“Miss Tresilian accused of theft! There is--there must be some terrible mistake!” ejaculated Chester St. John, while Grace clung to his arm, pale and shivering, and Isabel, after the first shock of surprise was over, actually rejoiced in the new disgrace that had fallen on her rival, since it must serve to place Iris beyond the pale of Chester’s forgiveness. “I shall send upstairs for Iris, that these men may see their mistake,” she said confidently, and Grace, taking courage from her firm and determined manner, now ventured to speak, begging Isabel to break the news to Iris gently, lest the shock should be too much for her. But the caution came just too late; for even while Grace was speaking, Iris was descending the stairs, her light footfall making no sound on the soft velvet pile of the carpet, and the sound of Grace’s low-toned voice coming distinctly to her ears. “What is it?” she cried breathlessly, and one of the men whose business it was to arrest her stepped forward and answered: “We have a painful duty to perform, young lady, and the quicker it is over the better for all parties. The name by which you have been known of late is Maggie Gordon, is it not? You are certainly the original of this portrait.” The speaker here exhibited a penciled sketch of the beautiful working girl, executed by the sister of Madam Ward, an amateur artist of no mean ability. At sight of this drawing St. John could not repress a groan, while Grace bowed her head and wept, and Isabel turned a shade paler. Iris herself was outwardly calm, but her eyes had the wild, scared look of a hunted animal, and fixed themselves for one brief second on the face of Chester St. John, as if mutely appealing to him for aid. The look went straight to his heart, and, leaving his place by the side of Isabel, he spoke to Iris in a tone that was tremulous with deep feeling: “Depend on me, Iris; I shall do everything in my power to clear you of this cruel charge. There must be some bitter enemy plotting against your peace and happiness, some bold and daring enemy, since they dare accuse you of theft! Oh, child, if you would only tell me everything I might save you this indignity----” “Hush! Do not speak to me so; I--I cannot bear it,” she cried passionately, for the struggle to keep silent in the face of this appeal was almost killing her. She dared not speak. She dared not utter one word that might betray the author of her sufferings and her shame, lest all the shameful story of the past should be revealed and disgrace and dishonor fall on her dying mother.