He had been surprised to receive Elizabeth’s note, but he recognized at once that she was in great trouble, and he had come willingly, as a gentleman should. When he saw Elizabeth, he realized how great was her trouble. Then, sitting in the dimly lighted drawing–room, Elizabeth, with many pauses and palpitations and hesitations, began her story. Baskerville gently assisted her, and the telling of the first part was not so hard. When it came to the further history of it Elizabeth faltered, and asked anxiously, “But wasn’t the necklace mine entirely, after my husband gave it to me?” Baskerville shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Darrell, and I am afraid that Major Darrell made a mistake—a perfectly natural and excusable mistake—in thinking it was his to give you in perpetuity. Of course I am not so well informed on these points as an English lawyer would be, but from what you tell me of the other jewels, and the course of the solicitor concerning them, I cannot but think that he knows what he is doing, and that you will have to give up the necklace, retaining of course your pendant, and perhaps the stones your husband bought.” Elizabeth looked at him with wild, scared eyes; and then, bursting into tears, told him the whole story of pawning the necklace, of finding it gone, and her unwillingness to own what she had done. Baskerville was startled, but allowed her to weep on, without trying to check her. He saw that she was in a state of trembling excitement, excessive even under the circumstances, and she must have her tears out. She had, so far, avoided mentioning Pelham’s name. “But what of the heirs of Major Darrell? Surely, when they know how you were straitened in London after your husband’s death and the good faith in which you pledged the necklace, they would not wish to distress you unnecessarily about it.” Then Elizabeth was forced to speak of Pelham. “Major Darrell’s heir is his cousin, Major Pelham, the man—next my husband and my father—whom I thought my truest friend. He is in West Africa now, or was when my husband died, and I have not heard of his return to England since. But he has countenanced all this, and seems to delight in persecuting me through this man McBean. And it is quite useless, too, as I have no means of paying the money. I have only a small income, about a hundred pounds a year. But if my father learns of my trouble, as he eventually must if this persecution is kept up, he will certainly sell this house—his only piece of property, and mortgaged at that. Oh, I didn’t think a man could be so cruel as Hugh Pelham has been!” “Does McBean claim to be acting under Major Pelham’s instructions?” “Yes. In everything he writes me or says to me he uses Hugh Pelham’s name.” “There is hut one thing to do, Mrs. Darrell. I shall see McBean to–morrow and endeavor to see what I can do with him. If I fail with him, I shall appeal to Major Pelham.” “Oh, no, not that—not that!”