The little old gentleman had withdrawn from the apartment of the Mannerings very quietly, leaving all that excitement and commotion behind him; but he did not leave in this way the house in Bloomsbury. He went downstairs cautiously and quietly, though why he should have done so he could not himself have told, since, had he made all the noise in the world, it could have had no effect upon the matter in hand in either case. Then he knocked at Miss Bethune’s door. When he was bidden to enter, he opened the door gently, with great precaution, and going in, closed it with equal care behind him. “I am speaking, I think, to Mrs. Gordon Grant?” he said. Miss Bethune was alone. She had many things to think of, and very likely the book which she seemed to be reading was not much more than a pretence to conceal her thoughts. It fell down upon her lap at these words, and she looked at her questioner with a gasp, unable to make any reply. “Mrs. Gordon Grant, I believe?” he said again, then made a step farther into the room. “Pardon me for startling you, there is no one here. I am a solicitor, John Templar, of Gray’s Inn. Precautions taken with other persons need not apply to me. You are Mrs. Gordon Grant, I know.” “I have never borne that name,” she said, very pale. “Janet Bethune, that is my name.” “Not as signed to a document which is in my possession. You will pardon me, but this is no doing of mine. You witnessed Mrs. Bristow’s will?” She gave a slight nod with her head in acquiescence. “And then, to my great surprise, I found this name, which I have been in search of for so long.” “You have been in search of it?” “Yes, for many years. The skill with which you have concealed it is wonderful. I have advertised, even. I have sought the help of old friends who must see you often, who come to you here even, I know. But I never found the name I was in search of, never till the other day at the signing of Mrs. Bristow’s will--which, by the way,” he said, “that young fellow might have signed safely enough, for he has no share in it.” “Do you mean to say that she has left him nothing--nothing, Mr. Templar? The boy that was like her son!” “Not a penny,” said the old gentleman--“not a penny. Everything has gone the one way--perhaps it was not wonderful--to her own child.” “I could not have done that!” cried the lady. “Oh, I could not have done it! I would have felt it would bring a curse upon my own child.” “Perhaps, madam, you never had a child of your own, which would make all the difference,” he said. She looked at him again, silent, with her lips pressed very closely together, and a kind of defiance in her eyes.