e her; involuntarily she raises her hand to her throat. "Go
on," she says, in a low, dangerous tone.

Graham bursts into tears.

"It was the gardener at Hythe--old Andrews--who told it to our man
here," she sobs, painfully. "You know he is his father, and he said he
had seen the master in the copsewood the evening--Ruth Annersley ran
away."

"He was in London that evening."

"Yes, madam, we all know that," says the woman, eagerly. "That alone
proves how false the whole story is. But wicked people will talk, and
it is wise people only who will not give heed to them."

"What led Andrews to believe it was your master?" She speaks in a hard
constrained voice, and as one who has not heard a word of the
preceding speech. In truth, she has not listened to it, her whole mind
being engrossed with this new and hateful thing that has fallen into
her life.

"He says he saw him,--that he knew him by his height, his figure, his
side-face, and the coat he wore,--a light overcoat, such as the master
generally uses."

"And how does he explain away the fact of--of Mr. Branscombe's being
in town that evening?"

At this question Graham unmistakably hesitates before replying. When
she does answer, it is with evident reluctance.

"You see, madam," she says, very gently, "it would be quite possible
to come down by the mid-day train to Langham, to drive across to
Pullingham, and get back again to London by the evening train."

"It sounds quite simple," says Mrs. Branscombe, in a strange tone.
Then follows an unbroken silence that lasts for several minutes and
nearly sends poor Graham out of her mind. She cannot quite see her
mistress's face as it is turned carefully aside, but the hand that is
resting on a stout branch of laurel near her is steady as the branch
itself. Steady,--but the pretty filbert nails show dead-white against
the gray-green of the bark, as though extreme pressure, born of mental
agitation and a passionate desire to suppress and hide it, has
compelled the poor little fingers to grasp with undue force whatever
may be nearest to them.

When silence has become positively unbearable, Georgie says, slowly,--

"And does all the world know this?"

"I hope not, ma'am. I think not. Though, indeed,"--says the faithful
Graham, with a sudden burst of indignation,--"even if they did, I
don't see how it could matter. It would not make it a bit more or less
than a deliberate lie."

"You are a good soul, Graham," says Mr