ou mean by yourself?"

"Oh no, no," Rachel cried, as it dawned upon her what interpretation
might be put upon her words. "Oh no, not myself! I wish it had been, I
wish it had!"

"You wish it had?" Stamfordham said, surprised. "Who was it, then? Who
was it?" he said again, in the tone of one who must have an answer. "Who
got the paper out and showed it to Pateley?"

Rachel forced herself to speak.

"It was--my father," she said, "Sir William Gore." And with an immense
effort she prevented herself from bursting into tears.

"Sir William Gore!" said Stamfordham, "did _he_ do it?"

"Yes," said Rachel; "I only knew it to-day, and I am telling you to
prove to you that it wasn't my husband."

Stamfordham stood for a moment trying to recall Rendel's attitude at the
time, and then, as he did so, he made up his mind that Rendel must have
known.

"But," he said, after a moment, still somewhat perplexed, "you say you
didn't know about this?"

"No," said Rachel, "I didn't. My father," and again her lips quivered
and told Stamfordham what that father and his good name probably were to
her, "was taken very ill, and I had an accident at the time and did not
know anything that had happened. Frank told me nothing. Then my father
died, and I was ill, and we came here and I did not know it at all till
my husband came in and told me"--and her eyes blazed at the
thought--"told me what had happened to-day..." She stopped. Stamfordham
felt a stab as he thought of it.

"But," he said, "did he know? Did he tell you then? Did he know that it
was Sir William Gore?"

"Oh no, no," Rachel said; "it was Mr. Pateley, and he brought me here to
tell you that you might know." Then Stamfordham began to understand.

"Mrs. Rendel," he said, with a change of voice and manner that made her
heart leap within her. "Where is your husband?"

"He is at our house, the little pavilion behind the Casino garden."

"Will you take me to him?" Stamfordham said.

Rachel looked at him, unable to speak, her face illuminated with
hope--then she covered her face in her hands, saying through the tears
she could no longer restrain, "Oh, thank you, thank you!"

"Come," said Stamfordham gently, but with decision. "You must dry your
tears," he added with a smile, "or people will think I have been
ill-treating you." And to the speechless amazement of Lady Adela, who
was standing outside the curtain waiting until, as she expressed it to
herself, she too should hav