"Mary," Jeanne said, taking a gold bracelet from her wrist and holding it out to her, "I am going to give you this bracelet if you will do just a very simple thing for me." The girl looked at Jeanne and looked at the bracelet. She was too amazed for speech. "I want you," Jeanne said, "when you go out to leave the door unlocked. That is all. It will not make any difference to you so far as your position here is concerned, because your mistress is sending you all away in a few days." The girl looked at the bracelet and did not hesitate for a moment. "I would do it for you without anything, Miss Jeanne," she said. "The bracelet is too good for me." Jeanne laughed, and pushed it across the table to her. "Run along," she said. "If you want to do something else, open the back door for me. I am coming downstairs." The girl looked a little perplexed. The bracelet which she was holding still engrossed most of her thoughts. "You are not doing anything rash, Miss Jeanne, I hope?" she asked timidly. Jeanne shook her head. "What I am doing is not rash at all," she said softly. "It is necessary." Five minutes later Jeanne walked unnoticed down the back stairs of the house, and out into the street. She turned into Piccadilly and entered a bus. "Where to, miss?" the man asked, as he came for his fare. "I do not know," Jeanne said. "I will tell you presently." The man stared at her and passed on. Jeanne had spoken the truth. She had no idea where she was going. Her one idea was to get away from every one whom she knew, or who had known her, as the Princess' ward and a great heiress. She sat in a corner of the bus, and she watched the stream of people pass by. Even there she shrank from any face or figure which seemed to her familiar. She almost forgot that she, too, had been a victim of her stepmother's deception. She remembered only that she had been the principal figure in it, and that to the whole world she must seem an object for derision and contempt. It was not her fault that she had played a false part in life. But nevertheless she had played it, and it was not likely that many would believe her innocent. The thought of appealing to the Duke, or to Andrew de la Borne, for help, made her cheeks burn with shame. In any ordinary trouble she would have gone to them. This, however, was something too humiliating, too impossible. She felt that it was a blow which she could ask no one to share.