“Me? I never was a child,” she said, and her eyes darkened as if some inward flame had been extinguished. “No one who’s been Beryl Corselas all her life could ever be a child.” “What do you mean?” “I mean the convent, and Mother Felicitas,” she said somberly, “and Andria and me. If Andria had not gone away it might have been better.” She looked straight at him, and something in his look reminded her of Andria. His blue eyes had the same look of self-reliance. His good looks did not strike her at all; the golden-brown hair and mustache and the debonair face that had turned many a woman’s head never touched Beryl Corselas one whit. He looked kind and strong, and she liked him. That was all. Yet Andria could have told her that in his day Heriot had been the handsomest, most spoiled man in London. “Do you mean Miss Holbeach,” he asked, with perceptible hesitation and utter surprise, “was ever in a convent?” Beryl nodded. “I’ll tell you,” she said. “It’s all very queer. If you read it in a book you wouldn’t believe it. And that reminds me,” she went on, laughing, “Andria was brought here to teach me, and there isn’t a book in the house but that funny, old one on the floor there. Mr. Egerton couldn’t have really cared whether we did lessons or not.” “Begin at the beginning,” said Heriot, with the soft voice women had found so sweet. “I can’t understand, you know.” But when she had reeled out the whole extraordinary tale he leaned back and whistled softly. Egerton, whoever he was, must know something of Beryl Corselas’ history and want her out of the way. No better place could have been found for a superfluous girl to live than this unknown nook in the Azores. And no other kind of woman than the late Mrs. Erle could have been got to take pay for accompanying a kidnaped girl. There was probably very little mystery in the affair to her; she must know something from those far-away convent days about the history of Beryl Corselas; which might also explain why it had been convenient to get her here, too, in addition to being a pliant tool in the hands of a clever man. And that the girl had an affection for her was another reason. Heriot knew the power of a woman over a girl who idolizes her. That the whole thing had been blind chance, he never thought for an instant. “Why do you think he brought you here?”--he kept his interest out of his voice. “I think,” she answered calmly, “to be eaten up. And so does Andria. But Salome says he made her swear to take care of us. And he did warn us himself, of course; but I think that was for show, and so does Andria.” “Eaten up!” Mr. Heriot gasped. He began to wonder if the girl were queer in the head. Beryl nodded. “You don’t know. You don’t sleep in the house,” she returned. “And, anyhow, it’s all right now, for they know me.” “Who?” “The two old jaguars,” she said calmly, “and their kittens. You saw their kittens this morning.”