There was a vague trouble at her heart--an uneasiness for which she could not account. Something in Mrs. Vane's manner--something in her tone, her smile, her eyes--was distasteful to the unerring instincts of the pure God-fearing woman, as it had been to the trained observation of Maurice Evandale. Flossy might do her best to be charming--she might disarm criticism by the sweetness of her manner; but, in spite of her efforts, candid and unsullied natures were apt to discern in her a want of frankness--a little taint of something which they hardly liked to name. Sister Louisa grieved sorely over what she had heard of Cynthia; but she was also disturbed by an unconquerable distrust of this fair fashionable woman of the world. "I think there is scarcely any link wanting in the chain," said Mrs. Vane to herself, when, having just caught her train, she was being whirled back to the metropolis. "Jane Wood was Cynthia Janet Westwood. She had a fine voice, and was about sixteen years old when she left St. Elizabeth's, July, 187-. In July, 187-, the same year, Lalli appeared at Mrs. Wadsley's with a girl of sixteen, who also had a fine voice, who had been at St. Elizabeth's, and who called herself Cynthia West. Mr. Lepel had put Jane Wood at school; Mr. Lepel turns up later on as the lover--protector--what not?--of Cynthia West. There is not the slightest reasonable doubt that Jane Wood and Cynthia West are one and the same person. That prosy old Sister would prove it in a moment if we brought them face to face. And Jane Wood was Westwood's daughter. Cynthia West is Westwood's daughter. Very easily traced! What will the world say when it knows that the rising young soprano singer is the daughter of a murderer? It won't much care, I suppose. But Hubert will care lest the fact be known. He has been too careful in hiding it for that not to be the case. Let me see--Cynthia West--presumably Westwood's daughter--meets a mysterious stranger in Kensington Gardens and addresses him as her father. The mysterious stranger comes from America, and has white hair and a white beard--quite unlike Mr. Andrew Westwood, be it remarked. Westwood escaped from Portland some years ago, and is rumored to have settled in the backwoods of America. I think there is very good reason for supposing that the mysterious stranger is Westwood himself, returned to England in order to secure his daughter's aid and companionship. And, if so, what a fool the man must be, when once he had got safely away, to run his head into a nest of enemies! He must be mad indeed! And, if mad," said Mrs. Vane, with a curiously cold and cruel smile, "the best thing for him will be incarceration at Portland prison once again."