od with her blanched face covered by her hands. To protest,
to declare that Flockart's story was a lie, was, she saw, all to no
purpose. Her father had overheard her bold defiance and had, alas! most
unfortunately taken it as an admission of her guilt.

Flockart stood motionless but watchful; yet by the few words he uttered
he succeeded in impressing the blind man with the genuineness of his
friendship both for father and for daughter. He urged forgiveness, but
Sir Henry disregarded all his appeals.

"No," he declared. "It is fortunate indeed, Flockart, that you made this
discovery, and thus placed me upon my guard." The poor deluded man
little dreamt that on the occasion when Flockart had taken him down the
drive to announce his departure from Glencardine on account of the
gossip, and had drawn Sir Henry's attention to his hanging watch-chain,
he had succeeded in cleverly obtaining two impressions of the safe-key
attached. In his excitement, it had never occurred to him to ask his
daughter by what means she had been able to open that steel door.

"Dad," she faltered, advancing towards him and placing her soft, tender
hand upon his shoulder, "won't you listen to reason? I assure you I am
quite innocent of any attempt or intention to betray you. I know you
have many enemies;" and she glanced quickly in Flockart's direction.
"Have we not often discussed them? Have I not kept eyes and ears open,
and told you of all I have seen and learnt? Have----"

"You have seen and learnt what is to my detriment," he answered. "All
argument is useless. A fortnight or so ago, by your aid, my enemies
secured a copy of a certain document which has never left yonder safe.
To-night Mr. Flockart has discovered you again tampering with my safe,
and with my own ears I heard you utter defiance. You are more devoted to
your lover than to me, and you are supplying him with copies of my
papers."

"That is untrue, dad," protested the girl reproachfully.

But her father shook her hand roughly from his shoulder, saying, "I have
already told you my decision, which is irrevocable. To-morrow you shall
leave Glencardine and go to your aunt Emily at Woodnewton. You won't
have much opportunity for mischief in that dull little Northampton
village. I won't allow you to remain under my roof any longer; you are
too ungrateful and deceitful, knowing as you do the misery of my
affliction."

"But, father----"

"Go to your room," he ordered sternly. "Tomor