Front matter (continued 4)

"Who is being pursued?" she asked, "and what is all the disturbance about?"

"Don't you know that this is the hiding-place of the notorious highwayman, Robin Freemantle, who is also suspected of being an active agent of the Jacobite plotters in Scotland? It is strange that you should be alone here, Madam, and yet know nothing of this man's escape! My orders are to arrest him and all persons found in his company; therefore you must consider yourself under arrest."

"Arrest me if you will," she replied, "but if you refuse to take me to the Duchess of Marlborough or the queen, the consequences be on your own head. Rest assured that there will be honors and promotion for the gallant soldier who protects one of the ladies of the court and brings her and the treasure she has recovered to safety. But to thrust one of my condition"—her eyes flashed and she raised her head with indignant pride—"into prison, will certainly bring disgrace or worse upon you. I have influence with the duchess and through her, with the duke."

The officer was young and not altogether insensible either to the sweet, imperious voice, or the arguments it propounded. He hesitated, and meeting the earnest eyes raised to his, began to waver. This was evidently a great lady. Her elegant dress and haughty manner abashed him, and he began to think that if he took her to the Tower in place of Robin Freemantle, she might prove a dangerous substitute.

"Come, come, Sir Officer," Prue went on, reading the changes of his expression with an experienced eye, "do not be so hard to convince." She smiled up at him now with a bewitching petulance and laid her slender hand on his arm. "'Tis but a step to Marlborough House and I am in a fever to see the duchess. I was, perhaps, indiscreet in coming to this strange place alone, but the hope of finding the jewels turned my foolish head and put all other considerations out of it. I fear I ran a desperate risk; I might have been attacked by robbers, instead of rescued by soldiers! I shall never forget that I owe my safety, perhaps my life, to you!"

By this time the lieutenant was in complete subjection. "I am most fortunate, Madam, in being of some service to you!" he said gallantly. "When I came here to take a prisoner, I little expected to become a captive myself."

Prue finished him off with a glance of irresistible archness. "Oh! I am quite reconciled to my arrest now," she protested. "Indeed, I should claim your escort, if I did not feel sure that you would wish to see the queen's necklace safely through its adventures. Fortunate man! there is not an officer in the duke's army, who would not envy your good luck."

"I can well believe it!" he cried, with an ardent glance. "I would not change places with a general!"

"The duchess appreciates devotion as much as her husband does courage," said Prue, with tantalizing demureness.

"And the Lady Prudence Brooke—does she also appreciate devotion?" the young officer murmured hurriedly. "Oh! if I could believe so—"

"You would take me to Marlborough House instead of the Tower?" she interrupted quickly. "Prove your devotion by doing so, and afterward"—she lingered softly on the word—"we will talk about appreciation."

The soldiers, by this time, having ransacked the house without finding anything suspicious, one of them was despatched to fetch a chair for Lady Prudence, and leaving a guard at the house in case of Robin's return, the lieutenant and the rest of his soldiers escorted the prisoner—and the necklace—to Marlborough House.

CHAPTER XIX

IN THE DUCHESS' APARTMENTS

Any doubts that Prue's escort might have secretly entertained as to the credibility of her strange story, were set at rest the moment she entered the doors of Marlborough House. Her reception was that of the elect; a privileged guest whom all delighted to honor. The obsequious flunkeys bowed before her, and the stately Groom of the Chambers, by whose command the lieutenant was shown into a waiting-room, himself carried the Lady Prue's request for an audience of the duchess on most pressing business.

The anterooms were thronged with visitors whose curiosity had been whetted by a rumor that the long-expected had happened, and that the queen had gladly availed herself of the loss of her jewels as an excuse for humiliating the tyrannical favorite whose exactions had lately increased in proportion to the waning of her influence. It was whispered that the queen had been most reluctant to attend the masquerade, and that the duchess, fearing that she might repeat the slight of a recent public occasion (when Her Majesty had declined to appear in regal state in compliment to her), had exercised her privilege as Mistress of the Robes, and caused certain jewels to be conveyed to the royal tiring-room in Marlborough House. But the queen, on her arrival, had signalized her disapproval of this audacious proceeding, by refusing to make any alteration in the conspicuously simple costume she wore, and the jewels—among which the necklace was the most important—were left in the tiring-room in care of the attendants.

All this, however, was mere gossip. Those more friendly to the duchess discredited the whole story and claimed to know that no royal jewels had come into the house, except on the queen's person, and that if any were mislaid, they would certainly be found either at Kensington Palace, where Her Majesty had been residing for some weeks, or St. James', where she had passed the previous day, in order to incur as little fatigue as possible in attending the masquerade.

Ladies Rialton and Monthemer, with other members of the ducal family and household, flitted from group to group, making light of the rumored estrangement between "poor, unfortunate, faithful Mrs. Morley" and her erstwhile inseparable and all-powerful friend, and vowing that nothing kept them apart but the violent illness of the duchess, over whom the physicians were in consultation as to the propriety of bleeding her to avert an attack of fever. But all hints and allusions to the lost necklace were ignored, and those who were hardy enough to put their inquiries into plain words, were met with diplomatic replies that neither affirmed nor denied anything.

With a greeting here and a hand-pressure there, Prue threaded her way through the crowd and hurried up-stairs to the duchess' private apartments. The way led past the little conservatory where she had sat with Robin last night. It was dark now and the entrance was blocked with tubs containing the orange-trees and shrubs which had adorned the grand stair-case and entrance-hall. Prue's heart beat a shade faster and a pang of remorse assailed her at the thought that by introducing Robin to this sequestered part of the house she had exceeded her privilege as a guest, and exposed both Robin and herself to a suspicion that only her utmost ingenuity could dissipate.

In the duchess' dressing-room a little throng of ladies-in-waiting and intimate friends welcomed her warmly. Deep concern sat upon every face as they listened to the hysterical cries and moans, in which the patient in the adjoining bedroom gave expression to her sufferings, and the broken exclamations and fierce invectives by which she called upon her doctors and attendants to bear witness to the ingratitude and perfidy of the queen, and the baseness of her minions.

While Prue hesitated about intruding, the doctor and the apothecary came out. The former hurried away with a red face and air of offended dignity, and his satellite only lingered long enough to assure the ladies that her grace, having refused to be blooded and having ordered the two medicos from her presence under pain of a drenching with their own potions, nothing could be done for her until she could be brought into a more reasonable mood.

"I must see her at once," said Prue, with decision. "I have a cure for her malady far more efficacious than all the court physicians' nostrums."

"Why, do you come from the queen? Has she found her diamond necklace?" A dozen eager questioners crowded about her, but with a smile of mysterious but encouraging significance, Prue reiterated her demand and at last escaped from further interrogation, by making her way unannounced into the presence of the duchess.

The great lady lay upon her bed, her disordered dress and disheveled hair revealing the ravages of time, which she usually disguised with so much skill. Her tire-women vainly attempted to soothe her by chafing her feet and hands and fanning her flushed and swollen face.

"Who is that?" she screamed, catching sight of Prue. "Go away—I can not see any one—I am very ill—I am dying! Make haste to pay your court to Masham—Masham! the creature I raised out of the mire—the kitchen-wench, who will queen it to-morrow when I am dead! Oh! oh! oh!" And the hysterics were resumed with wilder frenzy than ever.

"Leave her to me," said Prue to the women. "I can cure her, but I must have her to myself for a few minutes." They looked from one to the other with bewildered eyes, wondering at Prue's audacity, yet unable to resist her calm tone of authority.

When they had withdrawn to the farther end of the room, she bent over the shrieking, raving duchess, and said, in a quiet, penetrating voice, "The necklace is not lost, it is quite safe."

The cries ceased with almost ludicrous suddenness. "What do you say?" gasped the patient.

"I will tell you all about it as soon as you are able to lie still and listen," said Prue, who had laid her plans on her way from Essex Street, and had her story all ready. The duchess quieted down and turned her face partly toward her.

"Is that Prudence Brooke?" she asked. "If you know anything about that accursed necklace, tell me quickly, before it is the death of me."

"I have news of it," said Prue, passing a cool, soothing hand over the hot brow and brushing away the heavy, straggling masses of hair, once the pride of Sarah Churchill and the envy of rival beauties. "If the necklace is returned what reward will you give the finder?"

"Reward? Oh! he shall be well rewarded; the finder need not be afraid to ask his own price," cried the duchess. "And yet the thing is worthless to any one, child—worse than worthless—it is deadly! No one would steal it except to injure me! But they shall swing for it, no matter who is at the bottom of it. It is a conspiracy of those who hate me—"

"It is a mistake," interrupted Prue; "the necklace was not stolen, it was taken by—by accident."

"Accident! Oh, I know what kind of accident it was; it was a conspiracy, I tell you!" the duchess reiterated.

"It was a mistake," Prue urged. "I am sure I can prove it."

"Prove it a conspiracy, Prudence Brooke—prove it so that I can get my revenge upon these wretches and you may ask what reward you will. Honors and emoluments shall be heaped upon you—"

"I want neither!" cried Prue vehemently. "That is, the finder would not accept money or anything of that kind." She began to feel uneasy at the threatening tone the duchess took, and her nimble wit jumped for shelter. "For myself," she said, in her most cajoling way, "I would ask a favor—not now, but later—and I want you to promise that you will grant it, no matter how strange and unreasonable it may seem."

The duchess, who was now quite collected, sat up and looked searchingly into the guileless blue eyes, bent so eagerly upon her. "You would not ask anything that would injure me?" she said slowly. "My enemies are so many and so wily, I fear to trust—even you. Is it something you want for yourself? If so, I promise."

"A thousand thanks," cried Prue. "I may never ask for anything; certainly never for anything that would hurt my dear benefactress to grant. 'Twas but a fancy. And such strange things happen—one never knows what one may be led into. I have had the strangest adventure to-night—"

"Another time, dear Prue," the duchess interrupted; "I can think of nothing now but the necklace."

"Yet you will own," persisted Prue, "when you have heard it to the end, that it is worth listening to. 'Twas thus—as soon as I heard of your grace's troubles, I set out to offer my heartfelt condolences. Scarce a hundred yards from home, the chair was stopped and a rough hand thrust a paper through the curtains. Here it is; shall I fetch a lamp for you to read it by?"

"No, read it to me. I have wept myself purblind," replied the duchess, without attempting to disguise her impatience and lack of interest.

Prue unfolded the paper, now soiled and crumpled from frequent handling, and read:

"MISTRESS BROOKE:

"Follow the bearer and you will find the queen's diamond necklace."

The duchess started up and seized her arms convulsively. "Is this true, Prue?" she demanded tragically. "Then why did you not go at once without coming to make terms with me first?"

Prue was too well acquainted with the suspicious and selfish nature of the woman to take any offense. "I thought you would be interested," she replied sweetly. "Have a moment's patience and I will tell you how, reckless of consequences, I ordered the chairmen to follow this unknown leader, who took us through narrow by-streets, where I momentarily expected to be waylaid and perhaps murdered. But my desire to serve your grace was stronger than my fears; besides, as you are well aware, I am not very timid, especially when there is an adventure to the fore—"

"Yes, yes, I know how reckless you are, but where did you find the necklace?" the duchess broke in.

"I am coming to that. The chair stopped at last and I descended in a dark and muddy street, where I followed my conductor afoot to a lonely house, apparently uninhabited."

"Prudence—you reckless girl—you ventured into such a place alone and unprotected!" exclaimed the duchess, excited to such a pitch by the story that she absolutely forgot its reference to herself. "What madness!"

"Oh! that is nothing to what I would have done, if necessary, for—for your grace's sake," cried Prue. "But I confess that all my devotion was needed to keep up my courage. Inside the house my situation was even more terrifying. All was dark and empty—it seemed the very place for secret deeds of horror—yet no attempt was made to harm me; not a living creature appeared except the person who wrote this message and who, without any ado, placed this in my hand and begged me to take it away."

Having now arrived at the climax of her story, Prue drew forth the emblazoned casket and displayed the diamond necklace.

The duchess snatched it from her and gazed at it with entranced eyes. She flung her arms about Prue, calling her a heroine and a marvel, and the truest friend woman ever had.

"Any one but you would have gone straight to the queen and left me to my fate. There are those about that ungrateful woman who would have paid mighty high for such a chance of humiliating me. What reward did the robber demand, and how did you satisfy him?"

"There was no robber; only an old woman," said Prue, whipping out her carefully planned lie without a tremor. "I know not how she came by it, but she asked for no reward and only seemed to wish to be rid of it. Indeed, there was no time for me to ask an explanation, if she had one to give, for at the very moment when the casket was in my hands, there arose a hubbub in the street outside and the house was surrounded by soldiers. The old woman disappeared as if by magic, and when the soldiers broke into the room I was alone; nor could they find any trace of her, though they battered the place to pieces."

"She shall be found and compelled to give up her accomplice," cried the duchess furiously. "Soldiers surrounded the house, and yet the miscreant escaped! Pretty soldiers, forsooth!"

"Yes, truly," cried Prue; "and more than that—they arrested poor little me—because I was all alone there with the queen's diamonds; think of that! I had a narrow escape of spending the night in jail! However, my tears and entreaties prevailed upon them to bring me here, and all that remains to be done is to dismiss my captors, and permit me to take my leave of your grace."

"Not so fast, Prue; you have still something to do for me," said the duchess. "I must hasten to the queen and you must go with me, and repeat what you have just told me. Marie!—Alice!—leave off chattering and tire me with all despatch. I must see the queen without a moment's loss of time."

"Surely, 'tis too late to-night," remonstrated Prue, who was sinking with fatigue. "Her Majesty will have retired."

"That's no matter," retorted the duchess arrogantly; "I am still Mistress of the Robes, and by virtue of my office entitled to enter the queen's bed-chamber at all hours of day or night. You must accompany me, and repeat your story, else I might be discredited by the reptiles who are for ever at the royal ear, poisoning poor, faithful Mrs. Morley's mind against her once beloved Mrs. Freeman. Come, I am ready."

As they descended by a private staircase to take the carriage, the Groom of the Chambers approached, and deferentially inquired what was to be done with the Viscountess Brooke's military escort.

"Faith, 'tis the honest soldier who wanted to hale me off to jail," cried Prue in reply to the duchess' look of surprised inquiry. "He came prepared to arrest a houseful of robbers or conspirators—he seemed uncertain just which—and finding me alone, with the queen's necklace in my hand, would have taken me to prison if I had not coaxed him to bring me to you first. If I might venture to suggest that your grace bid him attend us, he can corroborate my story, if needful."

"Let him come," the duchess commanded. "I would I had a hundred witnesses that it was not found in Marlborough House."

CHAPTER XX

A THREAT AND A PROMISE

When Prue reached home, about midnight, Peggie, who had been watching at the window during several anxious hours, met her at the door and almost carried her up-stairs in a strenuous embrace.

"Was that the Marlborough carriage?" she demanded eagerly.

"Yes; the duchess insisted on bringing me home."

"Then all is well; you have no idea how uneasy I have been. About ten o'clock, Sir Geoffrey came to see you; on a matter of the utmost importance, he declared, and the mysterious hints he threw out about the danger your rashness and love of adventure had led you into, positively drove me distracted."

"I am deeply indebted to him for his solicitude," said Prue disdainfully, "but the worst danger my rashness ever brought me near—that of marrying Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—is happily averted. 'Tis true I have committed other follies—one of which has snatched me from the jaws of that peril, only to plunge me into a host of others, from which I know not how I shall extricate myself. Alack! my dearest Peg, methinks poor Prue is but a sorry fool after all's said."

Peggie's countenance fell into an expression of deep concern. For Prue to express a doubt of her own ready wit, was to utter heresy against the first article of Peggie's faith in her.

"Why, what has happened?" Peggie asked, almost tearfully.

"Oh! nothing but good: indeed, the Fates have showered me with good luck until I am afraid I shall be buried alive under it."

"Come, there are worse ways of being buried than that," cried Peggie, brightening up. "A fig for Sir Geoffrey's croaking, if there be nothing else to fear. Now tell me where you have been all the evening; with the duchess, of course, as she brought you home?"

"Not all the time. First I found the necklace. Then I took it to the duchess and together we returned it to the queen. And now, Peggie, bring down your eyebrows out of your hair and don't open your mouth wide enough to engulf me, and I'll tell you everything that has happened to me, if you will undress me, for I am too tired to move a finger."

Peggie most gladly set to work and had her cousin unlaced and unpinned and comfortably tucked in bed, long before the history of the evening's events had been expounded. From her, Prue hid nothing; in fact she was craving to pour her confidence into that kindly ear and receive such ungrudging sympathy and shrewd advice as the circumstances prompted.

When Peggie had exhausted the vocabulary of astonishment, admiration, congratulation and anticipation—had shuddered at Prue's danger, laughed at her wily devices, marveled incredulously at her passionate avowal of love, and rejected all possibility of fear for Robin's safety, she withdrew reluctantly, declaring that she should not close an eye that night—and was fast asleep almost before her head reached the pillow.

Prue was less fortunate, and for an hour or two tossed and turned, vainly trying every soothing device to calm her racked nerves and woo repose.

While Peggie the optimistic was beside her, Robin's escape appeared more than probable; she could almost persuade herself that it was an accomplished fact. But it looked less certain, now her blood ran cool, and her high spirit flagged in the darkness and silence of night. Her faith in his courage and resource could not entirely resist the paralyzing touch of fear, and even her confidence in the value of the pledge she had extracted from the duchess was shaken by the unmistakable coolness of the queen, who had listened in silence to the explanations of her former favorite and reserved all her praises and expressions of satisfaction for Prue, to whom she had been cordiality itself.

Toward morning she slept so long and heavily, that Peggie came and went a dozen times before the long lashes lifted and the sweet blue eyes smiled drowsily up at her. And even when she woke she was loath to rise, and fain to rest more than once during the tedious process of her toilet, interrupted as it was by an obsequious procession of mercers and modistes, eager to make their peace with the restored favorite by the most pressing and disinterested services.

But a curious change had come over the wilful beauty, and instead of throwing herself heart and soul into the entrancing discussions of hoops and pouffes, sarsenet and tabbinet, plumes and perfumes, she declined the counsel of this one and the coaxing of that one, and sent the sycophant crowd away wondering what had happened to turn the most extravagant of court butterflies niggardly. The most bewitching "head," the richest farthingale, won but a passing glance and a word of careless criticism, and when Peggie, almost as dissatisfied as the rejected tradesfolk, remonstrated against such a blind neglect of opportunity, Prue lay back wearily in her chair and dropping her arms loosely at her side, said impatiently:

"Cousin, Cousin—I am sick to death of it all!"

"All of what?" cried Peggie briskly. "All you have lost for a whole year and won back in less than a week?"

"Aye, all that and more; sick of court and courtiers, sick of idle men and vapid women, sick of myself most of all—"

Then she sprang to her feet and burst out laughing. "What a fool I am, Peg, and what a fool you look standing there, open-mouthed, drinking in my vaporings as though you never had heard me grumble before! Did you think I was in earnest? Why, I was never so happy in my life. Did not the queen kiss me on the cheek, and the duchess swear to give me whatever I might ask of her; even the first choice of the places she has no longer to dispose of and the royal favors that she can no longer influence? Am I not invited to Windsor as lady-in-waiting on probation and lauded to the skies as a heroine by—"

"Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert wishes to know if your ladyship will receive him."

The voice of James at the door produced a silence so profound that after a short pause he repeated his message in a louder tone. "Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert is below, my Lady, and wishes to see your ladyship most particularly."

"You had better see him," said Peggie, in response to Prue's startled and questioning glance.

"I will see Sir Geoffrey," said Prue. "Tell him I will be down immediately."

"Shall I come with you?" asked Peggie.

"Oh, no, no. I can play my little comedy better to an audience of one; besides, you know the truth!" she cried, and ran to the mirror to see if the battery of her charms was in order for the fray.

Sir Geoffrey, his face set in a mechanical smile, met her with a deep bow and pressed a ceremonious kiss upon her extended hand.

"Permit your slave to offer his humble congratulations, my dear Prudence," he said; "I hear that you have distinguished yourself with even more than your usual brilliancy."

"You allude to the fortunate accident that enabled me to return the lost necklace to Her Majesty, I presume?" Prue replied, seating herself and negligently pointing with her fan to a sufficiently distant chair. "I assure you I deem myself most happy in rendering a service, which has been only too highly appreciated, but I can not lay claim to brilliancy, for I was but a passive instrument."

"The brilliancy I refer to, dear Viscountess, was not so much the 'fortunate accident' as the ready wit by which you turned so compromising an adventure to such good account," said Sir Geoffrey significantly.

The challenge of his tone and words was unmistakable and Prue responded with more spirit than wisdom.

"You must speak more plainly if you wish to be understood," she answered. "Compromising adventures, you know very well, are not rare in my experience—or yours"—she laughed rather maliciously—"but I seldom turn them to good account. Now, the accident that gave the queen's necklace into my hands—"

"Was the happy result of a little visit to Newgate," interposed Sir Geoffrey, with veiled insolence. "Why beat about the bush with me, dearest girl? I know who gave you the necklace—when he was warned, by you, of the danger of keeping it! and how it came about that he was lucky enough to escape before the soldiers arrived to arrest him."

"What in the world are you talking about, Sir Geoffrey?" she cried, with rather over-acted bewilderment.

"What is every one talking about to-day, but the madcap viscountess, who coaxed the highwayman out of the stolen necklace, and being caught in the trap that was limed for Robin Freemantle, circumvented the soldiers, cozened the Duchess of Marlborough and beguiled the Queen's Majesty. Am I not right in congratulating you on such a brilliant series of achievements?"

"My dear Sir Geoffrey, you have mistaken your vocation," she laughed. "With such an imagination you ought to have been, not a member of Parliament, but a poet! I am quite interested in this romance; surely there is more of it?"

"Considerably more," he went on, lowering his voice and drawing his chair closer to her. "There are those who saw the beautiful shepherdess in close conversation with a masker in red, at the ball; and who now know that he was no other than Robin Freemantle in the borrowed plumes of Beachcombe. You have enemies, fair Prudence—men you have jilted and women you have excelled in wit and beauty—and by some of these you were seen, in company with the Red Domino, very near the queen's tiring-room, from which the necklace was stolen. Can you wonder that when a story is bruited about that Lady Prudence Brooke, in dead of night, was discovered with the necklace in her possession, in the place where Robin Freemantle was looked for, these good people should compare notes about her ladyship's latest exploit, and place their own construction upon it?"

"And you, Sir Geoffrey?" she asked, her thoughtful eyes upon his, "what construction do you place upon this curious rodomontade?"

"Oh!" he laughed softly; "I hold all the clews, so it seems less of a rodomontade to me than, perhaps, to others. I alone know of the little ceremony in Newgate, which explains all."

"Oh! it explains all, does it?" she repeated reflectively. "I should be glad to hear the explanation, now you have propounded the conundrum."

"'Tis simple enough. When Barbara Sweeting told the story of the necklace, you instantly jumped at the same conclusion as the rest of us—namely, that Robin Freemantle, secure in his disguise, had made the use of his opportunity that a robber naturally would, and had stolen the most valuable thing he could lay his hands on—"

"Oh! then you don't give me the credit of the robbery?" she exclaimed with a pout. "It would have added so much to the interest of the romance if I—"

"You? Oh! Lady Prudence, can you ask me such a question?" he interrupted, in a tone of vehement reproach. "I only give you credit for hastening to warn your—husband of his danger and carrying away the incriminating proof of his guilt; and I admire your courage and generosity though I deplore its object."

"Have you quite finished this romantic story, Sir Geoffrey?" queried Prue, dismissing his personal opinion with a disdainful toss of her fan.

"The preface only, but the rest will wait," he replied, with a sinister smile.

"Then perhaps you would like to hear what really happened? It would be useless for me to deny—even if I wished—that I spoke with Captain Freemantle, at the ball—"

"Quite so," Sir Geoffrey agreed blandly.

"Not that I wish to deny it," she went on petulantly; "at a masquerade everything is permitted, and you, my dear Sir Geoffrey, know better than any one else, this gentleman's claim upon my attention. Still, I fail to see any connection between Captain Freemantle's presence at the ball and the disappearance of the necklace—about which, you must acknowledge, that I know more than any one else, since I found—and restored it."

Sir Geoffrey bowed his acquiescence, but his smile was not reassuring.

"We all know what an admirable raconteuse Barbara is, and I was naturally much worked up by her story of the lost necklace; in fact I could scarcely restrain my impatience to hear a more authentic account," Prue proceeded, recovering her self-confidence, which for a moment had wavered under Sir Geoffrey's attack. "So the moment my visitors left me, I sent for a chair and started for Marlborough House, to get my information at first hand. At a short distance, however, I was interrupted by a person who thrust this paper into my hand."

She drew from her bosom the crumpled document which had already played an important part in her version of the affair, and handed it to him.

Sir Geoffrey read it carefully, refolded it, and meeting her eye, bowed gravely, as though to intimate that he was too much interested to break the thread of the narrative, even by a word.

"You know my love of adventure too well to doubt that I instantly decided to risk everything and follow this clue. It took me to a dismal old house—empty, I believe, except for an old hag, who, keeping her face concealed, thrust the casket into my hands and at the first sound of the soldiers' approach, disappeared."

Sir Geoffrey softly clapped his hands, as though in applause.

"Capital! excellent!" he cried. "My dear Prue, with shame I confess that I never before have done justice to the vast resources of your wit. I actually dared to wonder how you had managed to forestall suspicion and snatch safety out of the jaws of peril. You have surpassed yourself! To plan so subtly; to execute so promptly! To omit nothing—even the written proof—and to crown it all with a guileless frankness that might disarm the most captious, and certainly would have deceived me, if I had not been close beside you from the moment you emerged from your own door until that of Robin Freemantle hid you from my jealous eyes!"

Then suddenly, without giving her time to disguise the startled dismay that sprang to her eyes, he bent forward and seized her two hands in his.

"Why treat your faithful lover so harshly, sweet Prue?" he went on passionately. "Have I not proven my love again and again in the defense of your reputation and in unquestioning submission to your caprices? Have I not endured your coldness and yielded my just claims before the scruple that prompted you to deny your future husband the smallest favor, while the phantom of a vow linked you to a felon? And am I to have no reward, not even enough of your confidence to enable me to give the lie to your traducers?"

"My traducers!" she cried impatiently. "Who are they? At present the only person who has dared to cast a doubt on my veracity is—Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert!"

"And how long do you expect to escape the pack of 'damned good-natured friends' who have been accustomed to feed upon the choice morsels of scandal you have liberally provided for them?" he demanded. "Before to-night every gossip in town will be in possession of the story of your adventures, and each one who recounts it will put his own construction upon it."

"'Tis true," she murmured. "I have often assisted at such feasts of reason. They are highly entertaining, and every one is eager to add a dash of spice or vinegar to the witches' broth. And there is nothing I can do to stop those busybodies." She glanced resentfully at Sir Geoffrey, yet there was inquiry in her eye.

"Certainly there is something," he replied, answering the unspoken question. "You can give them something else to talk about that will throw the escapade of the necklace into the shade. The shade, do I say? Rather into utter oblivion." An ironical smile began to dawn upon her face, but he did not leave her time to speak. "You can give them a wedding to talk about, a subject that eclipses every other; if you prefer it, an elopement; indeed, I think that would be more dramatic. Say but the word, dearest, and in an hour, a post-chaise—"

"Oh! Sir Geoffrey," she exclaimed, bursting into a hearty laugh. "Can you really seriously propose such an absurdity to me? An elopement? a post-chaise? Methinks I should be like a man who jumps into a river to avoid being wetted by a passing shower! We should indeed give the town something to talk about; and not only talk, but laugh at."

"Let them laugh," said Sir Geoffrey doggedly. "So can I; and he laughs longest who laughs last."

"With me for the butt of your hilarity? Thanks, I am always pleased to have my friends—and my enemies—laugh with me, but to have them all laughing at me is scarcely to my taste. Besides, for you, Sir Geoffrey, to suggest such a thing to me—you who know that I am already another man's wife and can not therefore legally become yours—for you to make such an offer is an insult—no less."

"My dearest Prue, spare me these reproaches. I grant that yesterday, while this man lived, you were—in a sort of way—his wife. But why should you, who were on the spot, pretend to be ignorant of what the whole town knows this morning, that Robin Freemantle was killed last night, and that consequently you are, as you naturally wish to be—his widow? I congratulate you—and myself."

All Prue's forebodings revived at these words, uttered with an air of triumphant security that struck a chill to her heart. "I—I do not understand you—" she stammered, trying to appear unconcerned.

"Oh! I think you do," he replied, "only you love to torment me by playing the inexorable prude. You were at Robin's house and witnessed—nay, possibly connived at his escape. You were still there when the soldiers overtook the boat in which he and his band were attempting escape, and shot the fugitives and sank their boat. The news in to-day's Courant can not but confirm your own hopes of regaining the joys of freedom, with all the advantages for which you married Captain—de Cliffe."

As she remained silent, he drew the News sheet from his pocket and, with a great show of searching out the item, handed it to her. She waved it away with a careless gesture and when he offered to read it to her, she merely bent her head slightly, never moving her eyes from his face.

"'At a time when the whole country is terrorized by highwaymen and footpads, singly and in bands, news of the extermination of the notorious gang of robbers under the leadership of Robin Freemantle (recently condemned to be hanged at Tyburn for his crimes and later mysteriously released) will be highly gratifying to the traveling public who go in constant fear of their lives because of the boldness of these marauders, who infest the very streets of the metropolis. No longer ago than last Monday L—d B—ch—e was attacked by these very miscreants, robbed and held in captivity (doubtless for ransom) while Robin Freemantle, disguised in his captive's domino, attended the masquerade at Marlborough House and robbed the duchess' guests—not even sparing, if rumor may be credited, the queen's most sacred Majesty!!

"'But for this piece of shameless audacity, the ruffians might still be at large and the hangman still looking forward hopefully to his fees. We have it on unimpeachable authority that a certain beautiful v-sc-t-ss, renowned equally for her lively adventures and her incomparable charms, determined to avenge this outrage upon her sovereign mistress, and with undaunted courage and marvelous shrewdness, tracked the robber to his lair and actually recovered the stolen jewels!!! Then, at a preconcerted signal, soldiers surrounded the house, and when the robber-band attempted to escape by the river, sank the boat with all the fugitives on board. The exact number is not known, but must assuredly have been large—probably a dozen or a score. One thing only is certain—none remained in the house and none can possibly have escaped—'

"There is more about the affair, but nothing that will interest you as much as that last paragraph," said Sir Geoffrey, folding the sheet.

"It is certainly most interesting to hear that there were twenty miscreants in the house," cried Prue, who had had time during the reading (which was impressively deliberate and pompous) to recover her self-command. "My exploit is vastly enhanced by the large number of human lions and tigers I bearded in their den. I begin to feel myself a heroine indeed!"

"There could be but one opinion as to that," said Sir Geoffrey, with a profound bow that scarcely accorded with the cold irony of his smile.

"Pray keep my counsel, and do not tell any one that I never saw any of the twenty robbers, and in fact had no idea that there were any in the place," said Prue. "You don't know how much I am indebted to you, Sir Geoffrey, for all the information you have given me about my little adventure!"

"I am indeed happy in being the first to assure you of its fortunate ending," said Sir Geoffrey, rising. "Surely you will now permit me, dearest, to urge my suit"—he dropped upon one knee before her, and had pressed several passionate kisses upon her hand before she made any attempt to repel him.

"That will do for the present, Sir Geoffrey," she said at last. "Please get up and be rational. You do not expect me, I presume, to send for a parson and marry you offhand? I may be a widow again; but I must have surer proof of it than a mere rumor, such as this, before I wed again. I have yet to be convinced that Captain de Cliffe left that house—that he ever was in it! 'Tis strange you should insist upon that—methinks that for a suitor so eager to press his own claims, you are over-ready to accuse me of keeping tryst with another—husband!"

"Accuse, sweet Prudence! You mistake me altogether. Too well, alas! do I know the coldness of your heart and the inaccessible distance from which your adorers are expected to admire you. Surely, you do not think me capable of a doubt?"

"You were capable of spying on me and following me, by your own showing," she retorted sharply.

"For your own sake, dearest; merely to be ready in case you needed a strong arm and a skilled sword to defend you. And all I ask now is that you will accept that protection for life and give me the right to silence every malicious tongue with the public announcement of our approaching marriage. Who will dare," Sir Geoffrey went on, in his most grandiloquent manner, "to defame the lady of whom I am ready to say, 'This is my promised wife; her honor is mine?'"

"A truce to your braggadocio, my good friend," laughed Prue; "your tragic tones and frowning looks almost persuade me that I need protection! Believe me, you are in a far worse case than I; you stand greatly in need of a disinterested adviser, who would counsel you to leave me before too late, or at least take time—a year or two, we will say—to think it over."

"Was there ever a lover that listened to such counsel? Not if he loved as I do, dear one. So far from waiting a year, I swear that a week is too long, and that if you do not marry me to-morrow—"

He hesitated and Prue took him up sharply. "What if I do not marry you to-morrow? Pray finish your threat, so that I may know what fate awaits me, since I shall certainly not marry to-morrow, neither next week, nor, perchance, next year!"

"And does your ladyship imagine that I, Geoffrey Beaudesert, will swell the ranks of those whom the beautiful Viscountess Brooke has left lamenting at the church-door?" demanded the suitor, giving way at last to his long-suppressed fury. "No, no, you can not play with me as you did with Beachcombe, O'Keefe, Sutherland and a dozen others. To-day I love you to distraction; you may bend me to your lightest caprice with a kind word. But scorn me, and to-morrow you will have an enemy with the will, as well as the power, to cover you with shame. Aye, shame, Lady Prudence Brooke!" as she sprang to her feet with blazing eyes. "Where will you hide your head when all the world knows how and why you became the wife of an outlaw and a felon—the thief who stole the queen's necklace, for a nuptial gift to his bride! Ha, ha! that will be a feast indeed for the scandal-mongers of London Town!"

"And Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert—how will he appear in the affair?" she retorted. "This is not the first time to-day that you have threatened me, Sir Geoffrey, but I advise you to let it be the last, for I warn you that if you drive me to do so, I may tell the story myself; and my version of it will not leave you entirely unscathed. How could I have done this thing—this shameful, scandalous thing, as you truly call it—if you had not helped; nay, pushed me into it? Who bought the ring and license, and hired the parson? He was an ordained Church-of-England clergyman, was he not? If I am not mistaken, it was you who ordered him to make the marriage-service 'brief and binding,' and bade him keep his own counsel until his evidence was needed to prove me Captain de Cliffe's widow? If the scandal-mongers of London Town feast at my expense, they will certainly banquet at yours! And if you talk of enemies—but no, we are not silly children to wrangle over trifles, and scratch and slap each other's face because we can not have our own way all the time. Let us forget this folly and talk of pleasanter things."

"No subject is pleasant to me but one—yourself," said Sir Geoffrey, with an effort to resume his ordinary manner. "Believe me, however impatient I may appear as a lover, as a husband you will find me a pattern of indulgence. But do not, I entreat you, try my patience much longer."

"No doubt, Sir Geoffrey, I ought to be flattered by your persistence," replied Prue petulantly, "but if you have so little delicacy as to press one husband upon me before the other is in his grave, you surely are not anxious to inflict upon me the possible fate of a bigamist? If, perchance, one of these twenty highwaymen escaped, and that one proved to be the one you helped me to marry, your hasty wooing might cause poor Prudence Brooke to blossom on Tyburn Tree or, worse still, to end her days on a cotton plantation. 'Tis strange how much more anxious you are to wed me since I became a wife, than you were when I was really a widow! Then I heard nothing about post-chaises and elopements—"

"Because then, dear Prue, I had not known the torture of Tantalus, the anguish of seeing you within reach of my arms, yet held at an inaccessible distance by the accursed phantom of a husband, who was no husband and never could be one. Pardon me if I am unable to restrain my jealous ardor, and believe me, if you will but set a time for rewarding my devotion, I will endeavor, however difficult the task, not to offend again."

Prue reflected a few moments. Then she rose, with an air that left Sir Geoffrey no choice but to follow her example.

"Sir Geoffrey," she said, "I am invited to accompany the queen to Windsor, whither she intends to go this week for a few days' rest, and perchance to be out of hearing of the wrangling of Whigs and Tories for a season. When I return, if you are still in the same mind, I promise to be ready with an answer, with which I shall hope to satisfy you. In the meantime, I shall not take it amiss if you reflect seriously upon the many defects of my character and the great disadvantages you will bring on yourself by marrying penniless me, instead of seeking out some charming heiress—of whom I could point out several, both maids and widows—to whom your many noble qualities—and your title—would be irresistible."

She made him the deepest of curtseys, preserving all the time a countenance so grave and dignified that he was completely silenced, and was withdrawing without further remonstrance, when the door was flung open, and James, in his most impressive; manner, announced:

"Lord Beachcombe."

CHAPTER XXI

AN AFFAIR OF FAMILY

There was a momentary pause of embarrassment. Lord Beachcombe's last visit to Lady Drumloch's house had been under circumstances that made the present one quite unforeseen. Also he had not met Sir Geoffrey since their hostile encounter in Hyde Park, therefore a meeting in the presence of the woman who had been so disturbing an element in both their lives, was mutually disconcerting.

Sir Geoffrey was the first to recover himself, greeting the new arrival with exaggerated politeness and inquiring after his health with a solicitude that Lord Beachcombe did not attempt to reciprocate. The wound he had received from Sir Geoffrey's sword was slight enough to be patched up with a few strips of court-plaster; the wound to his vanity still gaped. He looked on with a sardonic smile while Sir Geoffrey, pressing several impassioned kisses upon Prue's reluctant hand, bade her "a brief adieu," and slowly backed himself to the door.

"I trust I am not driving Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert away," said Beachcombe stiffly.

"By no means," cried Prue with alacrity. "Sir Geoffrey was taking his leave when you entered. Sir Geoffrey, farewell. No doubt we shall meet at Lady Rialton's, or elsewhere, later in the day; our world is so small, we can not get away from one another even for an hour; don't you find it sometimes grows monotonous, Lord Beachcombe?"

As the door closed upon the parting guest, Beachcombe approached her with an air of distant respect, bowing profoundly, with his hand upon his breast.

"Pardon this intrusion, Lady Prudence, and permit me to lay my homage at your feet," he said.

Prue curtsied again. "Pray, my Lord, do not wound me by apologizing for a friendly visit," she returned, with a sweet smile. "Be seated, and let me offer you a cup of chocolate."

The little torment had jumped quickly to the conclusion that some motive of strong personal interest had brought her old lover to the house he had never entered since, scarcely a year ago, their troth had been broken with bitter words and thinly veiled insults on both sides. Her quick intuition warned her that his visit might, very possibly, add another snarl to the tangle in which she felt herself becoming hopelessly enmeshed. So she exerted all her tact and skill to keep him on tenter-hooks, and give herself time to gather her forces, while she discussed frothy scandals and airy nothings, pretending not to notice his lack of response and ill-repressed impatience, until suddenly she turned full upon him her clear and dazzling glance and changed her tactics without a moment's warning.

"But I had forgotten," she said, "how little you care about scandal and poetry, and I can scarcely flatter myself that my frivolous conversation can be very entertaining to you. My tongue runs away with me sadly, doesn't it? I dare say you remember of old what a chatterbox I am. Well," with a sudden change of tone, "now tell me what really brought you to see me?"

Her abrupt question had the intended effect of confusing her visitor and throwing him off his guard, while her ingenuous smile disarmed him.

"Your conversation is delightful at all times, Lady Prudence," he began hurriedly; "so much information—such—ah—intimate knowledge of society—and literature is as rare as it is agreeable. Nothing should I enjoy so much, if I did not have my head so full of a subject which—a—private family affair—which—which—"

He trailed off helplessly, and she let him flounder until his embarrassment ceased to amuse her. Then she said quietly:

"How can I be of any assistance to you, Lord Beachcombe, in a private family affair? That seems quite out of my province."

"Alas! I am but too well aware that I have forfeited all right to ask favors of you, Viscountess," he pleaded, "but I know your generous nature so well that I am emboldened to cast myself upon your mercy."

"You flatter me!" she cried, with her dazzling smile. "What can my generosity and mercy do for Lord Beachcombe?"

"I scarcely know. 'Tis but an idea; a mere catching at a straw. Still, I have been credibly informed that you were decoyed last night to the den of Robin Freemantle, the highway-robber, whence, with unparalleled courage, you rescued the queen's necklace—"

"Surely," she interrupted, with some impatience, "Her Majesty's necklace can not be your private family affair?"

He laughed explosively. "Is nothing sacred to you, Lady Prudence? I only wished to felicitate you upon your most remarkable adventure, and its brilliant result, and to implore you to tell me if you found any papers or documents in the—the place where the necklace was hidden."

"Was the necklace hidden anywhere?" she inquired, in a tone of surprise. "I did not find it; it was given to me—"

"By Robin Freemantle—is it not so?" he eagerly interrupted.

"Robin Freemantle! What could make you imagine that he gave it to me?" she cried, in an accent of intense astonishment.

"My dear Viscountess, surely you are aware that this rascal, disguised in my mask and domino, followed you the whole evening of the masquerade-ball—"

"Is it possible?" cried Prue, with the prettiest imaginable air of incredulity. "La! what strange things happen at a masquerade!"

"Possible? 'Tis a fact," replied Beachcombe; "and 'tis easy to understand that having fallen madly in love with you—"

"The outrageous monster!" shrieked Prue.

"Even monsters are human, dear Viscountess, and who can wonder that the beauty that has wrought such havoc in my—in our—-in all beholders, should have smitten this fellow, who is reported to have shadowed your footsteps all Monday night, disguised in a red domino and mask. That mask and domino were mine, and he robbed me of them in the same house by the river-side where you were taken last night. A den of thieves, Viscountess, from which your escape unharmed was hardly less than a miracle."

"My escape? Nobody attempted to detain me. In fact I saw no one, and the only danger I escaped was of being taken prisoner by the soldiers who came to search for—rebels, I understood them to say."

"Rebels! Ha! ha! 'tis true, this jailbird has the audacity to mix himself up with Jacobite plots and claim that he only steals purses on the chance of their containing papers of value to the Pretender's cause! Speaking of papers brings me back to my own affairs. When this villain stole my domino, he also robbed me of a packet of papers. He returned the domino—after putting it to the use you wot of—but the papers, of great value, he refused to give up. Is it possible, dear Lady Prudence, that while you were in this robber's den, you saw such a packet?"

Prue shook her head. "The soldiers took everything they could find in the place," she said reflectively. "If I were you, I would make inquiries of them."

"I have done so," he said; "but they brought away no such packet."

"Perhaps it was opened and they have the contents."

"I have reason to think that unlikely," replied Beachcombe, biting his lips and scowling.

"Or destroyed?" she suggested.

"No, indeed; if I could hope for that—!"

"What, hope for the destruction of valuable private papers? It is not to you, then, that they are valuable?" she cried shrewdly.

He started and eyed her suspiciously for a moment. "To no one else," he replied emphatically; "but you can surely understand, Lady Prudence, that some family documents would be better destroyed than in the hands of—an enemy."

"Was Rob—Captain Freemantle—your enemy?" she asked ingenuously. "It seems to me that some one—who can it have been?—said he was your relative. He calls himself De Cliffe, doesn't he?"

Lord Beachcombe looked at her again with growing mistrust. "Did he have the impudence to call himself De Cliffe, when he addressed you at the ball, Viscountess?" he demanded.

"La! no; and if he had—people can say anything behind a mask, without fear of being believed," she retorted, laughing. "I recollect now that 'twas Barbara Sweeting, when she told us of the loss of the queen's necklace. She told us how you had obtained his pardon when condemned to be hanged, and afterward set the soldiers upon him—"

Beachcombe bent his sullen glance upon the carpet, tracing out its faded pattern with his Malacca cane. "Every family has its painful secrets, Lady Prudence," he began, "and this packet contains one of the De Cliffe family secrets—a painful one, but not important—oh—not at all important. Had the soldiers found it, it would have been an easy matter to recover it—a few guineas at most—but if it is still in his possession—"

"What like was it?" Prue inquired listlessly, for she was growing weary of a subject that had so little of personal interest for her.

"The packet? Oh! a small thing, about the size and appearance of a letter—a billet-doux"—he forced a laugh—"sealed and addressed to Mistress—Mistress—the name has escaped me for the moment, but 'twas in care of the Hostess of the Fox and Grapes."

A sudden glow of color swept across Prue's face. In her joy at finding that the source of many a jealous pang was not Robin's after all, it is to be feared that she quite overlooked the gravity of Lord Beachcombe's accusation. What did it matter to her, whose letter it was—if it were not Robin's—written to another woman? She had an impulse to return it, and her hand involuntarily rose to the laces about her neck, where she had kept it concealed except when she thrust it under her pillow, where it lay all night pervading her dreams.

She checked herself quickly, though not quite unobserved. Beachcombe, of course, did not suspect anything so preposterous as that Prue could be interested in the highwayman, beyond the fact that he had made her the heroine of a successful escapade, but her change of countenance, slight as it was, and her gesture, though instantly diverted to a readjustment of the rose at her breast, did not escape his keen eye.

"You recognize the superscription?" he suggested insinuatingly. "You saw the packet in his hands, perhaps? If—so—"

"If so," she interrupted quickly, "you have little chance of recovering it, since 'tis said he was drowned last night."

"If I could only believe that true!" he exclaimed fiercely. "But no! he escaped; there can be no doubt of that; in fact I have reason to know—"

"To know that he is safe!" she cried, in a thrilling accent of unmistakable joy. "Oh! Heaven—" then suddenly she remembered that this man was his enemy and desired his death. She stopped short and then went on hurriedly, conscious that she had betrayed herself—"Is it possible that this—this miscreant is still alive and at liberty?"

He looked at her dubiously, but although a growing suspicion that she was acting a part disturbed him, it did not yet enlighten him with any ray of the truth.

"I am as sure of it, as I am that he pursued you at the ball, under cover of my domino—and, for his punishment, fell in love with you," he said boldly.

"Fell in love with me!" cried Prue disdainfully. "Again, sir? How dare you suggest such presumption!"

"The fellow certainly does not lack presumption," replied Beachcombe, "and as to his having fallen in love with you, did he not prove his infatuation by surrendering his priceless booty for the sake of seeing you once more, even at the peril of his life? Believe me, dear Viscountess, the man who will risk so much, will risk still more; you have not seen the last of Captain Freemantle."

"You think not?" cried Prue. "What do you suppose he will do next?"

"Probably he will repeat the tactics that he has already pursued with such enviable success," said the earl, with a scarcely perceptible sneer, "and send one of his followers to your ladyship to beseech another interview; or perhaps he will come to you himself."

"Heaven forbid!" cried Prue. "I trust he will not attempt anything so—so audacious."

"On the contrary, my dear lady," replied Beachcombe blandly, "if you will be guided by me, I think we can turn this fellow's impudence to our mutual advantage. I most sincerely trust that he will come or send to you, because now he has been routed out of his house by the river-side, we no longer know where he is in hiding. He is not like to return there, but gentlemen of his profession have many haunts, and having induced your ladyship to visit one of them, he will, no doubt, try another."

"You seem to forget that there is only one queen's necklace," she cried incautiously. Then, conscious of her indiscretion, she added with too eager precipitation, "Besides, Robin Freemantle had nothing to do with my visit to that house; I was guided there—"

"By a messenger sent by him, as I understand," interrupted Beachcombe. "'Tis no secret that your ladyship was induced by means of a letter—"

"Secret! I should think not!" she cried petulantly, tossing the letter upon the table beside him. "All the town seems talking about it, and all the world may read it, for aught I care! I defy the most ingenious scandal-monger to make anything out of it."

Lord Beachcombe took it up, and slowly unfolding it, read it carefully, and then looked up with a smile of triumph, that struck a sudden chill to Prue's heart. From his breast he drew a letter addressed to "The Right Honorable Lord Beachcombe. At Rodney House, Saint James' Park, London," and placing the two papers side by side, contemplated them with vindictive satisfaction.

"There can be no further doubt," he said. "See for yourself, Viscountess, the writing is identical."

She looked, and had some difficulty in maintaining her indifference. Furious at herself for having given Beachcombe an opportunity to confirm his suspicions, she had just enough self-command left to see that it was a case of qui s'excuse s'accuse, and that any attempt at explanation would only plunge her into an inextricable tangle of falsehood. So she merely remarked, in as casual a tone as she could assume, "La me! how curious!" and stretched out her hand for her own document.

Beachcombe withheld it. "Pray permit me to retain this, Lady Prudence," he entreated. "It is an important piece of evidence."

"More important to me than to your lordship!" she retorted sharply. "Be good enough to return it to me!" and as he still hesitated, she snatched it from his grasp, exclaiming with an angry laugh, "Evidently the liking for other people's 'private papers' runs in the blood of the De Cliffes."

With a savage scowl, Lord Beachcombe half-rose from his seat. But Prue had already recovered from her spurt of passion, and with the prettiest deprecating gesture and the most alluring smile she could call up at a moment's notice, she stemmed the tide of his wrath.

"Oh! forgive me, Lord Beachcombe," she said sweetly. "I am not used to be so cross-questioned and my temper, as you know well, is none of the most patient. Do not let us quarrel over such a trifle as a fancied resemblance between two scraps of writing."

"'Tis no fancied resemblance, Lady Prudence, said Beachcombe doggedly.

"Then if it is a real one, would it not be better for us to see how we can turn it to our mutual advantage, than to wrangle over it?" she suggested. Beachcombe's brow cleared at her conciliatory tone, and his half-awakened suspicions melted under the influence of a sweet and beaming smile.

"There is nothing easier than to turn it to our advantage and his destruction, dear Viscountess, if you will be guided by me," he said eagerly. "If Captain Freemantle should make another attempt to see you—as I feel convinced he will—surely woman's wit can manage to bring us face to face, or at least to let me know where he is to be found. I am convinced that I could show him excellent reasons for giving up those papers, which would prove dangerously compromising—to him—if discovered in his possession. You could secure yourself from further molestation and promote the ends of justice in this way, and place me under a lifelong obligation."

"And how about Captain Freemantle?" suggested Prue. "Would his obligation to me also be lifelong?"

"Why—no doubt," he replied, with a sinister smile.

"Well, Lord Beachcombe," said Prue, with a charming smile, "I will give your message to this Knight of the Road—when I see him—and I doubt not he will wait upon your lordship to receive the benefits you are so anxious to bestow upon him. Oh! you need not thank me" (he had no intention of doing so); "I am always glad to oblige an old friend. And pray do not hurry away; I hear the voice of my gossip, Barbara Sweeting, and presently the rest of London will flock round me to repeat what every one is saying about me, and find out something new to tell in their turn. You, who have given me so much information, can help me to entertain them."

CHAPTER XXII

IN A CHAIRMAN'S LIVERY

Lady Barbara rustled into the room in the most expansive of hoops and the loftiest of heads of lace and feathers, the height, literally, of the mode.

"Prue, you sly minx, I have come to give you the scolding you deserve," she began, and half-mirthful, half-reproachful, was about to embrace her when her glance fell upon Lord Beachcombe. She started back and turned her eyes from one to the other with exaggerated disapproval, behind which lurked the excitement of the keen hunter on a promising trail.

Beachcombe's dark face flushed with an embarrassment that he vainly attempted to conceal under the elaborate politeness of his greeting, but Prue, all innocent smiles, and thoroughly enjoying a situation which put her inquisitor to confusion, flew into her dear friend's arms.

"How are you, dearest Bab?" she cried. "I am simply perishing for a long, long talk with you. Oh! I have so much to tell you—"

"Not so much as you think, perhaps, wicked one," retorted Barbara, still reproachfully, "but I own I am dying for the key to your mysterious adventures."

"Have you, too, come to cross-question me about last night?" cried Prue petulantly. "Before I was out of my bed, the house was besieged. Ah! here is Peggie, who can tell you more about my visitors than I can, for half of them came while I was yet asleep."

"'Tis not your visitors I want to hear about, Prue, but yourself. To think, that with such a frolic to the fore, my Prue should have left me without a hint of what was happening! How can I ever forgive it?"

"Lady Brooke should be pardoned all things for the sake of her heroism," said Beachcombe, with cold irony. "Yet it seems a pity that she should have braved alone the dangers so many of her friends would willingly have shared."

"You too?" cried Barbara, raising hands and eyes appealingly to the offended heavens. "Can neither matrimony nor paternity cure the Prue-fever?—nor even phlebotomy at the hands of so skilful a chirurgeon as Sir Geoffrey Beaudesert? Pray, if one may venture to inquire, what may be your interest in the recovery of the queen's necklace, since surely it can not be either friendship or love?"

The look he gave her certainly suggested neither of these emotions, but his voice was under better control.

"My interest, dear Lady Barbara, is so far selfish that as the robbery was perpetrated under cover of my domino, I should certainly have wished to take part in the finding of the jewel—and the thief."

"La!" cried Barbara, smiling enigmatically. "How unfortunate that the necklace has been returned and the thief arrested without your assistance!"

"Arrested!" her auditors exclaimed together, but in very different tones. Lord Beachcombe's vibrated with gratified hatred, Prue's trembled with dismay. The color dropped from her cheek, and but for Peggie's promptitude, her agitation would have betrayed her beyond concealment. She, however, had been hovering on the threshold trying to attract her cousin's attention, and now ran forward with great vivacity, and by a torrent of eager questions, drew attention to herself and gave Prue time to recover from her perturbation, though not before it had been observed with malicious inference by Lord Beachcombe.

"Why, truly, I scarcely expected to bring news to the fountain-head," Barbara ran on. "Yet 'tis a fact, my poor Prue, that your romance has a very commonplace finale. 'Tis no dashing exploit of a bold highwayman, after all, no hairbreadth escape from a robber's den, but merely the outcome of an intrigue between a chambermaid and a scrivener's clerk; and a fit of vulgar jealousy has pricked the bubble of your romance, my love!"

Greatly to the astonishment of both her visitors, Prue's face, instead of falling in dismay, became irradiated with the loveliest expression of joy. Her eyes, softly luminous, swam in a rapturous mist and dimples played in the damask that suddenly drove the pallor from her cheek. Such a transformation could hardly fail to astonish even those most accustomed to the swift variations of this creature of caprice.

"Tell us quickly, dear Barbara," she cried, with a little tremolo of excitement in her voice. "You know 'twas near midnight when the duchess brought me home, and I was so tired I slept until noon—all my visitors this morning have come to seek information—not to impart it. Do, pray, tell me what has happened."

"La! Prue, I thought you would be mortified to death at such a tame ending to your romantic adventure, and you seem delighted," replied Barbara, with pique. "One of the serving-wenches at Marlborough House, finding the royal tiring-room for a moment unguarded, took her sweetheart in, and not content with gazing, they must needs carry their audacity to the point of fingering Her Majesty's toilet-articles, and so came upon the necklace in its case, which so dazzled them, I presume, that they turned crazy, and hearing voices at one door, ran out of another and found themselves back in the servants' quarters with the necklace in their possession. The girl swears they did not mean to steal it, but did not know how to get it back unobserved, and finally the lover, in a panic, fled from the house, carrying the perilous pelf with him."

"A probable story, indeed!" cried Beachcombe scoffingly. "It might account for the disappearance of the jewel, but scarcely for its restoration."

"Oh! that was a case of conscience, a thing quite incomprehensible of course to an 'esprit fort,' such as your lordship," retorted Barbara. "The girl suffered tortures, it appears, during which she was a dozen times on the point of confessing, but hesitated for fear of incriminating her lover. Then came the story of the return of the necklace, which, by the time it reached the still-room, had grown to the wildest of marvels. After that, no one seems to know exactly what happened, but possibly, between fear of her own part in the affair and rage at the treachery of her lover, the wretched creature lost what few senses she had and actually forced her way into the presence of the duchess, where she groveled on the floor, confessing and accusing and Lord knows what besides, and was carried out raving and foaming at the mouth."

"And so she confessed that she and her lover had stolen, or at any rate carried off the necklace," commented Prue thoughtfully.

"Then how do you account for its restoration by Robin Freemantle?" Beachcombe inquired, with his stealthy eyes upon her.

"Do you persist, even now, in connecting him with this affair?" she retorted, facing him defiantly. "For my part, I am now thoroughly convinced that it was a very vulgar matter and that I have been made a fool and a tool of by a pack of low wretches. Do not let any one who does not wish to offend me, ever mention my part in it again."

"On the contrary—" Barbara was beginning, when Peggie, from the window, uttered a cry of admiration.

"Is that your new chair at the door, Barbara?" she cried. "Sure, 'tis the finest in town!"

"Ah! I had for the moment forgotten—'twas but to display it I came here this afternoon—to show that and to scold Prue for a faithless friend."

They all followed her to the window, and in the street below stood a most superb sedan-chair, all carving and gilding, lined and curtained with crimson, and borne by four strapping footmen in liveries to match.

"'Tis truly magnificent," cried Lord Beachcombe. "All the world admires the taste of Lady Barbara Sweeting, but this time she has given us something to marvel at."

While he was speaking, Peggie plucked at Prue's sleeve and murmured in her ear, "In the library," with a glance and gesture that needed no interpretation. With an immense effort of self-control, Prue stopped long enough to compliment her friend on her new and gorgeous equipage, and then slipped away, with her heart throbbing in her throat, and ran down-stairs, to find Robin awaiting her, rather inefficiently disguised in a gold-laced velvet coat and a voluminous periwig, in which his marked resemblance to Lord Beachcombe struck Prue with absolute consternation.

"Robin, Robin!" she cried, when the door was closed, "how could you dream of coming here, of all places?"

"I have dreamed of nothing else," he replied. His eyes were glowing and his whole countenance transformed by a sublime transport of adoration. Few men are capable of this ecstasy and few women privileged to behold it; none, it may be conjectured, can resist its enchantment. Prue, trembling with a strange joy, yielded to the arms of her lover-husband, and there forgot everything else for a few blissful moments.

"Dearest, you must not stay here," she murmured, when he released her lips, "your worst enemy is in this house." And in a few rapid words she told him of Lord Beachcombe's search after the papers, his prediction of Robin's visit and his suggestion of using her as a bait to the trap he proposed setting for him.

"Go, now—at once, Robin, my husband, and send me word where to come to you; it is safer so. Oh! I will come! you need not fear—you see, I do not even ask if you want me to! Send for me, and be not too tardy about it—"

"Tardy, Heart of my heart," he murmured, with his lips to hers. "Every moment I spend away from you is an eternity in purgatory. If I must go, tell me that you love me, that I may have something to live upon until we meet again."

"Oh! I love you, Robin—indeed I love you—yet I take blame to myself for telling you so often, who have never yet said it to me. Some day you will, mayhap, remind me that I did all the wooing, and all the marrying, too! Nay, swear to me, Robin, that thou'lt forget that ever I asked thee to many me—" and she hid her face, all blushing with love and shame, upon his shoulder.

"Forget!" he exclaimed. "If ever I forget, it will be because my body is dust and my soul in torment! Yet I can not believe it. I fear to close my eyes in sleep, lest when I wake I shall find I have been dreaming—dreaming that these arms have held the dearest and sweetest woman in all the world and these most unworthy lips have been permitted to offer her worship. Oh! I scarcely dare to say, 'I love you.' I would I knew some other word that could express the adoration that fills my heart to bursting! I loved you the moment my eyes fell on your angel face—from the moment I kissed you. Oh! how dared I kiss you? Yet I was punished! You can not imagine the fire that kiss left in my veins—the unappeasable longing in my heart!" His lips were seeking hers again, but she thrust him away with tender vehemence.

"No, no," she cried, "don't stop to kiss me now, but go, while yet the way is open."

She had her hand upon the lock when it turned gently and the door opened a few inches. The eyes of Lord Beachcombe and Robin met over Prue's head and the flash of mutual animosity struck through her like an electric current. She glanced quickly from one to the other, and the secret of their kinship revealed itself so convincingly in the two faces that she did not even feel surprised. It seemed as if she must always have known that they were brothers.

The door closed again so swiftly that the whole incident was over before any one could have drawn a breath.

"It is too late!" whispered Prue, then threw herself into Robin's arms in a kind of desperation that was half rapture. "He will betray you, but they must take me too; I will not be separated from you."

"He will not come here for me," said Robin, cool and practical in the presence of danger. "It will be best for me to go at once, before he has time to call assistance. I can surely beat off half-a-dozen of his lackeys single-handed. If I give him time to set a posse of constables in wait for me, I may have more trouble with them. Farewell, Heart of gold; I will send a safe messenger to you soon. Oh! I must see you again very soon; I have so much to say to you—"

"Yet, wait," said Prue, detaining him. "Let me think; I would not risk your life unnecessarily. Stay here and I will return instantly."

She was back in a few minutes accompanied by a gorgeous vision of rich brocade and costly lace. These embellishments fitly set off a stately figure that had once been slenderer and a charming face that showed few of the ravages of time and, indeed, had more than replaced the graces of youth by the archness and gaiety time had but enhanced.

"Barbara, this is my friend Captain de Cliffe," said Prue. "We met in the North Country. Permit me to present him to you."

Lady Barbara's evident astonishment did not affect the ceremoniousness of her deep curtsey, to which Robin, not less surprised by Prue's manoeuver, responded with a gravely respectful salute.

"Methinks I have heard of your meeting with this gentleman—on Bleakmoor," said Barbara, with twinkling eyes. "I, myself, claim a distant kinship with the De Cliffes; what branch do you belong to, Captain?"

"I am an unworthy twig of the senior branch," replied Robin.

"Ah! that accounts for your strong resemblance to the late earl," said Barbara, seating herself near the window, and so compelling him to face the light, while she coolly scrutinized him. "And if the present earl were a handsome fellow, you would be like enough for brothers. As it is—"

"As it is, he hates me like a brother," said Robin negligently, "and in that the resemblance between us is not to be denied."

"Dear Barbara," cried Prue, "let me make a confession to you. Captain de Cliffe is also known as Robin Freemantle, the highwayman."

"And when I told you so t'other day, you pretended to be surprised," cried Barbara reproachfully. "Little did I ever expect that my Prue would so deceive me."

"'Twas not to deceive you, dear Barbara, but a roomful of curious gossips, all ready to fall upon poor little me and tear my secret to shreds. Scold me as much as you will, some other time, dearest Bab, but help us now!"

"Us?" cried Barbara, turning her shrewd eyes from one to the other with sudden enlightenment. "Aha!" she smiled knowingly, and Prue, blushing and faltering, found no word to explain away her unvoiced suspicion. "I am glad, at any rate," she went on rather dryly, "to find Sir Geoffrey's nose out of joint! But if you want help, why did you not ask Beachcombe, who seems all too willing to return to your feet, and who has already, if I am not mistaken, once rescued this gentleman from Newgate?"

"Barbara, he wishes nothing so much as to get him back there. Scarce an hour ago he proposed to me to decoy him here that he might seize him and rob him of valuable papers. No doubt he would kill him if he resisted, or throw him into prison. So now, dear Barbara, help me to devise some way of getting him away from here unobserved."

"That is not difficult," Barbara assured her. "My new chair is amply large for two. If Captain de Cliffe will give me his arm, we will walk out of this house together and he can escort me home."

"But, Bab, if that wretch is on the watch, he may attack you. Remember, he has seen Rob—Captain de Cliffe here, and if you had seen his face as I did, when he looked in at the door! Oh, you may be sure that even you would not be safe at his hands, if you stood between him and the object of his hatred!"

"I have a better plan," said Barbara, laughing mischievously, "and one that promises more diversion. You are tall, Captain," she looked him over with an approving eye, "a proper man, i' faith! Do you think you could be trusted to take the place of one of my chairmen? They are all six-foot men, chosen to match in size; I am very fastidious in such matters. Three are new to my service, but the fourth is a faithful lad, who can be trusted to hold his tongue. In his livery you can defy my Lord Beachcombe and his myrmidons and walk away under their noses."

This proposition was quite to Prue's taste and Robin, who was too anxious to get away without causing her any serious trouble, to care much in what guise he fared forth, gratefully consented. So James was despatched to call Lady Barbara's man Thomas, to whom she conveyed her commands in the fewest possible words, and the two ladies withdrew while the exchange of costume was effected, and the stolid Thomas, too well accustomed to his mistress' whims to raise the least question, resigned his crimson coat and gold-laced hat, his silk stockings and buckled shoes, and even his powdered bob-wig, to the new chairman.

By this time Prue's usual afternoon court was assembling in far greater numbers than the little house could easily accommodate, and the rustle of brocades and the ripple of gay voices filled the air. Outside the library Barbara hesitated. "I think I will not go back to your visitors, Prue, my tongue is apt to slip out of my control and I might say something compromising," she said. Then, seeing the door open into the empty dining-room, she went in, drawing Prue after her.

"Is it serious, child?" she demanded, with a hand on each shoulder and Prue's eyes vainly attempting to meet her searching gaze unflinchingly. "Is it possible that the heart that has resisted a hundred and one skilled assaults can have surrendered to the 'Stand and deliver' of a brigand? Come, tell me everything!—if you are in love with him—"

"Oh! no, no!" cried Prue, shrinking in horror from the extent of the revelation she might be drawn into if she began with such an admission. "Love! what nonsense—for a highwayman?" and she laughed, though with less than her usual abandon.

"Yet he is a charming fellow," said Barbara insinuatingly. "He might have caught your fancy—but, in fact," in a gay tone, "I'm glad he has not, for to own the truth, I am more than half disposed to carry off your highwayman and hold him prisoner for a day or two. 'Twill be safer for him and his adventures will surely keep me entertained for a while—and, who knows? I might amuse myself by making a conquest of this gentle savage!"

"Oh! Barbara, fie!" cried Prue, to whom the picture of Robin under the influence of another woman's fascinations was far from agreeable.

"It is condescension enough for you to save his life—"

"Condescension i' faith," laughed Barbara. "At least I can promise that my condescension shall end—where charity begins—at home! Eh, Prue? Well, I hear my new retainer in the hall, so fare thee well, dear Gossip," and with a kiss on either cheek, she rustled out and was respectfully assisted into her chair by Robin, who then took Thomas' vacant place at the rear pole.

The street was thronged with the equipages of Prue's visitors and, mingling with the crowd, Lord Beachcombe, closely followed by half-a-dozen lusty fellows, exchanged greetings here and there, without relaxing his vigilant watch upon the entrance. He scarcely vouchsafed a glance toward Lady Barbara, and as she swung past him in her gorgeous sedan-chair, with her four tall chairmen at full trot, she was so elated that she had half a mind to stop and speak to him. But wisdom prevailed with her, for once, and she contented herself with waving her jeweled fan in saucy greeting. He responded with a careless wave of the hand, and the next minute she was out of sight.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE PARSON SELLS A SECRET

As the afternoon progressed, Lady Drumloch's little house filled to overflowing. Reports of the adventures of the diamond necklace had brought a crowd of flattering, envious and above all, curious acquaintances round the dainty table where the cousins dispensed chocolate and coquetry.

Some vague rumors had reached Lady Drumloch, through Lowton, of a nocturnal exploit by which Prue had distinguished herself in some mysterious way, but she was in absolute ignorance of the actual facts, and had great difficulty in controlling her own curiosity, while maintaining an appearance of urbane indifference under the cross-fire of questions, congratulations, thinly veiled censure and half-incredulous comment by which the guests displayed their varied interest. It was in vain that Peggie used her ready wit to turn the conversation into safer channels; in vain that Prue vowed the whole thing a ridiculous exaggeration, and refused to be made a heroine or to be coaxed or goaded into compromising admissions. The necklace, she declared, had been accidentally carried away by some person employed at Marlborough House, who, becoming terrified by the possession of the dangerous treasure and wishing to be rid of it, had conveyed it to her as a sure means of getting it back to the rightful owner; that she had brought it to the duchess and together they had returned it to the queen; and there, so far as she was concerned, Prue regarded the incident as closed, and was quite tired of answering silly questions and explaining things that really needed no explanation. Would they please not worry her about it any more, but talk of something else?

Still, it was not easy to change the current of conversation, for each new-comer had some fresh rumor to be contradicted, some new extravagance to be laughed at or some malicious inference to be drawn from Prue's unwonted reserve, and her grandmother's ill-concealed annoyance.

But if the afternoon wore away slowly to Peggie and Prue, it was a long-drawn torture to Lord Beachcombe, whose watch upon the house was never relaxed, notwithstanding the gibes of the gay throng as it passed in and out, marveling what kept Prue's quondam lover hanging round Lady Drumloch's door, and the rising murmurs of his followers, whose numbers had been reinforced by numerous loungers on the lookout for mischief or profit.

A constant stream of guests, arriving and departing, passed before him; still no one at all resembling Robin Freemantle appeared. Dainty ladies in brocade and jewels passed in and out of the door, their servants being obliged to force a way for them through the gathering crowd of idlers. Beaux as dainty and as gaily costumed, handed them into their equipages, lisping quaint oaths and shaking their jeweled canes in the faces of the overbold; still no Robin Freemantle. One after another the carriages rolled away, the chairmen trotted off with their fair burdens, the casual onlookers dispersed, and left the street to Lord Beachcombe and his noisy retinue.

At last he could control his impatience no longer. Hurriedly directing his men to keep vigilant watch for their quarry, he once more knocked for admittance and demanded a word with Lady Brooke. James, the imperturbable, would have conducted him up to the drawing-room, but he stalked haughtily to the library and abruptly opened the door—to find the room deserted.

Prue soon appeared, all smiles and artless witcheries, quite determined to see nothing strange in this untimely visit, and as ready to gossip as though she had nothing more serious on her mind than the latest epigram and the newest scandal. Lord Beachcombe, however, was in too deadly earnest to encourage her frivolity, and with very little circumlocution inquired for Captain Freemantle.

"Captain—Freemantle—?" she questioned, with a puzzled air. "Do you mean the highwayman? La! how should I know anything about him? You must be dreaming, Lord Beachcombe!"

"I am not dreaming, Viscountess," he said resentfully. "Nor was I dreaming a couple of hours ago, when, quite by accident, I saw him here," he indicated the spot by a motion of his hand, "in close—ahem—conversation with your ladyship."

"With me?" she cried. "Oh! you are in error. The gentleman you spied upon—pardon, I mean accidentally interrupted—is your relative, Captain de Cliffe—"

"The difference is merely nominal," he interposed, with a sour smile. "It is of great importance that I should have a few words with that—gentleman."

"Oh! how unfortunate," she cried, with profound regret; "he went away hours ago—oh! ages ago!"

"Went away? Impossible! he could not have left this house without my knowledge," exclaimed Beachcombe, too thoroughly roused for dissimulation.

"Indeed!" said Prue, ominously gentle. "May I inquire since when you took upon yourself the right to observe the movements of my guests?"

He pulled himself together a little. "My dear Lady Brooke," he said, as suavely as he could, "can you not understand my anxiety about you? You surely are not surprised that I was reluctant to leave you unprotected in the power of a ruffian—an escaped convict—"

"Whose escape you procured, I am told," she replied, "for family reasons."

"The same reasons for which I am now anxious to meet him," retorted the earl. "I know not by what arts he has induced you to help him—or to conceal him, perhaps—under a mistaken compassion for a fugitive—"

"Would you wish to search the house, Lord Beachcombe?" said Prue, majestically rising. "If so, do not hesitate to make the minutest investigation. You will be quite as successful to-day as your emissaries were yesterday. Captain de Cliffe came into my grandmother's house openly and without precaution and walked out of it two hours ago, just as you, Lord Beachcombe, will do when you have satisfied yourself of my veracity—and with as little prospect of ever returning!"

Lord Beachcombe stood dumfounded. Could this pale, proud woman, her azure eyes suddenly black with anger and her clear voice vibrant with passion, be the gay, frivolous creature, who had played with his heart for a few weeks and tossed it back to him with a gibe and a laugh; whom no one could anger, because nothing ever seemed worth being angry about, and whose deepest emotion had always been more volatile than the bubbles of champagne? What had happened to work such a transformation?

"I fear that you have misunderstood me, Lady Prudence," he said at last. "If I have unwittingly offended you, I beg to apologize most humbly."

Prue preserved a disdainful silence.

"Pray pardon my inadvertence," Beachcombe went on, still more abjectly. "I can not leave you again under sentence of banishment—at least permit me to withdraw—"

"What! without searching the house?" interrupted Prue trenchantly; "I should advise you not to miss an opportunity that may not recur."

Lord Beachcombe drew himself up with a grieved air. "I merely wished to withdraw any remark that might be displeasing to you, Viscountess. It would grieve me beyond expression to offend you. If, in my excitement, I appeared incredulous, it was not that I presumed to doubt your word, but that I found it hard to believe that Fate could have played me so scurvy a trick."

Prue accepted his apologies with a dignified coolness that left him no excuse for prolonging his visit, so he departed, much crestfallen, but far from being convinced. While he was dismissing his followers with a none too liberal douceur, an elderly man, attired with rich simplicity, saluted him unobtrusively. Beachcombe stared after him as he disappeared into the house, at first not recognizing the somewhat plebeian figure, then muttering, "What is that old Jew doing here?" drove away, pondering on the strangeness of Prue's visitors and the atmosphere of mystery with which she had surrounded herself.

Could he have penetrated the actual motive of Mr. Aarons' visit, his surprise would have grown into amazement, for surely no greater tribute to the versatility of Prue's charms could be offered than the fact that they had brought Mr. Aarons to her feet. At least thirty of his fifty years had been spent in the exclusive pursuit of wealth. Pleasure he only knew by name. Love was to him merely a curious spell under which men became utterly reckless of consequences and unhesitatingly bartered their present possessions and future prospects for the means of dazzling a silly woman or purchasing a worthless one. That it brought easy prey into his net was the only thing he knew in its favor, and it must be acknowledged that his late proposal of marriage to the Viscountess Brooke was not prompted by any sentiments loftier than those he so contemptuously disparaged.

He knew her to be thoughtless and extravagant, for her visits to him had been the invariable result of losses at the card-table, or debts equally pressing and unprofitable. Such gossip about her as reached his ears, roused his derision, which her frequent matrimonial entanglements certainly did not abate. Yet he was no more capable of resisting her fascination than any butterfly of the court, and although his declaration had been to some extent unpremeditated, he was resolved, now he had offered his hand to the "Widow Brooke," to lose no time and spare no effort to win her acceptance.

He had waited a week, trusting that her necessities would drive her back to him, but hearing of her triumphant return to court, and her startling adventures later, decided to wait no longer. Therefore it was that, armed with what he believed to be an irresistible argument in his favor, he presented himself at Lady Drumloch's door at the very moment of Lord Beachcombe's hasty exit.

Prue and Peggie were in earnest consultation on no less important a subject than the imminent explanation with Lady Drumloch, who, after the revelations of the afternoon, would certainly require a prompt and thorough enlightenment. That she would be deeply scandalized by the truth, yet was too shrewd to be put off with any evasion, the cousins were quite aware, and their consultation was as to the form their confession should take, rather than any plan of concealment or prevarication.

When James announced that "Mr. Aarons" was below and besought an audience of the Viscountess Brooke, Prue was not quite sure whether this interruption was a welcome respite or a tiresome delay.

"Aarons!" exclaimed Peggie. "What brings him here?" Then, lowering her voice, "Can he be coming to pay his court to you, Prue?"

"I know not," returned Prue, shrugging her shoulders. "I should scarce have imagined that he would presume to present himself here. Well, bid Mr. Aarons come up, James; we will receive him here."

"We!" laughed Peggie, making for the door. "I have no wish to see him, and I am sure he does not come here on my account." And she decamped without giving her cousin time to remonstrate.