I observed her with the closest attention. Not a word, not a tone, not a gesture, escaped me; and she, every now and then, apparently unconscious of what was in my mind, addressed me and drew me into conversation in the most artless manner. She demanded attention from me with the usual licence of beauty, and later on in the evening my father, linking his arm in mine, said, "My mind is relieved of a great anxiety. I am glad you like Lydia; she is delighted with you, and says she cannot look upon you with a mother's eyes. She will be your sister, she says, and the best friend you have in the world. Our home will once more be happy, as in your mother's days." I slept but little during the night, and the following day and for days afterwards devoted myself to the task of confirming or destroying the horrible suspicion which haunted me. I saw enough to convince me, but I would make assurance doubly sure, and I laid a trap for her. I had in my possession a photograph of Sydney, admirably executed and handsomely framed, and I determined to bring it before her notice suddenly, and when she supposed herself to be alone. Winter was drawing near, and the weather was chilly. There were fires in every room. We were to go to the theatre, she, my father, and I. Dressing quickly I went into our ordinary sitting-room, where a large fire was burning. I turned the gas low, placed the photograph on the table so that it was likely to attract observation, and threw myself into an arm chair in a corner of the room which was in deep shadow. I heard the woman's step upon the stairs, and presently she entered the room, and stood by the table, fastening a glove. While thus employed, her eyes fell upon the photograph. I could not see the expression on her face, but I saw her take the picture in her hand and look at it for a moment; then she stepped swiftly to the fireplace, and kneeling down, gazed intently at the photograph. For quite two minutes did she so kneel and gaze upon the picture, without stirring. I rose from my chair, and turned up the gas. She started to her feet, and confronted me; her face was white, her eyes were wild. "You are interested in that picture," I said; "you recognise it." The colour returned to her cheeks--it was as though she willed it--her eyes became calm. "How should I recognise it?" she asked, in a measured tone. "It is the face of a gentleman I have never seen." "It is the face of my friend, my dear friend, Sydney Campbell," I replied, sternly, "who was slain by a heartless, wicked woman. I have not told you his story yet, but perhaps you would scarcely care to hear it." Her quick ears had caught the sound of my father's footsteps. She went to the door, and drew him in with a caressing motion which brought a look of tenderness into his eyes. There was something of triumph in her voice--triumph intended only for my understanding--as she said to her husband,