y plans?"

Westwood shook his head.

"I've got no plans, my dear--except to slip out at the door, early
to-morrow morning. Where I go next I am sure I do not know."

Cynthia resolutely banished the thought of her own affairs, and set
herself to consider possibilities. Her mind reverted again and again to
the Jenkins family. Their connection with Hubert made it seem a little
dangerous to have anything to do with them at present; and yet Cynthia
was inclined to trust Tom Jenkins very far. He was thoroughly honest and
true, and he was devoted to her service; but, after some reflection, she
abandoned this idea. If she and her father were to be together, she had
better seek some place where her own face was unknown and her father's
history forgotten. After a little consideration, she remembered some
people whom she had heard of in the days of her engagement at the
Frivolity. They let lodgings in an obscure street in Clerkenwell; and,
as they were quiet inoffensive folk, Cynthia thought that she and her
father might be as safe with them as elsewhere. She did not urge her
father to leave England at present; for she had a vague feeling that she
ought not to cut him off from the chance--a feeble chance, but still a
chance--of being cleared by Hubert Lepel's confession. She had not much
hope; and yet it seemed to her possible that Hubert might choose to tell
the truth at last, and that she could but hope that, having confessed to
her, he might also confess to the world at large, and show that Westwood
was an innocent and deeply injured man.

She stayed the night, sleeping on a little sofa in the sitting-room; but
early the next day they went out together, making one of the early
morning "flittings" to which Westwood was accustomed; and Cynthia took
her father to his new lodgings in Clerkenwell.

For some days she did not go out again. Excitement and the shock of
Hubert's confession had for once disorganised her splendid health. She
felt strangely weak and ill, and lay in her bed without eating or
speaking, her face turned to the wall, her head throbbing, her hands and
feet deathly cold. Westwood watched her anxiously and wanted her to have
a doctor; but Cynthia refused all medical advice. She was only worn out
with nursing, she said, and needed a long rest; she would be better
soon.

One day when she had got up, but had not yet ventured out of doors, her
father came into her room with a bunch of black grapes which he had
b