Julian gently laid
his hand on her shoulder and obliged her to resume her seat.

"_I_ will listen to you," he said. "You referred me just now to the
consul's letter. The consul tells me you suspected some one of taking
your papers and your clothes."

"I don't suspect," was the quick reply; "I am certain! I tell you
positively Mercy Merrick was the thief. She was alone with me when I was
struck down by the shell. She was the only person who knew that I had
letters of introduction about me. She confessed to my face that she
had been a bad woman--she had been in a prison--she had come out of a
refuge--"

Julian stopped her there with one plain question, which threw a doubt on
the whole story.

"The consul tells me you asked him to search for Mercy Merrick," he
said. "Is it not true that he caused inquiries to be made, and that no
trace of any such person was to be heard of?"

"The consul took no pains to find her," Grace answered, angrily. "He
was, like everybody else, in a conspiracy to neglect and misjudge me."

Lady Janet and Horace exchanged looks. This time it was impossible for
Julian to blame them. The further the stranger's narrative advanced, the
less worthy of serious attention he felt it to be. The longer she spoke,
the more disadvantageously she challenged comparison with the absent
woman, whose name she so obstinately and so audaciously persisted in
assuming as her own.

"Granting all that you have said," Julian resumed, with a last effort
of patience, "what use could Mercy Merrick make of your letters and your
clothes?"

"What use?" repeated Grace, amazed at his not seeing the position as
she saw it. "My clothes were marked with my name. One of my papers was
a letter from my father, introducing me to Lady Janet. A woman out of a
refuge would be quite capable of presenting herself here in my place."

Spoken entirely at random, spoken without so much as a fragment of
evidence to support them, those last words still had their effect.
They cast a reflection on Lady Janet's adopted daughter which was too
outrageous to be borne. Lady Janet rose instantly. "Give me your arm,
Horace," she said, turning to leave the room. "I have heard enough."

Horace respectfully offered his arm. "Your ladyship is quite right," he
answered. "A more monstrous story never was invented."

He spoke, in the warmth of his indignation, loud enough for Grace to
hear him. "What is there monstrous in it?" she asked, advancing a