While he was absorbed in these reflections, Cecilia--embarrassed by the silence--was trying to find a topic of conversation. Alban roughly pushed his sketch-book away from him, on the table. Was he displeased with Emily? The same question had occurred to Cecilia at the time of the correspondence, on the subject of Miss Jethro. To recall those letters led her, by natural sequence, to another effort of memory. She was reminded of the person who had been the cause of the correspondence: her interest was revived in the mystery of Miss Jethro. “Has Emily told you that I have seen your letter?” she asked. He roused himself with a start. “I beg your pardon. What letter are you thinking of?” “I was thinking of the letter which mentions Miss Jethro’s strange visit. Emily was so puzzled and so surprised that she showed it to me--and we both consulted my father. Have you spoken to Emily about Miss Jethro?” “I have tried--but she seemed to be unwilling to pursue the subject.” “Have you made any discoveries since you wrote to Emily?” “No. The mystery is as impenetrable as ever.” As he replied in those terms, Mirabel entered the conservatory from the garden, evidently on his way to the drawing-room. To see the man, whose introduction to Emily it had been Miss Jethro’s mysterious object to prevent--at the very moment when he had been speaking of Miss Jethro herself--was, not only a temptation of curiosity, but a direct incentive (in Emily’s own interests) to make an effort at discovery. Alban pursued the conversation with Cecilia, in a tone which was loud enough to be heard in the conservatory. “The one chance of getting any information that I can see,” he proceeded, “is to speak to Mr. Mirabel.” “I shall be only too glad, if I can be of any service to Miss Wyvil and Mr. Morris.” With those obliging words, Mirabel made a dramatic entry, and looked at Cecilia with his irresistible smile. Startled by his sudden appearance, she unconsciously assisted Alban’s design. Her silence gave him the opportunity of speaking in her place. “We were talking,” he said quietly to Mirabel, “of a lady with whom you are acquainted.” “Indeed! May I ask the lady’s name?” “Miss Jethro.” Mirabel sustained the shock with extraordinary self-possession--so far as any betrayal by sudden movement was concerned. But his color told the truth: it faded to paleness--it revealed, even to Cecilia’s eyes, a man overpowered by fright. Alban offered him a chair. He refused to take it by a gesture. Alban tried an apology next. “I am afraid I have ignorantly revived some painful associations. Pray excuse me.”