"It is you who are cruel," she returned, losing in emotion the matter-of-fact reserve, as between waitress and lodger, she had been studying to maintain. "You must know the pain your presence brings me. Mrs. Jones has invited you to dine with her on Sunday next, I hear; let me implore of you not to come in." "Off a piece of boiled beef," he rejoined in a plain, curt tone, as if her manner and words were hardening him. "The offer is too good a one to be refused." "Then I shall absent myself from table." "Don't drive me quite wild, Alletha Rye. You have me in your power: the only one in London who has--so far as I hope and believe. I'd almost as soon you went and gave me in charge." "Who is cruel now?" she breathed. "You know that you can trust me; you know that I would rather forfeit my own life than put yours in jeopardy: but I take shame to myself in saying it. It is just this," she added, struggling with her agitation, "you are safe with me, but you are not welcome." "I told you somewhat of my secrets in our last interview: I would have told you more, but you would not listen--why I am living as I do, trying to atone for the miserable sins of the past----" "Atone!" "Yes, it is well to catch me up. One of them, at least, never can be atoned for. It lies heavier on my mind than it does on yours. If----" The sharp voice of Mrs. Jones, from above stairs, demanding what was the matter with Alletha's ears, that they did not hear the door-bell, put a stop to the interview. A hectic spot shone on her cheeks as she hastened to answer it. The red glow had given place to a ghastly whiteness when she came in again. Mr. Brown had already settled to his writing and turned back his cuff. She closed the door of her own accord, and went up to him; he stood gazing in surprise at her face. Its every lineament expressed terror. The lips were drawn and cold; the eyes wild. However bad might have been the contamination of his touch, he could not help taking her trembling hands. She suffered it, entwining her lingering fingers within his. "What has happened?" he asked in a whisper. "That man has come; Butterby, the detective officer from Helstonleigh. He says he must see Mr. Brown--you. Heaven have mercy on us! Has the blow fallen at last?" "There's nothing to fear. I expected a call from him. He only knows me as Mr. Brown, manager to Greatorex and Greatorex. Let him come in." "I have shut him up in Mrs. Jones's parlour." "You must go and send him to me. I am but your lodger to him, you know. Get a little colour into your face first." A minute or two and Mr. Butterby was introduced, amicably telling Miss Rye, that, to judge by appearances, London did not appear to agree with her. Mr. Brown, composedly writing, put down his pen in the middle of a word, and rose to receive him.