have cause to regret it."

"I have trusted you too long, Effie!" he cried, sternly. "Leave go of
me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle this matter
once and for ever." He pushed her to one side and we followed closely
after him. As he threw the door open, an elderly woman ran out in front
of him and tried to bar his passage, but he thrust her back, and an
instant afterwards we were all upon the stairs. Grant Munro rushed into
the lighted room at the top, and we entered it at his heels.

It was a cosy, well-furnished apartment, with two candles burning upon
the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the corner, stooping over a
desk, there sat what appeared to be a little girl. Her face was turned
away as we entered, but we could see that she was dressed in a red
frock, and that she had long white gloves on. As she whisked round to us
I gave a cry of surprise and horror. The face which she turned towards
us was of the strangest livid tint, and the features were absolutely
devoid of any expression. An instant later the mystery was explained.
Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind the child's ear, a mask
peeled off from her countenance, and there was a little coal-black
negress with all her white teeth flashing in amusement at our amazed
faces. I burst out laughing out of sympathy with her merriment, but
Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand clutching at his throat.

[Illustration: "THERE WAS A LITTLE COAL-BLACK NEGRESS."]

"My God!" he cried, "what can be the meaning of this?"

"I will tell you the meaning of it," cried the lady, sweeping into the
room with a proud, set face. "You have forced me against my own judgment
to tell you, and now we must both make the best of it. My husband died
at Atlanta. My child survived."

"Your child!"

She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. "You have never seen this
open."

"I understood that it did not open."

She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a portrait
within of a man, strikingly handsome and intelligent, but bearing
unmistakable signs upon his features of his African descent.

"That is John Hebron, of Atlanta," said the lady, "and a nobler man
never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in order to wed
him; but never once while he lived did I for one instant regret it. It
was our misfortune that our only child took after his people rather than
mine. It is often so in such matches, and little Lucy is darke