decisively; "you must
proclaim your innocence."

"I can't," she answered, with hanging head.

"I understand. You wish to protect this man. Oh, do not look so
surprised. I mean with the man you fled with--the man Wilson."

"I don't know any one called Wilson."

"Anne!"--he looked at her keenly--"I implore you to tell me the truth.
Who is this man you fled with to Gravesend--with whom you went on board
the yacht?"

"Is that known?" she asked in a terrified whisper.

"Yes. A great deal is known."

"Portia never told me that," she murmured to herself.

"Who is Portia?"

"She lives at the Priory, and----"

"I see. She is the red-haired, freckle-faced girl--the daughter of Mr.
Franklin. Morley told me that. Portia! What a stately name for that
dreadful young person!"

"But indeed, Giles, she is a good girl, and has been a kind friend to
me," explained Anne eagerly. "She told me all about you, and how you
believed in my innocence."

"Ah!" exclaimed Giles, "then that was why she seemed so pleased to hear
my name. I met her in the park just now, Anne----"

"You met her in the park?" Anne half rose to go. He drew her down.

"Yes, dearest. But don't be alarmed. She will never think that we have
met. She was looking for this." And Giles took out the coin.

Anne gave a cry of delighted surprise. "Oh," she said, taking it
eagerly, "I thought I had lost it forever. And you found it, Giles?"

"I found it," he replied gravely. "It was that discovery which made me
believe that you were in the neighborhood. And then when Olga----"

"Olga." Anne looked at him suddenly. "Do you know her?"

"Very well. She is your friend."

"My best friend. She loves me like a sister."

Giles could have told her that the sisterly love was not to be trusted,
but she had so much trouble that he could not find it in his heart to
add to her worries. Besides, time was slipping by, and as yet he knew
nothing of the truth of the matter.

"Tell me why you fled with that man," he asked.

"Giles, I will tell you all," she replied earnestly, "but on your part
let me hear what is being done about the death of poor Daisy. It will
set my mind at rest. You see how I have taken care of her grave, dear.
Were I guilty would I do that?"

"I never thought you guilty," he repeated impatiently. "How many times
have I to say that?"

"As many as you can bring your mind to repeat," she replied. "It is
sweet to think that you love me so well, that you