“He didn’t say that,” put in Rosalie from her corner, where she had been sitting mutely. “Just think, Sir John! Under certain conditions you might paint the best picture you ever did in your life after sixty-five, and what a great thing it would be if you gave the proceeds to some great scheme of general improvement, that had too much genuine good to have any of the sentimentalism of charity in it. I think it would be a splendid thing, and economise resources.” “Under the new _régime_ we’ll have to become Spartans,” said he, not unkindly. “But tell me, Rosalie, is it true that the lost handkerchief belonged to you?” “Yes,” she answered, breathing quickly and leaning forward. “I went there one day, nay, twice, when I was in terrible distress. I never mentioned it before; I didn’t quite know how to. But some day I’ll tell you all, but at present I would rather not. Has it made any difference to you? I had to speak to-night. It has weighed so long on my mind. And I couldn’t bear to hear them bringing that up as a blot on the late High Priest’s life. If it had not been so cruel, it would have been ridiculous.” “We wish to know no more than you care to tell us,” he answered kindly. “And it has made no difference. The time was awkward, certainly, but you had not been here long enough to know how things were going,” “Oh! but it’s Mr. Barringcourt,” she continued quickly, with a queer ring of pain in her voice. “He knew, and has known all along, and could have spoken and set all things right. It was cruel, cruel! I can’t understand that anyone who spoke as he spoke to-night could act as he has done.” “Did he know about the handkerchief?” said Miss Crokerly. “He must have done. He—he—he was at the temple the same time as I. If only he had spoken sincerely! But it was simply to further the schemes of an ambitious man.” When they got home Miss Crokerly went up with Rosalie to bed. A fire was burning brightly in the bedroom. “Rosalie, did you ever know Mr. Barringcourt before you met him at the Sebberens’?” “Yes, indeed. I stayed in his house nearly a week. I met him first in the sacred place of the temple.” “Why were you staying at his house?” Rosalie looked at her with the look of fear and pain in her eyes that had haunted them half the night. “If I tell you, you’ll never repeat it, even to your brother?” “No.” “Well, I was born dumb, and I remained dumb till I was twenty-two, and then he cured me completely, just as I am now.” Miss Crokerly would have doubted, but Rosalie’s tone carried conviction as before. “And it took a week for the cure to be completed?” “No. Afterwards he kept me as a prisoner. I ran away, or something led me away. I don’t know which.” “It’s a curious tale. Almost unbelievable.” “I know. That’s why I never repeat it. I should have gone to be an inmate of Todbrook’s Home, but I couldn’t bear the thought of it, somehow or other.”