The sound of footsteps approaching the door, followed by an imperative knock, interrupted Iris at this moment, and she had just time to seat herself when Jenny opened the door, to admit a gentleman, the first sight of whose face caused Iris to start and clasp her hands together in sudden excitement. “The face in my mother’s locket!” she said to herself, and shivered when the man’s voice fell on her ear, although he was speaking merely on some trivial business matter that did not in the least concern her. “Mrs. Neville requested me to remind you that she expects her dress to be completed before one o’clock to-morrow,” he was saying to Jenny, and in a moment more he would have left the room without glancing toward the spot where Iris was sitting but for some slight sound that caused him to turn in the doorway. He started at the sight of Iris’ face, even as Iris had done on first encountering his own, and Iris could hear the swift-spoken words he whispered to Jenny: “Introduce me to that young lady; she is very like a--a friend I lost years ago.” Jenny turned toward Iris with the words of introduction trembling on her lips, but Iris checked her by a glance, as she herself stepped forward. “My name is Maggie Gordon, sir; I am a seamstress, like my friend.” The abruptness of this singular introduction seemed to take the man completely by surprise, and he could only bow low in acknowledgment and hasten from the room, leaving Iris--or Maggie Gordon, as our heroine had called herself--white and trembling like one who had stood in the presence of some spirit of darkness. “I am afraid! Oh, so horribly afraid,” she whispered, and crouched by the sick woman’s bedside, hiding her face in the bedclothes, and trembling in every limb. CHAPTER XLVI. THE UNFORGOTTEN FACE. “I called to see your dressmaker this evening, Clara, and she promises to have your work completed to-morrow, without fail, and--but by the way, my dear, I am not quite certain that the young girl will be able to keep her promise. I caught a glimpse of her invalid mother, and it is my belief that the poor woman will not live till morning. I suppose, in that case, the other young lady will be obliged to finish the work for you.” The speaker was Mr. Charles Broughton, and the woman he addressed Mrs. Clara Neville, a haughty, handsome widow of thirty, and Mr. Broughton’s affianced wife. The fair widow would never have owned to herself that she could harbor the slightest feeling of jealousy toward such an insignificant personage as a dressmaker’s associate; but there was something in Mr. Broughton’s expression and manner of speaking of that other lady that brought an angry glitter to the black eyes of his betrothed. “Who is the person you are speaking of? I never had the pleasure of meeting any other sewing woman in Jenny’s home. I have always understood that Jenny Mason was without friends or connections in this country.”