he line--"

"No," said Judith.

"No? Are you sure? Sit down and tell me all."

She obeyed to the best of her ability. She told him what Bertie had said
about the situation he hoped to obtain, and what little she knew about
Emmeline's disappearance.

Percival listened, with a face which grew more anxious with every word.

This is what had actually happened that morning at Standon Square: Judith
was busy over Miss Crawford's accounts. She remembered so well the column
of figures, and the doubtful hieroglyphic which might be an 8, but was
quite as likely to be a 3. While she sat gazing at it and weighing
probabilities in her mind the housemaid appeared, with an urgent request
that she would go to Miss Crawford at once. Obeying the summons, she found
the old lady looking at an unopened letter which lay on the table before
her.

"My dear," said the little schoolmistress, "look at this." There was a
tone of hurried anxiety in her voice, and she held it out with fingers
that trembled a little.

It was directed in a gentleman's hand, neat and old-fashioned: "Miss
Emmeline Nash, care of Miss Crawford, Montague House, Standon Square,
Brenthill."

Judith glanced eagerly at the envelope. For a moment she had feared that
it might be some folly of Bertie's addressed to one of the girls. But this
was no writing of his, and she breathed again. "To Emmeline," she said.
"From some one who did not know when you broke up. Did you want me to
direct it to be forwarded?"

"Forwarded? where? Do you know who wrote that letter?" By this time Miss
Crawford's crisp ribbons were quivering like aspen-leaves.

"No: who? Is there anything wrong about this correspondent of Emmeline's?
I thought you would forward it to her at home. Dear Miss Crawford, what is
the matter?"

"That is Mr. Nash's writing. Oh, Judith, what does it mean? She went away
yesterday to his house, and he writes to her here!"

The girl was taken aback for a moment, but her swift common sense came to
her aid: "It means that Mr. Nash has an untrustworthy servant who has
carried his master's letter in his pocket, and posted it a day too late
rather than own his carelessness. Some directions about Emmeline's
journey: open it and see."

"Ah! possibly: I never thought of that," said Miss Crawford, feeling for
her glasses. "But," her fears returning in a moment, "I ought to have
heard from Emmeline."

"When? She would hardly write the night she got there. You were sure no