breathlessly. “When I reached home my sister told me she had seen the man pick it up; that was what he said. I am so very, very sorry that I did not believe him.”

The questor looked incredulous.

“She did not speak of this before, however?”

“She had no time. I missed my purse and ran after him. When I reached home she told me. Pray, signore, do me the kindness to send one of your men to tell him that it was a mistake.”

“As to that, he is already here, marchesa. This gentleman!”—he bowed to Wilbraham—“was desirous that no time should be lost, and my own view coincided with his.”

Teresa looked very unhappy.

“May I see him, then? May I tell him how sorry I am? Of course he can be released at once?”

“I regret to say that is impossible. He was violent and resisted my men. They were obliged to handcuff him, and even then he was troublesome. Believe me, that a night in a cell will cool his blood.”

“Oh!” cried Teresa, squeezing her hands in distress, “pray, pray let him go! He was maddened by a false accusation.”

The other coughed significantly.

“Excuse me, marchesa,” he said; “I could tell you a great deal about the fellow, which you do not know and would not guess.”

“I know,” she said, “that he is a most unhappy man.”

“He belongs to the advanced socialist party. He is dangerous.”

“I do not care whether he is dangerous or not,” she returned indignantly, for she was growing angry. “I supposed he was, as your men were so afraid of him. Being a socialist has nothing to do with it; he is here because I accused him falsely, and I don’t wonder that he resisted. You would have done the same.”

The questor shrugged his shoulders stubbornly. Wilbraham believed that he was rejoiced to inflict a humiliation upon an enemy of law and order.

“Possibly,” he assented. “Nevertheless, he must be punished.”

Teresa changed her manner.

“What will be the punishment?” she asked.

“If he did not take the purse, eccellenza, he will have the option of a fine or a few days’ detention.”

“A fine? That might be paid to-day.”

“To-morrow.”

“But I will pay it. I am quite ready to pay it,” she exclaimed eagerly. “Please let him go at once. You would oblige me very greatly.”

The magistrate waved his hand indulgently.

“It is absolutely impossible. The case cannot be dealt with so summarily. The signore will understand that certain formalities have to be gone through,” he added, appealing to the superior intelligence of the masculine mind.

“I think you’d better let it be as he says,” Wilbraham urged, anxious to get her out of the place. “I’ll be here to-morrow morning, and see it well through.”

Teresa might not have heard. She stood considering.

“If,” she said at last gravely—“if you really have not the power to release an innocent man—”

“Innocent possibly as to your purse, marchesa. But he assaulted my officers,” interrupted the questor, stung to retort. “He deserves a heavier punishment.”

She made a slightly incredulous gesture, but the next moment turned to him with a charming smile.

“I am unreasonable, and you must forgive me, signore, because it was really all my fault. Will you treat him as leniently as possible, and tell me when I should be here?”

“Perhaps before midday. Earlier? Who knows!” He spread his hands and bowed. “I will do what I can.”

“I will come at nine,” said the young marchesa decidedly. “And pray let him know at once of my mistake. A thousand thanks.”

She drew herself up with a little touch of the great lady in her manner, which brought a greater deference into the official manner, and at the entrance repeated her intention of being there the next morning. As they walked away, Wilbraham again urged her to leave the matter with him.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked, wounded. “I assure you he shall have justice.”

“He’s had nothing but the other thing so far,” she said sharply. “Thank you. It’s perverse, I know, but I’d rather go myself.”

“Perverse is no word for his opinion of me, granny,” she was saying twenty minutes later. “The truth is I’m always wanting to shock him, and he yearns to call me ‘My dear young lady.’ People who call you that are absolutely insufferable.”

Mrs Brodrick glanced at her.

“He has never said it.”

“It’s on the tip of his tongue. Oh, there are the letters. Have you read them?”

“Teresa!”

“You might—you may! But I didn’t like the marchesa doing it.”

“Ah, the marchesa seems to have often stepped off the path,” said Mrs Brodrick quietly. But her hand shook.

“It was for the good of my soul,” explained Teresa indifferently, “and it did not much matter, because she could not understand English. What’s this?” she added, taking a letter out of a long envelope, and turning it over.

“It looks as if it came from a lawyer.” Her grandmother’s face changed. She saw that Teresa was staring blankly at the sheet, and she was instantly frightened, for, to her, lawyer’s letters invariably preceded some loss of income. Presently Teresa looked up still blankly.

“I think,” she said, drawing a deep breath—“I think there must be some mistake.”

“Lawyers don’t often make mistakes,” said Mrs Brodrick gravely, after a momentary silence in which she braced herself. Teresa was staring at her now, and frowning.

“It is about Sir James Stanton—” she said in a slow changed voice.

“James Stanton!” Mrs Brodrick caught both her wrists. “He has left you something, Teresa! And I who thought it was bad news!”

“Yes, something.” She still spoke mechanically, and her grandmother was surprised at the effect upon her. The next moment she sprang up and flung open the bedroom door. “Sylvia, Sylvia, come here! Come and listen, come and tell me I’m really awake;” but before her sister could answer, she was back and standing before Mrs Brodrick, her hands clasped behind her, and her eyes beginning to shine. “Granny, did I ever see him?”

“James? Never. He was your father’s cousin. He knew your mother, too,” she added, with a keen glance and a smile of remembrance. “And now!”

“Yes, now,” repeated Teresa, catching Sylvia by the waist. “Now, guess.”

Mrs Brodrick hesitated.

“One mustn’t be greedy,” she said. “It would be very nice for you if it were five hundred pounds.”

“That is a good deal,” said Teresa, looking queerly at her.

“Yes, it is. Well, if it is only a hundred or two, it will be very useful. Teresa, what is it?”

For she saw that the young marchesa was trembling, and began to think that the matter must be more considerable than she had imagined.

“He has left me a thousand a year,” Teresa