“I went to my hotel. I had not money enough for such a trip as this,” said Rufus frankly, “and so I could not come on the morning train. I had to sell my watch, a recent present from my father, and as I had then all day on my hands before I could start for the north, I went to Mount street again. In one of the streets near, I inquired at a shop about Miss Wroat, and there learned that she was an eccentric old lady--excuse me, madam, but I received a very accurate description of _you_. And so I knew that you were Miss Wroat, and that Lally is Mrs. Peters. I took the night train for Edinburgh, twenty-four hours later than yourself. I reached Inverness this afternoon, and discovered the names of Miss Wroat and Mrs. Peters registered at the Caledonian. A servant of the house told me that you were at Heather Hills, and a cabman brought me here. I know that Lally is in this house, madam, and I must see her!” Mrs. Peters smiled grimly as a full comprehension of Rufus Black’s mistake dawned upon her. She understood readily that the shopman whom Rufus had interrogated had not known of Mrs. Wroat’s death, and had confounded the names of Mrs. Wroat and Miss Wroat, and that Rufus very naturally thought her the “eccentric old lady” of whom he had heard. “And so you don’t believe that I am Mrs. Peters?” she asked. “No, madam,” said Rufus bluntly. “I have traced an elderly lady--yourself--and a young girl--Lally--all the way from London, and under the names of Miss Wroat and Mrs. Peters. You are not Mrs. Peters, and I demand to see her.” “You can not see her,” said Mrs. Peters stoutly. “I have heard the young lady’s story, and I shall protect her from the persecutions of a man who deserted her in the most cowardly fashion, and who, believing her to be dead, never made one movement to save her supposed remains from interment in a pauper’s grave. You have no claim upon Miss Bird, Mr. Rufus Black; you have yourself declared that she is not your wife.” “Lally has told you all?” cried Rufus, in a low, heart-broken voice. “Not all though, for even she does not know all--the sleepless nights I’ve passed, the days of anguish! I’ve hated myself, and despised myself. I have been on the point again and again of committing suicide. Her poor young face, as I fancied it, mutilated and dead, has haunted me sleeping and waking. God alone knows my anguish, my remorse! If Lally only knew all!” “She knows more than you think,” said Mrs. Peters significantly. “How? What? I do not understand.”