"Leave us," he said, shortly, and she, trembling, obeyed.

"Drayton," he said, in a tone that betrayed effort and agitation, "I had no opportunity of speaking. I intended to keep my word at any cost to myself, but it has been impossible."

"Really," said Mr. Drayton, scornfully. "Well, let me see Miss Margaret and plead my cause with her; let me tell her——what I must tell her in order that she may understand."

"You cannot see her; she is not here."

"Not here! What do you mean? What foul trick have you played me?"

"I have played you no trick and you need not bluster and take that tone!" answered Mr. Sandford, angrily, his temper rising.

"I have your promise, in words, over and over again, in writing also; I insist on knowing how it all came about. You must have done your spiriting very ungently, perhaps said something unfavourable of me. I declare to you I cannot trust you."

"I never mentioned your name. Grace sent me nearly mad and I said something to her about leaving the house, then Margaret went with her."

"Is this the truth?"

"It is the truth."

"And her leaving this house had nothing to do with me?"

"Nothing whatever."

Mr. Drayton felt that, so far, all was well, but he would not betray any satisfaction to the man before him.

"Those investments I followed your advice about have brought me a loss," he said, after a pause, watching Mr. Sandford's face keenly.

"A loss?"

"Not in money; but my manager has given up his place, and his going is a serious loss. You are really the cause of his departure. He does not believe in you to the same extent other people do. I am sorry, but is there not a proverb about good fish being still in the sea? He was a good man but a trifle too cautious, yes, much too cautious! Well, as Miss Margaret is not here I shall go back."

Mr. Sandford heard this and was uneasy. He knew quite well that Mr. Drayton had no business capacity, and it came home to him very clearly that now that man's influence was withdrawn other people might find the way to his pocket as easily as he had done, when Margaret was in the background.

"I am sorry," he said curtly, relieved to find that he was to be left alone. Mr. Drayton, now Margaret had gone, did not see the use of staying. He made very short adieus to Mrs. Dorriman, and she noticed that he had kept his cab waiting, and had never had his luggage taken off.

"Brother," she said, softly laying her hand, upon his arm, "Mr. Drayton has seen Margaret somewhere, he knows where she is. He knew she was not here."

Mr. Sandford stared at her. She sometimes took him by surprise, this under-valued sister of his, and her idea now struck him with surprise. He thought (now that he had time to arrange his ideas) that Drayton had taken the announcement coolly. At the moment it had been a relief, now it confirmed his sister's words. He suspected that she was right, nevertheless it was a sort of surprise to him. It is difficult when one person has habitually put another into a position of inferiority all their lives, and considered them dull, suddenly to change and to credit them with quickness of apprehension. He gave a sort of grunt, and went back to his den. The most important fact now was the resignation of Mr. Drayton's manager. As far as he himself was personally concerned he was glad. Whatever happened now, those lynx-eyes were not in a position to look at the matter confidentially. Still the other side of the question, abovementioned, did not make it altogether pleasant news, and he set himself to think if there was any way in which he could lay a restraining hand upon Mr. Drayton, or rather on Mr. Drayton's speculative tendencies. In the meantime at Torbreck the girls were not doing very well.

They had arrived in a drenched condition at the very small inn, and had applied for a room and for something to go for their luggage.

But, though they got a room, it was fireless, and the luggage a greater difficulty.

There were horses, but they were all busy; the little place, self-contained and prosperous enough, was not prepared for the advent of strangers.

A fire was kindled, but would not burn, the smoke insisted on searching every corner of the room, and if it went up the chimney it came out in puffs in an unexpected and distracting way altogether; the girls sitting there felt their spirits go down to the very lowest ebb, and shivered.

Nothing could be more cheerless than the place—one black horsehair sofa, two rather narrow arm-chairs, and six other chairs, a table that nearly filled up the room in the middle of it, upon which a dusty-coloured worsted mat reposed, three funeral cards of departed relations framed and glazed upon the chimney-piece, and a convex mirror, which reflected and distorted with strict impartiality everything that was there.

After waiting a long time in their wet things, since they had nothing to put on dry till their luggage came, they got some tea and hoped that its warmth would revive them, but the tea was tepid; an accident not unknown to history when there is nothing to keep it hot, and a peat fire, though cheerful to look at and hot enough, does not offer the convenience of a hot plate.

The bedroom close to the sitting-room was as small as it could well be, and the sisters could barely turn round in it. Grace sat looking straight before her. She was feeling very ill. At all times a little fastidious, the second-rate baker's bread (tasting of sawdust) and the uninviting tea, extinguished all wish to eat. She had the painful satisfaction of knowing that her own want of self-control had brought them to this, and yet, poor child, this was nothing to what the future held in store for her, though she did not know it!

The sisters did not speak, they both felt that it was all best endured in silence; they sat, cold and very wretched, till their luggage arrived, then soon creeping into bed they tried to sleep and to forget their misery.

Soon Margaret slept. Her calmer and less exciteable temperament always gave her this advantage, and she slept soundly.

But Grace was sleepless, the shadows of the night oppressed her; long after her sister's regular breathing told its own story she lay tossing wearily from side to side. The small room seemed to stifle her; to the intense cold and shivering she had suffered from, had succeeded burning heat, her head seemed too heavy to lift from her pillow, and it was very early when Margaret was startled by a sharp cry of distress and anguish, and heard Grace saying:

"I am very ill; Oh! Margaret, wake up and do something for me!"

The morning had barely come, the grey dawn, moisture-laden, grew slowly into perfect day; and poor Margaret with a cloak thrown over her, her long fair hair streaming over her shoulders, her sleepy eyes looking wonderingly round her, went downstairs to do her best.

One bare-footed girl was busy, early though it was, and to her Margaret explained herself.

With evident reluctance she went to call her mistress, who came inclined to be cross at losing an hour's much-needed rest.

But crossness vanished when she saw Margaret, and she went upstairs with her; where poor Grace, with a crimson face and panting heavily, lay tossing from side to side and calling her sister.

"How can you leave me when you see how ill I am? I shall die! I know I shall die."

She was frightened, and crying hysterically.

To her immense surprise, Mrs. Munro gave her a good scolding. The surprise was so great that it quieted her, and when that good woman saw the effect she had produced, she left her, to see and get some remedy and to send for the doctor. Before night she was worse, and both knew now that her illness was no light thing. She was suffering acutely, and her illness was pronounced to be inflammation of the lungs.

Mrs. Munro was glad it was "no a catching thing," and was sorry for them. The women of her class in Scotland may be rough, and have a keen eye to a bargain;