Moya had reached the stage where whatever remains there was in her friendship with Michael Pretherston had not only died but had been cremated in the fires of her smothered anger and she was as anxious to see the end of this interview as was her father. “Perhaps you will ring for Miss Tenby,” she said after a pause. Her father pressed the bell and the waiting Sibble answered it. “Send Miss Tenby,” said his lordship. “And I do hope, Michael,” said the girl severely, “that when Miss Tenby is here you will not make such extravagant comments as you did before Martin.” “Miss Tenby,” interposed Lord Flanborough, “will not welcome such talk. She is a young girl with--er--” “I know, I know,” said Michael solemnly, “she is genteel. She does forty words a minute on the typewriter and goes to church, filling in her odd moments with needlework and accompanying you on the piano.” “It must be a wonderful thing to be a detective,” said Moya, sarcastically; “as a matter of fact Miss Tenby is one of the fastest typists in the world.” Michael swung round on her with an odd look on his face. “Fastest typists in the world,” he repeated with all the humor gone out of his tone; “does she sing?” It was the girl’s turn to be astonished. “Yes, she does, and very beautifully.” “Does she prefer Italian opera?” he asked. At this, the girl laughed aloud. “Somebody has been telling you all about her and you are trying to be mysterious,” she accused. Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of the girl, who walked in, closed the door and came straight to the desk. She stopped dead at sight of Michael. Moya saw the meeting, saw the girl stiffen and her sorrowful eyes fixed upon the detective’s face. “Why, Kate!” said Michael Pretherston softly. “Well, well, well! and to think that we meet again under such noble auspices.” Miss Tenby said nothing. “And what is the great game?” asked Michael, banteringly. “What beautiful impulse brought you to this sheltered home and how is the Colonel and friend Gregori and all those dear boys? By-the-way, the Colonel must be out by now, Kate. What did he get, three years?” Still Miss Tenby made no reply. “What is the meaning of this?” demanded Lord Flanborough, feeling that the moment had arrived to assert himself. “Do you know this lady?” “Do I _know_ her,” said Michael, ecstatically; “why, I am one of her greatest admirers, aren’t I, Kate?” The girl’s sad face softened to a smile which showed the regular lines of her white teeth. She spoke and her voice was gentle and appealing. “It is perfectly true, Lord Flanborough,” she said quietly, “Mr. Pretherston knows me. He also knows that my uncle, Colonel Westhanger, has been mixed up in a very serious scandal which brought him within the reach of the law. It is perfectly true that when I was a little girl I was known as Kate. It is just as true that I am trying now to live down my association with law-breakers and am trying to rehabilitate myself in the world.”