He rose and paced up and down the room for a moment; then he found himself bowing into a chair a lady completely dressed in black, who had just entered. "Will you permit me," he said, fixing his big black eyes upon her, "to ask my partner to join us? I anticipate the object of your visit—and—and——" "Does your partner live at Haverstock Hill?" "Yes." "I would rather speak with you alone, then," said the young lady, calmly. "I have here a letter from my mother, Mrs. Brunel, to you. I need not explain to you why the letter has not been delivered for years. I was not to deliver it until necessity——" "You need not explain," said Mr. Cayley, hurriedly taking the letter. "This is addressed to my father; but I may open it. I know its contents; I know everything you wish to know, Miss Brunel." When he had opened the letter, he read it, and handed it to Annie Brunel, who read these words— "_Mr. Cayley,_ "_My daughter claims her rights._ "_Annie Marchioness of Knottingley._" She looked at him, vaguely, wonderingly, and then at the faded brown writing again. The words seemed to disappear in a mist; then there was a soft sound in her ears, as of her mother’s voice; and then a sort of languor stole over her, and it seemed to her that she was falling asleep. "Take this glass of wine," was the next thing she heard. "You have been surprised, alarmed, perhaps. But you know the handwriting to be your mother’s?" "Yes," was the reply, in a low voice. "And you understand now why you were to call upon us?" "I don’t know—I don’t understand—my mother ought to be here now," said the girl, in hurried, despairing accents. "If that letter means anything, if my mother was a rich lady, why did she keep always to the stage? Why conceal it from me? And my father?—where was he that he allowed her to travel about, and work day after day and night after night?" "He was dead." Many and many a time had Joseph Cayley rehearsed this scene upon which he had now entered. His earliest initiation into the secrets of the office was connected with it. It had been a legacy to him from his father; and the unusual mystery and importance of the case had so impressed him, that he used to imagine all the circumstances of the young girl’s coming to claim her own, and of his speeches and bearing during the interview. He forgot all his elaborate speeches, and remembering only the bare facts of the case, related them with as great delicacy as he could. Now for the first time did Annie Brunel understand the sad circumstances of her mother’s story, and for the moment she lost sight of everything else. She was away back in that strange and mournful past, recalling her mother’s patient bearing, her heroic labour, her more than heroic cheerfulness and self-denial, and the bitter loneliness of her last hours. "It was his friends who kept him from her?" she asked, not daring to look up. The lawyer knew better; but he dared not tell the cruel truth to the girl.