.
But I am not afraid!"

And in the prosaic London cab, with her eyes fixed resolutely on the
heavy copper-coloured sky that hung above the housetops, Nance
performed her second act of love. While Gore sat silent, she poured
forth the whole mistaken tale of Clodagh's life, from the days in
Venice to the hour of her departure for Ireland. She omitted nothing;
she extenuated nothing. With a strange instinct towards choice of the
right weapons, she fought for her sister's future. Everything was
told--Lady Frances Hope's poisoning of Clodagh's mind against Gore
himself--the scene with Serracauld in the card-room--all the
temptations, all the follies, confessed in the darkness of the nights
at Tuffnell, and in Clodagh's own bedroom on the night she visited
Deerehurst. It was the moment for speech; and she spoke. Her own
shyness, her own natural reticence, were swept aside by the great need
of one who was infinitely dear. The scene at Carlton House Terrace she
described without flinching; for candour and innocence move boldly
where lesser virtues fail and falter. She told the story with a simple
truth that was more dignified than any hesitancy.

When at last she had finished, Gore sat for a space, very silent and
with bent head; then abruptly, as if inspired by a sudden resolution,
he put up his hand to the trap in the roof.

"The nearest telegraph office!" he called, as the cabman looked down.

The man whipped up his horse. But Nance turned sharply.

"What are you going to do?"

"To wire to Clodagh."

"To Clodagh?"

"Yes."

"But Clodagh doesn't know? Walter, you haven't told Clodagh! Walter!"

Gore bent his head. "I wrote to her the night I saw Frances Hope," he
said. "She had my letter this morning."

"This morning?" It was impossible to fathom the pain and alarm in
Nance's voice. "What did you write?"

"Very little. Just that I knew about Deerehurst--that I thought it
better we should not marry."

"And she got that letter this morning? She has been hours and hours
alone, believing that you don't love her--that she is left utterly by
herself? Oh!"

"Nance, don't! I'm sufficiently ashamed."

Nance put her hands over her eyes.

"I'm not thinking of you!" she said cruelly.

"I know. But remember, there's the wire. We can still wire. I shall
tell her that you and I are coming for her to Ireland--that she will
never be alone again."

Nance's hand dropped.

"But you don't understand!" she cried. "No t