“My name is Pamela Pounce, sir. If you will inquire for me, care of my aunt, Miss Lydia Pounce, own woman to my Lady Kilcroney, ’twill be the safest address.” He gave her a quaint look, bowed profoundly, and hurried away. “The safest address,” he murmured, as he went. “Ah, Pamela, you’re one of the wise virgins!” Then he laughed. “Farce did I call it? And I set for the blackest tragedy! Nay, ’tis a mighty delicate comedy, and we’re but at the first act of it.” Pamela stood gazing after the retreating figure. “Now,” said she to herself, “I have the choice of three roads. I must go--to Bridewell, to the river, or to Aunt Lydia. It had better be to Aunt Lydia.” * * * * * “Stripes and buttons,” who had not forgotten how the younger Miss Pounce had snubbed him on their first meeting, informed her that she might “hunt up the old girl for herself”; her ladyship having gone out her ladyship’s woman, if not in her own apartment, might be found in her ladyship’s chamber. And here indeed, with a not altogether comfortably beating heart, Pamela confronted her aunt. Lydia stared, as if beholding a ghost. “La, whatever’s to do?” “The money’s gone,” said Pamela with great firmness. She had made up her mind from the first that nothing should induce her to betray either the unfortunate young gentleman or her own rash interference with his concerns. “Gone? Gone, miss?” Pamela opened her reticule and mutely took out from it a vinaigrette, three pennies, a sixpence, and a pocket handkerchief, and showed the remaining vacuum to Lydia’s horrified eyes. “But how in the name of goodness could such a thing happen?” “You lend me the money, aunt, and I’ll pay you back faithful, and I’ll trim you all your hats for three years for nothing into the bargain.” But with an action of little bony hands which typified her patronymic, Miss Pounce seized the reticule from her niece. She shook it, and tested it; she held it up to the light, she pulled its lining out. Then she tried the clasp, which fastened with a snap as uncompromising as that which now closed her own tight jaws. Still, without speaking, she looked volumes at the milliner’s assistant. “I declare as I’m a living woman, aunt,” asseverated the sinner, “that I have no more notion what’s become of the gold than you have yourself. And all I can tell you is”--her courage rose with the sense of this perfect adherence to the truth--“that as I left this house it was jingling in that bag, and when last I looked there wasn’t one left. And if you don’t come to my aid--why, you know what Madame Tabbishaw is? She’ll always say I stole them. Come, you’ll lend me the money, I know you will, for father’s sake, and the name’s sake. We Pounces ain’t never been called thieves, aunt.” Her voice shook, for suddenly the word stung her, unrepentant though she remained. “Lend you!” Miss Lydia let herself fall into my lady’s own rosy-cushioned chair and broke into piercing remonstrance.