f an exile's sadness.

Edmund wished to think that he was amused by their talk, but the
distraction did not last. His thoughts would have their way, and he was
soon trying to defend his defence of himself to Molly. All he said had
seemed so obviously true as the words poured out, but there had been
fatal reservations. He had spoken as if all suspicions, all proceedings
as to discovering the will were past. He had felt he had no right to
give away secrets that were not his own. But had he not produced a false
impression? What would Molly have thought of him as he passionately
rejected the notion of suspecting her if she had seen the letter from
Murray in his pocket? It was true that he no longer financed any of the
proceedings against her, but they had all been set on foot by him. He
was in the plot that was thickening, and he had won the confidence of
the victim! He had no doubt that Molly was innocent, and he was ashamed
of the pitiful confidence he had read in her eyes when he left her. But
he still believed that her mother had been guilty, and that Molly's
wealth was the result of that guilt. It was true that he wanted to be
her friend, but it was also true that he would rejoice if Rose came into
her own and the gross injustice were righted. But, after all, what
absolute evidence had they got, as yet, as to the contents of this last
will, or what proof even of its existence? He felt almost glad for the
fraction of a moment that Molly might remain the gorgeous mistress of
the old house in Park Lane uninjured by anything he had done against
her. "How absurd," he thought, "how drivelling! The fact is that girl
impressed me enough to-day, to make me see myself from her point of
view, or what would be her point of view if she knew all!"

He refused coffee--the cab fare had prevented that. He quite emptied his
pocket, gave the waiter sixpence, and, rising, strolled across the floor
of the small room exactly the same man to the outward eye he had been
for years past. But before he reached the door he caught the glance of a
little, round, elderly woman at a table close to him, and he stopped.
She had a faded, showy bonnet, and she carried her worn clothes with an
air. He recognised the companion and friend of a famous prima donna
whom he had not seen for years.

"You've forgotten me, but I've not forgotten you."

It was a cherry, Irish voice.

"I get coffee and a roll, and you have the _diner a prix fixe_. And you
have