“Wait! wait! For your own sake, lady! For God’s sake, listen to me! There’s danger----” Olivia paused, and the gipsy, with a little catch in her voice, as if she were struggling for breath, hurried on: “If you don’t believe what I am going to tell you, if you think I’m lying, ask him, ask this Mr. Bradstone, if he knows----” Her voice dropped, and Olivia, more moved than she knew, bent lower; but at that moment, before the woman could utter another word, a man’s voice, thick with drink, and threatening, rose from the other side of the gate: “Liz! Liz! Where the devil are you?” The woman shrank, as if she had been struck; then, drawing her shawl over her head, whispered, reproachfully, “Too late!” and crying, “Here I am, Seth!” hurried through the gate into the road. CHAPTER XVII. BLINDED BY SELF-CONCEIT. Olivia waited for a moment or two, until her heart beat less wildly, then went to the lodge door, which was usually unlocked, but to-night she found it fastened, and knocked. Bessie opened the door, and uttered an exclamation of surprise and welcome. “Miss Olivia! Is it really you? Come in,” and Bessie led the way into the sitting-room, which her natural good taste had converted into a pretty little parlor. “I thought it was father, miss. Were you surprised to find the door locked? Father bade me keep it fastened, as there were some gypsies and suspicious characters about, he said--but, oh, miss, what is the matter? Are you ill?” She broke off as Olivia sank into the chair, and with a deep sigh put back her shawl. “No, I’m not ill, Bessie,” replied Olivia; “only a little--worried.” And she tried to smile, but her eyes filled with tears. Bessie, with womanly tact, gently took off her mistress’ hat and shawl, and silently resumed her seat and went on with her work. Olivia leaned back with her eyes closed and her hands clasped listlessly on her lap. What was the meaning and extent of the gipsy woman’s warning? What was it she was going to tell Olivia to ask Bartley Bradstone? Was it some trick of the woman’s with the object of extorting money? These and similar questions flashed through Olivia’s harassed mind, and she could find no answer. That there should be any secret in common between a gypsy tramp and Bartley Bradstone, the wealthy owner of The Maples, seemed impossible and absurd; and yet the woman’s words and accents bore a terrible earnestness, a tone of solemn entreaty and truth which haunted Olivia. What should she do? To this question the answer came readily enough. One knows what to do with an anonymous letter; throw it in the fire and forget it; and how, than with scorn, could she treat a vague accusation or insinuation made by a vagabond gipsy against a man of Bartley Bradstone’s respectability--her future husband?