d do in the interests of justice, though I own it is not the exact
truth."

"And if she refuses then?"

"She can't refuse, with the man's daughter actually standing before
her. She might make a fuss for a bit. But she would have to give in at
last."

"Joe, consider. You have got some papers, whatever they may contain.
Suppose that it is all true that you have told me--"

"Lotty, my dear, when did I ever tell you an untruth?"

"When did you ever tell me the truth, my dear? Don't talk wild.
Suppose it is all true, how are you going to make out where your
heiress has been all this time, and what she has been doing?"

"Trust me for that."

"I trust you for making up something or other, but--oh, Joe, you
little think, you clever people, how seldom you succeed in deceiving
any one."

"I've got such a story for you, Lotty, as would deceive anybody.
Listen now. It's part truth, and part--the other thing. Your father--"

"My father, poor dear man," Lotty interrupted, "is minding his
music-shop in Gloucester, and little thinking what wickedness his
daughter is being asked to do."

"Hang it! the girl's father, then. He died in America, where he went
under another name, and you were picked up by strangers and reared
under that name, in complete ignorance of your own family. All which
is true and can be proved."

"Who brought her up?"

"People in America. I'm one of 'em."

"Who is to prove that?"

"I am. I am come to England on purpose. I am her guardian."

"Who is to prove that you are the girl's guardian?"

"I shall find somebody to prove that."

His thoughts turned to Mr. Chalker, a gentleman whom he judged capable
of proving anything he was paid for.

"And suppose they ask me questions?"

"Don't answer 'em. You know very little. The papers were only found
the other day. You are not expected to know anything."

"Where was the real girl?"

"With her grandfather."

"Where was the grandfather?"

"What does that matter?" he replied; "I will tell you afterward."

"When did the real girl die?"

"That, too, I will tell you afterward."

Lotty leaned her cheek upon her hand, and looked at her husband
thoughtfully.

"Let us be plain, Joe."

"You can never be plain, my dear," he replied with the smile of a
lover, not a husband; "never in your husband's eyes; not even in
tights."

But she was not to be won by flattery.

"Fine words," she said, "fine words. What do they amount to? Oh, Joe,
little I t