No wonder he had hesitated for a little before inventing the story; but now that it was done a host of difficulties presented themselves to Meadowes’ fancy. First of all, Shepley might write again to Anne any day—in all probability he would not do so for some weeks, but still he might—therefore Anne must be induced to leave her present home as quickly as might be. Secondly, Anne had impressed him as a self-respecting woman, quite able to take care of herself; she was no silly child to be easily deceived, and, so far as he could judge, not to be bought either. It is true Anne had taken the coin he offered her, but Meadowes acknowledged that she had scarcely seemed to know what she was about at the time. How then was he to gain favour in her eyes? How manage to ingratiate himself with her quickly without rousing her suspicions? He had no possible pretext for going to visit her again, yet go he must, and that speedily, or he ran the risk of Anne’s having received another letter from her lover, which might make her disbelieve all the statements she had accepted to-day. As Meadowes weighed the matter in his mind, he remembered Shepley’s amber beads. Find them he must, and they might be offered to Anne as a farewell gift from her faithless adorer. So he prosecuted an active search for the missing package, and when at last it had been discovered, sat down and opened it. Then Meadowes slipped the warm yellow beads through his fingers like a monk at his devotions, but all the while darting fears and shivers of shame overcame him, for he was a man of quick sensitiveness, fully conscious of the base part he was playing. There was no time to be lost; the next day at latest he must go to see Anne again. Thus it came about that Meadowes stood once more at Anne Champion’s door the next afternoon and knocked. Anne opened it herself; she stood on the threshold, and did not invite her visitor to come in. ‘Oh, ’tis you again,’ was all she said for greeting. ‘I am come with the remainder of my message, Anne,’ said Meadowes. ‘I forgot yesterday to make over this part of it to you.’ ‘Come in then,’ said Anne, curtly enough, and she moved across to the little window, which stood open for the heat. The room had a deserted air, Anne seemed to have been sitting idle, for there were no signs of her usual occupation. ‘Sit down, sir,’ she said, and waited for Meadowes to make known this further errand of his. ‘Shepley asked me to deliver this amber chain into your hand as a keepsake, and to bear him no ill will,’ he said, handing the necklace to Anne. ‘A likely thing it is I’ll have his gifts!’ cried the girl. She flushed angrily, and with a quick movement of her arm flung the chain out at the window; it fell on the opposite roof, and the smooth beads slid down the slates and lodged in some unseen crevice. ‘There they may rot for me!’ she cried. ‘Ah, come,’ began Meadowes; ‘he meant kindly by the gift.’