The girl kissed him tenderly. Upright and honourable herself, she could not but sympathize with him in his drastic action, even while she was not without compassion for the wretched victim of his righteous justice. And as she bestowed on him that affectionate caress, she could not but think miserably of the havoc that had been wrought in that small household in such a brief space of time. Her memory went painfully back to that night in December when they had sat in a secluded corner of one of the pretty rooms, and she had urged her lover to screw up his courage to approach Morrice on the subject of their marriage. They had then been a happy family of four, always together, taking their pleasures, their amusements in common. And now that joyous little band had been reduced to two. Mrs. Morrice, the aunt for whom she had always entertained a sincere affection, was exiled, justly exiled, from the home that had sheltered her for so many years. And Richard, the lover in whose innocence she so firmly believed, was another exile, lying under the ban of his benefactor’s displeasure, and eating his heart out in that little cottage at Petersham. “You do not blame me for what I have done, my little Rosabelle,” repeated her uncle, as he held her slender form against his. “We have both had a great sorrow in our lives, my poor child, we must be all in all to each other now.” “Oh, no, dearest uncle, I do not blame you. In her case, you had proved everything up to the hilt. I do not see that you could have taken any other course. If there had been the slightest room for doubt I should have taken her part against you, I should have held that you were bound to believe her innocent until you proved her guilty.” He winced a little at those words, for he knew what was at the back of her mind. He had tried and condemned Richard Croxton, the son of his old sweetheart, on suspicion only—strong suspicion, it is true, but not strong enough to justify absolute conviction. They were interrupted by the entrance of the butler, a staid person who had been in the financier’s service for over twenty years. “A Mr. Lane rang up for you about half an hour ago, sir, and wished you particularly to ring him up as soon as convenient to yourself.” He went down to his room and was soon in communication with the office in Shaftesbury Avenue. Lane’s measured tones came over the instrument. “Good-day, Mr. Morrice. Am I right in concluding that a certain person has left your house by now?” “Quite right; has been gone since shortly after lunch,” was the financier’s reply. “Has not yet taken away any private property—trunks, boxes or that sort of thing, I suppose?” was the next question. “No; these are to be sent when we receive an address.” “Good! Then I may run round to you at once? There is a little business I want to embark on without delay.”