her arms and kissed her she drew away shuddering.

"Upon my word, I believe I startled you. There is no need to jump away, wife, because your husband kisses you. There is no sin in admiring a beautiful possession. I think you're looking lovelier than ever. You make me feel such an old boy--not that my pulses don't beat as strongly as many a young man's; and I am sure I value my darling more than a young man would. There, there, don't look frightened."

He pinched her cheek playfully between his big, fat finger and thumb and laughed boisterously. The laugh ended in a cough and a choke, and he put his hand upon his heart, breathing heavily.

"Dear, dear, I'm always catching my breath like that lately, and it gives me such a wrench. The other day in the pulpit it stopped my utterance altogether."

He thumped his chest and forgot his wife again in his concern about Bishop Cardew, who was really the most important person in the universe--to the Bishop of Ripley.

At the door he turned, remembering the emeralds.

"You will wear them, my dear. I really wish it."

This was tantamount to a command. He seldom insisted without securing implicit, unquestioned obedience. Having spoken, he returned to his own room, leaving the door ajar behind him. She closed it with a snap and turned the key. Then she also locked the door leading to the corridor as well, and returned to her mirror.

No, the black was a mistake. She had forgotten that Dick liked to see her in black. He had always raved about her in black velvet. He might remember the dress she bought in Paris--he would think of that again, to-night. He would be sitting opposite her, devouring her with his eyes, watching her slyly under those long lashes, and talking to John all the time, as though he were interested in every word that fell from the Bishop's lips. All the while he would be thinking about her--in Paris in the velvet frock, and that night when--No!

She tore at the fastenings of her bodice and began to undress. But the chimes of the clock over the stable warned her that there was no time. Wrenching open a drawer she took out some lace to veil her charms. This she arranged about her throat. Then, taking a key from her dressing case, she opened the safe. It was full of the Bishop's private books and a few pieces of special plate; but upon an upper shelf was a large leather case, two feet wide, which she took out and laid upon a chair. On lifting the lid a glass case was disclosed. This needed to be unlocked, and formed a second lid. Underneath, spread out on a velvet cushion, were the famous emeralds, a necklace, a tiara of an old-fashioned type, heavy bracelets, heavy earrings, and three clasp brooches, all full of immense stones.

She looked at them with disgust--and yet again with fright. Mabel had warned her that Bannister had come down to steal these hideous jewels; but it was outside the range of probability, in view of the fact that Mabel was married to the Bishop's son. Besides, he was obviously anxious to ingratiate himself with the family, so was it likely that he had come to rob? Mabel must have exaggerated what she had heard. Dick Gordon was too astute for clumsy work of that kind; besides, it would put him in her power, and this alone was sufficient to secure the safety of the jewels.

No; it was not the emeralds which had brought him here. He meant to use the Bishop as a surety of respectability--a medium for the re-cloaking of his frayed and threadbare social reputation. The doubters--many of them discredited, being unable to produce proof--who had suspected Richard Bannister of cheating at cards and sharp practice generally, and were ready to give him the cold shoulder, would change their minds when his daughter had married the Bishop of Ripley's son. Besides, the Bishop's set would introduce him to a newer, simpler, and more plunderable clientele. Lady Hester felt a certain sense of security concerning the gems when she arrived at this decision relating to his presence at the Palace.

She took the necklace from its bed of velvet and clasped it round her throat, and it really did not look so ugly against the lace as when she had tried it on before. The real value of the stones was unknown to her, and even if she had known it the gems would have had no more interest for her, since a guinea jewel that pleased her artistic sense was more precious than a ten thousand pound necklace that lacked real beauty.

Whatever Bannister's intentions were, the necklace was safest round her neck. The other jewels, which contained the largest stones, she could not possibly wear, and the safe seemed the wisest receptacle. A moment's thought convinced her that this was not so. The most likely place for storing them was also the most likely place to be attacked if common robbery were really contemplated. Any other hiding place was better than a marked receptacle, the situation of which was known to the whole household.

She gathered the jewels up roughly into a double handful, and looked round for a suitable place. There was nothing handier than her nightdress sachet in the adjoining room. Under her pillow was the last place a burglar would think of looking for valuables. The bed was already turned down, and no one would be likely to touch it.

She had just finished her task of concealment when the door of the dressing room was shaken roughly. The Bishop demanded admittance again.

"Hester, my darling, I'm not feeling at all up to the mark this evening; and Bannister keeps one on the stretch so. I wish you would apply yourself to entertaining him, so that I can get a few minutes after dinner in the library. And, by the bye, see that Caroline remains with you and doesn't follow me. I can see by her face that she is preparing another long attack. Ah, the emeralds! That's right, my dear, they look excellent. I'm sure you ought to wear them oftener. What is there ugly about them?"

He examined them closely. "The stones are large, aren't they? I suppose emeralds of immense size have a fancy value?"

"Yes, I wish you'd keep them at the bank, John. Nobody ever sees them; and nobody is interested in family heirlooms but one's own people."

"Don't you think they're safe--not in there?" pointing to the huge iron door which swung out into the room.

"That is really only a fireproof safe, John. That immense thickness, I am told, is meant to resist flames, not burglars."

"But we have never been troubled with burglars."

"All the more reason that we may be. Think of the value of these stones, John, and what they might mean to Jack some day. If the worst came to the worst, they would save him from financial ruin--if they are of the immense value that people say in the papers."

"Tut, tut, who listens to the gossip in the papers?"

"But even if they are worth a few thousands, they represent an income."

"Nonsense, Jack will have plenty of income by and by from Caroline."

"But he may not get it."

"He must, he must. You'll have to talk Caroline round. But there, there, I can't be bothered with these things now. I've got a meeting to-morrow and a sermon, and my head is splitting and my heart thumping, with excitement, or indigestion, or something. I would really like to escape dinner to-night."

"No, no, John. Caroline is making herself so absolutely horrid to Mr. Bannister that I don't know what would happen if you were away. Besides, I don't like the man myself, and--I shouldn't know what to say to him."

"You don't like Bannister, my dear? You surprise me. He's just the sort of elegant dilettante that women like, and racy, too--splendid story teller. Ah, there, but my wife, I suppose, is more serious minded. Well, well, we've only got to be civil to him for a little while. We like the girl well enough; but we needn't see more of the father than common courtesy demands when Jack is married. In the meantime, the laws of hospitality must be carefully observed, my dear--every one of them."

"I wish you would fall ill, John--I mean, conveniently ill--and do something to put an end to this visit. It is boring me horribly."

"My dear, you would not have me practice deception in order to avoid the fulfilment of a common civility, a family duty. You're run down, Hester, or you wouldn't talk like this. You're looking a little worn, too. You must get into the fresh air. Let Bannister take you about in his motor. I am sure it must be an exhilarating pastime, though I can't bear fast riding myself, it gives me palpitation."

"I would rather not got out in his motor. I would much rather go out in our own carriage."

"Well, then, drive him round, if he'll go, and show him the neighborhood. Has he been over the Cathedral?"

"Not yet."

"Well, there's a mine of entertainment for you."

Lady Hester, if she had not been so wretched, could have smiled at the idea of Dick Gordon finding a mine of entertainment in a cathedral.

"I'll tell him to take you about a bit, and wake you up, Hester. You find life here rather dull. Yes, you do, it's no good protesting. Bannister in his motor car can take your further afield and shake you up a little. Yes, yes, he must. You must know him better, and like him better. I wish it. There are the chimes. Let us go down."

He took his wife's arm, and led her to the landing. They went out, leaving the door of the safe wide open.

The servants were all down stairs at this hour--except Voss, and the maid whom Lady Hester had placed at Mabel's disposal. These two were gossiping at the end of the corridor; but Mabel had already gone down. On seeing her mistress and the Bishop, the woman slipped away to the back staircase, for she had duties below. Voss was left alone on the upper floor. He, too, disappeared, apparently into his master's room.

Lady Hester and the Bishop had reached the bottom step of the winding stone staircase before the dazed and agitated woman remembered the safe door.

"John, I've left the safe open."

"Oh, that'll be all right."

"No, I'd rather see to it. You are very careless in these matters, John."

"My servants have always been honest, thank God, and I have an infinite faith in Providence and the force of association. No one would think of stealing in my house, I hope."

"Never mind, I will go up."

She ran upstairs quickly and silently, lifting her rustling skirts high to allow a greater speed. She was at the top of the staircase and in her bedroom in a moment. The intervening door between the sleeping apartment and the dressing room was closed. She tried the handle; but it would not open. She groped for the key, and it was not there. She remembered locking the door and unlocking it but could not remember removing the key. While searching for it she heard a scuffling sound.

There was another door into the dressing room leading from the corridor. By going from her bedroom into the corridor she could get in that way if the door was unlocked. It was generally fastened except when the maid needed ingress and egress during the hours of dressing in the morning and evening; but it might be open.

She slipped round, and, as she left her bedroom, she was just in time to see Voss glide out of the dressing room into the corridor.

It was not possible to accuse him of having been in the dressing room. He was stooping down to pick up a pin, and looking quite unconcerned. She stood still, rooted to the spot with fear.

He rose slowly to an upright position, examined the pin in the light of the lamp above, and leisurely thrust it into the end of his waistcoat. Then, as though he saw her for the first time, he became conscious of her ladyship's presence. He jumped, and drew aside submissively and respectfully.

She found her voice. "What were you doing in my room?"

"I in your room, my lady? I was standing here."

She made no further comment, but passed in. The door of the safe, which had been left wide open, was almost closed. Voss had passed on. She shut the door of the room, and carried the electric lamp as far as the wire would allow to make an examination of the interior of the safe. Everything was as she had left it. The heirloom case on the top shelf, the books untouched, the small boxes containing ordinary trinkets and personal treasures all in their places.

"I was in time," she gasped, with her hand upon her heart, breathing heavily. "That was his man. I seemed to recognize his voice. Mabel is right."

Then, with a sudden burst of fury, she cried aloud, "He shan't--he shan't!" and slammed the door of the safe with a bang that shook the house. She turned the key in the lock, and dropped it down her bosom.

She was at bay now. So long as it was a personal matter between herself and Dick Gordon he had her at a disadvantage; he was able to disarm her with a cynical smile. But a common robbery--that was a thing he must do by stealth, and she intended to be a match for him.