Jane took the card and ran up the stairs. Gerard remained in the hall. Suddenly he was aware of the dim stirrings of past association. There was something familiar in the girl’s features and voice. Of whom did she remind him? He tapped his foot irritably, seeking to get upon the track. Presently Jane returned, with a flushed face. “Will you come up to the drawing-room, sir?” She preceded him up the stairs, held open the drawing-room door. As she stood aside to let him pass, he again looked at her sharply. Certainly he had seen her before. She gave him no time for enquiries, for as soon as he had entered, she quickly closed the door and disappeared. Gerard walked across the tastefully furnished room, whose arrangements bore evidence of the hand of a refined woman. As he glanced round him, his eye fell upon a photograph of Irene in a silver frame. He crossed to the table on which it was, examined it closely. It was evidently quite recent. She had grown older, he thought; her face, spiritualised. He felt vaguely disappointed. The portrait did not suggest the woman crushed by contumely whose face would grow radiant at the news he was bringing her. For lately he had begun to regard himself somewhat as her deliverer. Her aspect of serenity gave him apprehensive qualms. On the same table was a photograph of Hugh, proud, with his head thrown back, looking somewhat scornfully at the beholder. In the centre, hidden from the first casual glance by a vase with flowers, was the photograph of a pretty two-year-old boy. A dawning uneasiness, too dim as yet for suspicion, had just arisen in his mind, when, turning away from the table, he noticed upon the mantelpiece two richly chased silver candlesticks, which were strikingly familiar. They used to be Irene’s most cherished possessions, heirlooms in her family. Had she given them to Hugh? Quickly he looked about the room. Against the wall hung a signed Seymour Haden that had belonged to his wife. What did it mean? Beneath stood a little cane work-basket. Scarcely aware of his purpose, he turned over the silks and spools. A fragment of paper bore a pencilled set of directions for some fancy stitch. It was in Irene’s handwriting. Gerard put his hand to his forehead, drew it away moist. Some books were lying on a table. He strode impetuously thither. The top one was “_The New Atlantis_, by Hugh Colman.” Gerard took it up. On the fly-leaf was written, “Irene, from Hugh.” Irene, Irene everywhere. Then swiftly the lost association connected with the servant found its place in his brain. She was one of their Sunnington servants. Her name returned to his memory--Jane, a favourite of Irene’s. With a sudden exclamation of amazement, foreboding and anger, he rushed to the table with the photographs, and seeing that of the boy, scanned it intently.