note-case.

"Will you oblige me by reading this letter?" he said, handing her Mainwaring's communication.

She took it with a deprecatory shrug of her shoulders, and read the few lines it contained with an absolutely expressionless face.

"Well?" asked Philip, after several moments had passed.

"Well?" she echoed, folding the letter with exactness and handing it back to him, but avoiding his eyes.

"Esther," he said, bending forward and forcing her to look at him, "Esther, the news contained in that letter is no news to you."

Still she did not reply; she had again taken up the strip of embroidery, and her fingers trembled a little as she drew out the needle. Mr. Tremain put out his hand and took it from her.

"My dear Esther," he said once more, in the same measured tones he had used from his first greeting of her, "you can at least answer a direct question. Did you know of this before?"

"Since you put it in that way—yes," she replied.

"For how long—all the time?"

"Yes, all the time."

"And you have kept it to yourself—why?"

But to this she made no answer.

"Why did you keep it from me?" he asked, more sternly. "Do you think you had any right to do so?"

"Yes, I do," she answered, quickly, stung by the reproach in his voice. "I think so still. A promise should always be sacred."

"A promise—and to whom?"

"If you consider that a necessary question, I do not," she answered, with a touch of asperity in her voice. "You surely have lost somewhat of your customary acumen, Philip, to ask it."

"Then let me put it in another form," he replied, not in the least disturbed by her show of temper. "Did you promise—her?"

She looked at him for a moment, before she spoke, and the rebellious blood dyed her cheeks scarlet, her blue eyes flashed.

"I am not compelled to answer you," she said mutinously, "but I will do so. Yes, I promised her."

"But why, Esther, why? What induced you to make so absurd a promise? And, having made it, why, when such extraordinary circumstances arose, did you still keep your lips closed? Why did you not tell me that evening, when I came to you, and when you were in such grief and anxiety? Surely you must have known it would have greatly simplified matters."

But Mrs. Newbold was obstinately silent. She shut her lips firmly together and looked at Philip beneath a decided frown.

"Do you mean to tell me," he continued, a trifle impatiently, "that you could believe such a matter was not of vital importance? Do answer me, Esther, I beg; what motive can I have save to help——"

"Oh, if you will look at it in that light," interrupted Mrs. Newbold, quickly, "why then I must say, I don't see what great difference your having known this would have made. It couldn't stop the arrest, you know."

"I know nothing of the kind," he replied shortly; "I am not at all sure that it might not have done so. It is always far more difficult to rectify a blunder than to prevent one. I cannot but feel that you have treated me badly in this matter, Esther; at such a time and under such circumstances the utmost candour should have been shown."

He did not speak angrily, but with so much of sadness in his voice, Esther felt compunction stealing over her and absorbing her late vehemence and impatience.

"I should much prefer your being angry with me, Philip," she said, wistfully, "or that you shook me; it's much more awful to see you look so hurt and pained. But can't you believe me, can't you understand? It was her wish—her demand—from the very beginning. She made me solemnly swear that no one should know—least of all—you."

"Ah, yes—I least of all," he replied, half sadly. "Very well, my dear Esther, I will ask you no more questions. You shall not be tempted further to break your promise. Let us only hope that this unfortunate secrecy may not in the end prove our greatest stumbling-block. I do not see the way any clearer before me because of this unexpected document, but I shall do my best to use it to our advantage. After all, what a truly womanly bit of finesse it was—and is!"