an look like guilt. I caused myself to be denied
all day, to every visitor who called; and I only ventured out under
cover of the night.

The next morning, Mr. Bruff surprised me at the breakfast-table. He
handed me a large key, and announced that he felt ashamed of himself for
the first time in his life.

"Is she coming?"

"She is coming to-day, to lunch and spend the afternoon with my wife and
my girls."

"Are Mrs. Bruff, and your daughters, in the secret?"

"Inevitably. But women, as you may have observed, have no principles. My
family don't feel my pangs of conscience. The end being to bring you
and Rachel together again, my wife and daughters pass over the means
employed to gain it, as composedly as if they were Jesuits."

"I am infinitely obliged to them. What is this key?"

"The key of the gate in my back-garden wall. Be there at three this
afternoon. Let yourself into the garden, and make your way in by the
conservatory door. Cross the small drawing-room, and open the door
in front of you which leads into the music-room. There, you will find
Rachel--and find her, alone."

"How can I thank you!"

"I will tell you how. Don't blame me for what happens afterwards."

With those words, he went out.

I had many weary hours still to wait through. To while away the time, I
looked at my letters. Among them was a letter from Betteredge.

I opened it eagerly. To my surprise and disappointment, it began with
an apology warning me to expect no news of any importance. In the next
sentence the everlasting Ezra Jennings appeared again! He had stopped
Betteredge on the way out of the station, and had asked who I was.
Informed on this point, he had mentioned having seen me to his master
Mr. Candy. Mr. Candy hearing of this, had himself driven over to
Betteredge, to express his regret at our having missed each other. He
had a reason for wishing particularly to speak to me; and when I was
next in the neighbourhood of Frizinghall, he begged I would let him
know. Apart from a few characteristic utterances of the Betteredge
philosophy, this was the sum and substance of my correspondent's letter.
The warm-hearted, faithful old man acknowledged that he had written
"mainly for the pleasure of writing to me."

I crumpled up the letter in my pocket, and forgot it the moment after,
in the all-absorbing interest of my coming interview with Rachel.

As the clock of Hampstead church struck three, I put Mr. Bruff's key
into the