Accused an innocent girl of theft, and stolen a fortune from her; then driven her forth in disgrace into an uncharitable world to beg her bread or starve; for likely as not it would come to that since she had no recommendation wherewith to gain another place. She sat for an hour in anything but agreeable meditation. She did not know what to do, or which way to turn in the matter. Had she known Miss Douglas’ address, she would have hastened to send the casket to her, and considered herself lucky to be so well rid of it. “If only Wilbur did not know about it, mamma and I could hide the jewels, and deny all knowledge of them,” she murmured, in deep perplexity. She finally resolved that she would say nothing to any one concerning what Adrian Dredmond had told her, but keep the matter to herself for a few days at least; and if the governess did come to demand the jewels again, she would tell her mother, and persuade her to give them up quietly and save further trouble. “At all events,” she added, with a sigh of relief, as she went to her own room, “she is gone, and I’ve nothing more to fear from her charms.” Adrian Dredmond left the Coolidge mansion in a fever of impatience and indignation. That any one should accuse Brownie Douglas of the crime of theft was sufficient to drive him wild. Did he not know that she had been reared with tenderest care? Had she not the blood of royalty in her veins? and had he not seen her in all the brightness and purity of her young life, and been assured of her integrity by his friend Gordon? How well he remembered that scene in the vestibule of the Art Gallery, when she had appeared like some beautiful vision to him, with her bright, sweet face, and clad so richly, yet simply, in her plain black silk, protected by the linen ulster. How lovely she had looked, with not a jewel to deck her, excepting that rich coral clasp at the throat. Her every look, tone and movement had betokened the true lady, both then and recently, when he had met her at the opera. That evening, as he sat in his own room, his valet brought him a note. It was signed by Wilbur Coolidge, and told him that he would find Miss Douglas at the “Washington.” As early the following morning as it would do, Adrian Dredmond presented himself at the “Washington” and inquired for Miss Douglas. The clerk turned to his book and looked over the names of the new arrivals. Hers was not there! Mr. Dredmond was in despair. “Are you sure?” he asked, anxiously. For reply the clerk placed the book before him, and pointed with his finger to the list of arrivals for the last two days. It was even as he had said; her name was not there! For two days after he returned to the “Washington,” making the same inquiries and receiving the same answer. No, Brownie Douglas had not been there, and she never came. He sought her at every respectable hotel in London, but not a trace of her could he find.