most natural suspicion in the world,
considering what he had gone through. He rejected it at first as being
preposterous and disloyal, but common sense and a dislike of being
victimized made him return to the idea and weigh it from day to day.

In the end he discarded the theory. It was, he thought, too enormous a
deception to be carried through with success: even Beatrice, actress
though she was, could not have the histrionic powers necessary to the
feat; such a _tour de force_, continued from day to day, was impossible.
Besides, Miss Arkwright and her sister were different in many points.
They were, it is true, identical in voice, feature and carriage, but
their outlook and ideas were far asunder. Winifred Arkwright obviously
hated the stage, while Beatrice Blair was an actress; Winifred seemed
timid in some respects, Beatrice radiated courage; the latter had never
mentioned religion; the former was a Christian Scientist; Beatrice
adored asparagus; Winifred's weakness was kidney beans. These, and a
hundred other variations, trivial in themselves but overwhelming in the
mass, gave him heart of grace and a fresh faith in his lady of the
stage.

But despite all this he claimed that Winifred _might_ be Beatrice. It
was almost unthinkable, but still it _might_ be so. What gave the coup
de grace, at least for a time, to his vain imaginings was a copy of _The
Times_. It has been said that Miss Arkwright always left him after five:
this would have given her time to motor to London and play at the
theater if she had been Beatrice Blair. But Beatrice herself had written
that the play was soon to be taken off: when he saw an announcement in
the newspaper that the Macready Theater was closed, he wondered if his
hostess would join him at dinner that night. If she _did_, why, it would
be a damning fact. But she did not, either on that or any subsequent
day. He breathed more freely, and went on waiting as patiently as he
might.

The task of learning the house, grounds and personnel did not take long.
The servants were an aged cook, whom he never saw; a gardener; Forbes
the footman; and the housekeeper, Mrs. Wetherby, a silent faded woman
of over sixty, whose recreation outside her duties was the game of
patience. A sad and oppressive creature, she, whose life had been a
tragedy. The details were not given, though Lionel gathered that it had
been a very ordinary tragedy, but enough to wither her life and make her
shun her kind. B