Breakfast was barely over when Ozias came in again. He had a copper-coloured face, as queer as his name, but he was a faithful, honest servant, and had lived in the family twenty years. The gardener was waiting for instructions about the new flower-beds, he told his master; and Sir Dace went out. It left his daughters at liberty to talk secrets. How pretty the two graceful little figures looked in their simple morning dresses of delicate print, tied with bows of pale green ribbon. "I told you I knew George Bazalgette would be coming over, Vera," began Coralie. "His letter by the last mail quite plainly intimated that." Verena tossed her pretty head. "Let him come! He will get his voyage out and home for nothing. I hope he'll be fearfully sea-sick!" Not to make a mystery of the matter, which we heard all about later, and which, perhaps, led to that most dreadful crime--but I must not talk of that yet. George Bazalgette was a wealthy West Indian planter, and wanted to marry Miss Verena Fontaine. She did not want to marry him, and for the very good reason that she intended to marry somebody else. There had been a little trouble about it with Sir Dace; and alas! there was destined to be a great deal more. "Shall I tell you what _I_ hope, Vera?" answered Coralie, in her matter-of-fact, unemotional way. "I hope that Edward Pym will never come here, or to Europe at all, to worry you. Better that the sea should swallow him up en voyage." Verena's beaming face broke into smiles. Her sister's pleasant suggestion went for nothing, for a great joy lay within her. "Edward Pym _has_ come, Coral. The ship has arrived in port, and he has written to me. See!" She took the morning's letter from the bosom of her dress, and held it open for Coralie to see the date, "London," and the signature "Edward." Had the writer signed his name in full, it would have been Edward Dace Pym. "How did he know we were here?" questioned Coralie, in surprise. "I wrote to tell him." "Did _you_ know where to write to him?" "I knew he had sailed from Calcutta in the _Rose of Delhi_; we all knew that; and I wrote to him to the address of the ship's brokers at Liverpool. The ship has come on to London, it seems, instead of Liverpool, and they must have sent my letter up there." "If you don't take care, Vera, some trouble will come of this. Papa will never hear of Edward Pym. That's my opinion." She was as cool as were the cucumbers growing outside in the garden, under the glass shade. Verena was the opposite--all excitement; though she did her best to hide it. Her fingers were restless; her blushes came and went; the sweet words of the short love-letter were dancing in her heart. "MY DARLING VERA,