I let him take me, and we walked till we were stopped by a low parapet, over which we had a charming view of the black mud-banks of the river, for the tide was out, and beyond this a strip of waste land, dotted with mill chimneys and the backs of dirty houses. It was neither a cheerful nor a beautiful outlook, but we both stood gazing over the wall, as if beyond it lay the New Jerusalem. “It’s horribly smelly,” I discovered at length. “I thought you wanted somewhere quiet,” Owen apologized. “I didn’t mean this sort of thing. I’m sure there’s a dead cat or dog in that sack down there. Come away.” “I didn’t know the tide was out,” said Owen patiently. But I found it difficult now to begin my story. Those wretched children had upset everything. I was quite unreasonably cross, too, with Owen, for bringing me to these hideous mud-banks, with their litter of old boots, of empty tins and broken bottles. I even had it on the tip of my tongue to tell him it was just like him, but refrained. We retraced our steps and found a seat near the pond. Here we sat in silence, Owen waiting for me to begin my tale. “Something very unpleasant happened yesterday,” I murmured, branching off to a secondary subject. “Happened to you?” “Not to me only―――― It was a letter my father got from Uncle George――the people I was living with in town here, you know.” “I know.” “You remember the chap who came with us to ‘Faust?’” “Your cousin?” I nodded. “He had some photographs which he kept hidden under the floor in our bedroom.” “Why?” “So that nobody would get hold of them. They were――that kind. I don’t know where he got them from.” “Bad?” I nodded again. “And they were found a few days ago, and he denied that they were his, so Uncle George wrote to my father.” “Saying they must be yours?” “It came to that, though he didn’t actually say it.” “But you denied it too?” “Yes――only――I don’t know that my father believes me.” “Even now?” “He says he does, but I’m not sure. At any rate it has upset him a lot.” “He must be an awfully low cad.” “George? He’s not up to much. But I expect it never occurred to him that his people would write, and I suppose he thought, now I was out of the way, it wouldn’t much matter to me whether they blamed me or not. Neither would it have mattered, if Uncle George hadn’t written.” “Of course it would have. What is your father going to do?” “I don’t know. There is nothing he _can_ do, except tell them what I say.” I felt suddenly sad and doubtful――doubtful of the quality of my own innocence, which had seemed perfectly clear before. “I’m not sure that I’m giving you a right impression,” I went on, after a short silence. “I knew George had these things: I had looked at them: I knew where he kept them.” “It all seems to me very rotten,” said Owen, disgustedly. “It is, rather. Aunt Margaret may write to Mrs. Carroll, for instance, just out of spite.” “She can hardly do that now.”