“But----” “I know,” she cut him short. “I have begun again. I am Beryl’s governess, the girl who brought you home. She knows my real name, but I told her I called myself Holbeach for reasons of my own.” “Governess!” he said, staring. “I’m not fit, you think!” she said bitterly. “I would not say so,” said the man slowly, and the blood came to his face. “You think I’m bad--an--adventuress----” “I think you ruined Raimond Erle,” he answered bluntly. With a queer gesture she put her hand to her heart as if it hurt her. This man was of the world, would judge as the world; and he could tell. “I----” She could not finish. A man who did not know her would have been a rock of defense, to whom she could have told everything. This man would never believe she was not in Egerton’s pay, to get rid of Beryl Corselas. He would remember the evil places, the evil company he had seen her in; would think it right to destroy Beryl’s faith in the only soul she trusted. No! Let him think this was an ordinary house, she masquerading as an ordinary governess. Salome said it would be weeks before he could walk; let him stay here in this secluded room, where no noises would wake him. He was only another burden, not a help. “Mr. Heriot,” she said quietly, “you will do as you like, of course, about airing what you know of me. But if you will wait you will see perhaps that I’m not all bad--not what you may think. Don’t tell Beryl that I was Andria Erle till you see reason to mistrust me,” and even while she spoke she knew he would see reason enough as soon as Beryl’s careless, indifferent tongue told the queer story of Egerton and the happenings in this evil house. No sane person would believe that if such things were possible in this every-day world the woman Egerton paid was not on his side in them. And what Egerton’s side was did not puzzle Andria, if it did Salome. “I don’t go about blackmailing people,” said Heriot coldly. “Don’t look so nervous.” “But you don’t think I ought to be in the house with any girl,” she said quietly, and he could not see the bitterness in her face. “If you ask me,” unwillingly, “no! But God knows I can’t throw the first stone at you, especially when you take me in and nurse me,” but the old dislike of her and her kind was in his voice as he spoke. “Then try and think kindly of me,” she broke out, and there were tears in the eyes he had always seen so hard. “I have begun again; I’ve put all that behind me.” With a gesture of loathing he understood. “My dear lady,” he returned quickly, “don’t plead like that! It is no business of mine what you were. I see you here as Miss Holbeach, and--as for the girl, I am not her keeper.” “No, but I am!” she retorted, for his tone hurt unbearably. “And keep her I will. I will send your dinner now,” she said, with a change of manner that said more for her self-control than her honesty; “it is nearly six o’clock; you must be starving.”