“It is no business of a stranger’s--an outsider’s!” Mother Felicitas said, with stony calm that covered fury. “Why does this Fuller woman make it hers?” But even while she asked the question of the bare walls of her own convent parlors she knew the answer. Years ago there had been a hue and cry over the sudden death of a woman and the disappearance of her child. It was Mrs. Fuller’s friend the detective that was so hot upon the trail. To solve a mystery that thirteen years ago had been given up by the whole force would make his reputation. The woman who said to herself that she never repented was perilously near to repentance now. The dread of shame and disgrace distorted her face where she sat alone. “He means that son to marry her--for the Corselas millions that are crying for their owners, for the succession that can be assured in no other way. And the announcement of that marriage under her own name or her mother’s will spring the mine under me! And I can’t stir a finger. It’s a month since I saw them with her; it may be too late now. Every one in England but me may know the missing girl is found.” She could not keep her hands still nor her mouth steady. Retribution was coming to her--punishment for those long years when her whole life had been a blasphemous lie. She had no hope that Erceldonne would hold his tongue when the announcement of his son’s marriage brought a stern order for an explanation from the law of the land; from chancery, too, that had the Corselas money in trust. There was one point where nothing but the truth would clear Erceldonne himself, and there was no hope that he would not tell it. “If I could stop the marriage!” almost she said it aloud. But she could think of no way that a dying woman in a convent could balk the will of Erceldonne. A sharp clang of the old bell that was just outside the parlor door made her start. It was Tuesday--visiting-day. She drew herself together to clap her hands for a lay sister and say that Sister De Sales must see the anxious mothers of pupils--that she herself was too weary. The portress was a new one and not used to her work. Before the reverend mother had more than lifted her shaking hands a knock came to her door--a stereotyped convent knock such as pupils gave--not a visitor’s. “Come in!” cried Mother Felicitas, and straightened up in her chair. She was nearly ruined, and her power would soon be a byword; but at least she could still crush a pupil who dared to come unsummoned to her private room. But it was no girl with a grievance who opened the door. On the threshold there stood a tall and beautiful woman whose eyes were less gentle than her mouth, and whose red-brown hair---- “Andria Heathcote!” said Mother Felicitas, who never forgot a face. “Yes,” said the visitor, and involuntarily curtsied, as she had never dared to enter that room without doing. Yet the next instant she had coolly turned and shut the door behind her.