‘As you please. It’s a queer thing; I felt pretty sure. But if you’re telling the truth, I don’t care a rap who the man is.’ ‘You can rest in peace,’ said Nancy, with careless scorn. ‘Any way of convincing me, except by saying it?’ ‘Yes. Wait here a moment.’ She left the room, and returned with the note which Crewe had addressed to her from the hotel at Falmouth. ‘Read that, and look at the date.’ Beatrice studied the document, and in silence canvassed the possibilities of trickery. No; it was genuine evidence. She remembered the date of Crewe’s journey to Falmouth, and, in this new light, could interpret his quarrelsome behaviour after he had returned. Only the discovery she had since made inflamed her with a suspicion which till then had never entered her mind. ‘Of course, you didn’t let him see you?’ ‘Of course not.’. ‘All right. Don’t suppose I wanted to insult you. I took it for granted you were married. Of course it happened before your father’s death, and his awkward will obliged you to keep it dark?’ Again Nancy was smitten with fear. Deeming Miss. French an unscrupulous enemy, she felt that to confess marriage was to abandon every hope. Pride appealed to her courage, bade her, here and now, have done with the ignoble fraud; but fear proved stronger. She could not face exposure, and all that must follow. She spoke coldly, but with down-dropt eyes. ‘I am not married.’ The words cost her little effort. Practically, she had uttered them before; her overbold replies were an admission of what, from the first, she supposed Beatrice to charge her with--not secret wedlock, but secret shame. Beatrice, however, had adopted that line of suggestion merely from policy, hoping to sting the proud girl into avowal of a legitimate union; she heard the contrary declaration with fresh surprise. ‘I should never have believed it of Miss. Lord,’ was her half ingenuous, half sly comment. Nancy, beginning to realise what she had done, sat with head bent, speechless. ‘Don’t distress yourself,’ continued the other. ‘Not a soul will hear of it from me. If you like to tell me more, you can do it quite safely; I’m no blabber, and I’m not a rascal. I should never have troubled to make inquiries about you, down yonder, if it hadn’t been that I suspected Crewe. That’s a confession, you know; take it in return for yours.’ Nancy was tongue-tied. A full sense of her humiliation had burst upon her. She, who always condescended to Miss. French, now lay smirched before her feet, an object of vulgar contempt. ‘What does it matter?’ went on Beatrice genially. ‘You’ve got over the worst, and very cleverly. Are you going to marry him when you come in for your money?’ ‘Perhaps--I don’t know--’ She faltered, no longer able to mask in impudence, and hardly restraining tears. Beatrice ceased to doubt, and could only wonder with amusement.