"You!" she rudely said, in a condemning tone of voice; "I am not alluding to your letter. When this other letter came, I told Alfred I must go at once to Chandos. 'Very well,' said he, 'I shall be able to take you in a day or so.' But the days went on, and still he was too ill; or said he was. 'I _must_ go,' I said to him yesterday morning. 'I must and I will,' and that put him up. 'Listen, ma chère,' cried he, in his cool way, 'I am too ill to travel, and there's nobody else to take you, so you _can't_ go; therefore let us hear no more about it.' Merci, monsieur! I thought to myself; and I forthwith told Pauline to pack up, and get the boxes out of the house en cachette. Which she did: and I followed them, Alfred and Madame in Mère believing I had gone for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne. A pretty long drive they must think it by this time." "Emily, how can you act so?" exclaimed her brother, in a tone of stern reproval. "Now, Harry, I don't want any of your morality. Look at home, before you preach to me. What have _you_ been doing the last few weeks? I have heard." "Shall I pay for the chaise, ma'am?" inquired Hickens, putting in his head. "Pay for anything and everything, Hickens," was her answer. "I have brought no money with me, to speak of. I ran away." "Emily, how _can_ you?" exclaimed Mr. Chandos, as the man withdrew. "Rubbish! Who's Hickens? Pauline's sure to tell him all about it. I repeat to you, Harry, that you need not preach to me: you have more need to reform your own acts and doings. The letter I received was about you; and, from what it said, I began to think it high time that I should be at Chandos." "Indeed!" he quietly answered. "Pray who may have taken the trouble to write it?" "That is what I cannot tell you. It was anonymous." Mr. Chandos curled his lip. "There is only one thing to do with an anonymous letter, Emily—put it in the fire, with a thought of pity for its miserable writer, and then forget it for ever. We have been dealing in anonymous letters here, lately. I received one; and the inspector of police at Warsall received one, falsely purporting to be from me. The result was that a descent of mounted police came swooping upon us one night with sabres, drawn or undrawn, frightening sober Chandos out of its propriety." "I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed Madame de Mellissie, her interest momentarily diverted from her own grievances. "What did they want?" "The inspector was led to believe I required them to take somebody into custody for theft. I assure you anonymous letters have been the fashion here lately. But they are not the less despicable." "Shall I tell you what was in mine?" "I do not wish to hear it." "Ah, you are afraid," she answered, with a ringing laugh. "Conscience makes cowards of all of us."