On the afternoon of the third day he was pacing his room about five o’clock like a caged lion, feverishly awaiting his wife’s return, waiting to confront her with the anonymous letter, and reveal to her his verification of the charges it contained. The clock on the mantelpiece struck five, the quarter, and the half-hour. His face grew darker and darker, as the tide of his righteous wrath swelled. Six o’clock struck, and no sign of Mrs. Morrice. Then ten minutes later a telegram was brought to him which after reading he cast angrily on the floor. It explained that her friend was very unwell, that she was stopping the night at her house, and would return home at lunch time to-morrow. The storm could not burst to-day on the devoted head of the woman who had played so foolishly with her husband’s trust in her. The unexpected delay incensed further the unfortunate financier, against whom of late fate seemed to have a special grudge. Rosabelle came in while he was fuming, to ask him for a small cheque in anticipation of her quarter’s allowance. So preoccupied was he with his bitter thoughts of the gross way in which he had been deceived that he wrote the cheque like a man in a dream, and the girl noticed that his hand trembled. When he looked up to give it to her, she saw that his face was as black as night. “Uncle dear, whatever is the matter?” she cried impetuously. For some little time past she had had an uneasy feeling, one of those presentiments which occur so often to sensitive people, that there was trouble of some sort brewing in this household. “Nothing the matter, my child,” he answered evasively, passing his hand wearily across his forehead. Much as he loved his pretty niece, much as he trusted her, he could not as yet reveal to her the cause of his trouble, betray the woman in whom he had believed—who bore his honoured name. But the girl persisted. “But, dearest uncle, you are hiding something from me. You look so strange, I am sure you are very much moved. Have you had disturbing news?” For a little time the unhappy man refrained from answering that question, inspired by no spirit of girlish curiosity, but by the sincerest and most loyal affection. “Yes, my child, I have had bad news, very bad news, I am afraid I am a poor dissembler,” he said at length. “Later on, under the strict seal of secrecy, I may tell you the cause of my trouble. But not now, not now. Run away, my precious little girl, and leave me to my black mood.” She dared not worry him further, although her heart was aching for him. Nobody knew better than she the kind, tender nature underlying that rather stern exterior. Before she obeyed him, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him affectionately. “Tell me when you please, dear, in your own good time, and your poor little Rosabelle, to whom you have always been so kind and generous, will do her best to comfort you.”