“No, I will not believe it,” she said more than once, with a striking out of her hand as if thrusting something aside. “I will not believe it. There is some good reason for her conduct which she can give me, and I am going to her to know the truth, but the world will not be as charitable as I and will say bad things of her, no doubt. So to the world she must remain Mrs. La Rue, and nobody will ever know that she is Christine, except Mr. Beresford, who, of course, knows it now, for Louis Arnaud has written to him, no doubt. But I can trust him, and I shall ask him to keep the knowledge to himself.” After this decision Reinette grew calmer; the violent throbbing in her temples ceased, and she slept comparatively well that night. But though the morning found her stronger and better, she felt nervous and unstrung, and shrunk with a great dread from confronting Mrs. La Rue and wringing her secret from her, if secret there were to wring. “I am so hurt and disappointed,” she thought, as she dressed herself for her calls. “I have loved Christine so much, and wanted so to find her, and now she is this woman whom, for some unaccountable reason, I never liked, though she is Margery’s mother and greatly superior to her class. There surely is something wrong and I am going to find it out.” The waiting for Mr. Beresford seemed a long time to the excited girl, though in reality it was not more than ten minutes from the time she entered the office before she was closeted with the lawyer in his private room, where he received his clients who came to him on special business. And Reinette’s was very special, or at least very private, and when the door was closed she plunged into it at once, by saying: “Mr. Beresford, you have written to Monsieur Albrech, in Mentone, and asked about Christine Bodine.” She did not put it interrogatively, but as an assertion, and blushing guiltily, the lawyer replied: “Yes, I did write to him, asking information of the woman’s whereabouts. You were so anxious to find her, you know.” “Hush!” Queenie said, pouring the full scorn of her blazing eyes upon him. “Do not try to excuse yourself in that way. It was curiosity rather than a desire to serve me which prompted you to write, and you have had your reward. Louis Arnaud, Monsieur Albrech’s clerk, has answered your letter.” “Yes, he has,” Mr. Beresford replied, and Reinette continued: “I know it. I have one from him, too. Here it is, and I will read it to you.” She drew the letter from her pocket, and read it through in a clear, steady voice, as if its contents were just what she had expected. “You are not surprised, of course,” she said, when she had finished. “He told you that Christine was Mrs. La Rue. Where is the letter, and how did you make it out?” “It was written partly in English and partly in French, so I did pretty well,” Mr. Beresford replied, and she continued: