“Pardon me, then,” he answered, “for being explicit. You are threatened, I am to assume, with a loss of livelihood?” “Yes, utter,” she said low. “Very well,” he answered. “Then you are to understand, please, that we will endeavour to compensate you in proportion as our estimate of the wrong you have suffered tallies with yours.” “Compensate!” she exclaimed. “I mean,” he said, “with all respect for your independence. You shall work for your living--if you desire it, at the Agency itself.” She glanced at him swiftly, and away. There were signs of tears in her beautiful eyes. “I can only acknowledge such consideration, such generosity,” she said, “with a full confession of the truth. Would you wish to hear it?” “I seek it perpetually,” he answered, “and from many lips. If it is an ugly truth here, even yours shall not redeem it or win its pardon.” She blushed deeply, and half averting her face, held out to him the telegram which had been responsible for her seizure. “Will you glance at that first?” she murmured. “You will not understand it; but it will pave the way to an explanation.” He took the paper from her hand, and read these four enigmatic words:-- “_Be prepared. Winsom Wyllie._” “Winsom Wyllie!” he ejaculated in astonishment, looking up. She shivered, and gave a little gulp. “He is the cause, he is the cause!” she whispered, and appeared for the moment incapable of further speech. And then suddenly she collected herself. “I must appear insane to you,” she said. “Perhaps it is true that an exaggerated fear has unhinged my mind for the moment. But I will tell you my story.” “If you please,” he said; and she began:--