had any conscience and honour, that was what you would do, and she would not help you to evade the consequences of your own acts. My blood rose, and I spoke sharply. She was cold, hard, and obstinate. At last I got her to give me something, not for you, but for myself. She and her husband had made me a promise on their wedding day to give me some trifle, and I asked her if she purposed fulfilling that engagement, or whether it was only an empty promise. Then she replied that Herring had made the promise and would fulfil it, and that, if I was in immediate want of money, she would give me a small sum, all she could spare, for she had not more coin in the house. I was forced to be content. Here are twelve guineas; take them and be off. I can get you no more. There is no more to be got.’ ’Well, Orange, I must take what I can get. The diamonds can wait. I have found something better than them in the locked drawer.’ ’What is it, Sampson? Money?’ ’No, not money. Do you like John Herring, Orange?’ ’No.’ ’I hate him,’ said Sampson. ’You do not love Mirelle, I believe?’ ’I hate her!’ answered Orange, passionately. ’What I have found may serve to wipe off mutual grudges.’ ’I am glad of it; use your knowledge.’ ’I intend to do so on the proper occasion.’ ’Well, good-bye, Sampson; I must return. Mirelle must not know that I have been here. I hope I have seen the last of you for some time.’ ’I do not know. I must have a word with John Herring before I disappear entirely.’ O foolish Mirelle! Herring, before leaving, had laid on her two injunctions, to intrust no one with the secret of where she kept her jewels, and to allow no one to enter his office unattended by herself. She had disregarded and disobeyed both injunctions. *CHAPTER LI.* *TWO EXITS.* John Herring said nothing to Cicely in allusion to what had passed. He could not do so. He was naturally reserved about himself, and he could not tell her of his marriage without telling her also of his separation from his wife. The questions would spring to her lips: ’When were you married? Why have you left her? Why are you now staying at West Wyke instead of at Welltown?’ These were questions she would naturally ask, and which it would be impossible for him to explain to her. His trouble was his own. The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not therewith. A woman delights in pouring forth her griefs into a sympathetic ear. A man hides his sufferings, and resents sympathy as an insult. Herring had said enough to let Cicely understand the position in which he stood towards her—that of a brother, a position he would never abandon; she had recognised this, and had accepted it.