And, avoiding his eyes, she led the way across the road to the door of one of the houses. He followed, but reluctantly, and after a moment of hesitation. He detested the scene which he now foresaw, and bitterly regretted that he had ever set foot inside Queen’s Square. To be suspected of thrusting an intrigue upon a little schoolmistress, to be dragged, with a pack of staring, chattering children in his train, before some grim-faced duenna—he, a man of years and affairs, with whom the Chancellor of England did not scorn to speak on equal terms! It was hateful; it was an intolerable position. Yet to turn back, to say that he would not go, was to acknowledge himself guilty. He wished—he wished to heaven that he had never seen the girl. Or at least that he had had the courage, when she first denied the thing, to throw the parcel on the seat and go. It was not an heroic frame of mind; but neither was the position heroic. And something may be forgiven him in the circumstances. Fortunately the trial was short. She opened the door of the house, and on the threshold he found himself face to face with a tall, bulky woman, with a double chin, and an absurdly powdered nose, who wore a cameo of the late Queen Charlotte on her ample bosom. Miss Sibson had viewed the encounter from an upper window, and her face was a picture of displeasure, slightly tempered by powder. “What is this?” she asked, in an intimidating voice. “Miss Smith, what is this, if you please?” Perhaps Mary, aware that her place was at stake, was desperate. At any rate she behaved with a dignity which astonished Vaughan. “This gentleman, Madam,” she explained, speaking with firmness though her face was on fire, “travelled with me on the coach yesterday. A few minutes ago he appeared and addressed me, and insisted that the—the parcel he carries is mine, and that I left it in the coach. It is not mine, and I have not seen it before.” Miss Sibson folded her arms upon her ample person. The position was not altogether new to her. “Sir,” she said, eying the offender majestically, “have you any explanation to offer—of this extraordinary conduct?” He had, indeed. As clearly as his temper permitted he told his tale, his tone half ironical, half furious. When he paused, “Who do you say gave it to you?” Miss Sibson asked in a deep voice. “I do not know her name. A lady who travelled in the coach.” Miss Sibson’s frown grew even deeper. “Thank you,” she replied, “that will do. I have heard enough, and I understand. I understand, sir. Be good enough to leave the house.” “But, Madam——” “Be good enough to leave the house,” she repeated. “That is the door,” pointing to it. “That is the door, sir! Any apology you may wish to make, you can make by letter to me. To me, you understand! I think one were not ill-fitting!”