But when the girl got downstairs, there arose some slight difficulty; she was engaged in a necessary household occupation--ironing--and her mistress did not care that she should quit it. Miss Rye stood by with her things on, about to go out on some errand of her own. Ah me! these apparently trifling chances do not happen accidentally. "Can't _you_ just step round to Bedford Square, with it, Alletha?" asked Mrs. Jones. "It won't take you far out of your way." Miss Rye's silent answer--she seemed always silent now--was to pick up the note and go out with it. She knew the house, for she worked occasionally for Mrs. Bede Greatorex, and was passing to the private entrance when she encountered Frank Greatorex, who was coming out at the other door. He wished her good evening, and she told him her errand, showing the note directed to Bede. "He is in his office still," said Frank, throwing open the door for her. "Walk in. Mr. Brown, attend here, please." Miss Rye stepped into the semi-lighted room, for there was only a shaded lamp on Mr. Brown's desk; and Frank Greatorex, closing the door, was gone again. Mr. Brown, at work as late as his master, came forward. "For Mr. Bede Greatorex," said Miss Rye, handing him the note. "I will wait----" The words were broken off with a faint, sharp cry. A cry, low though it was, of surprise, of terror, of dismay. Both their faces blanched to whiteness, they stood gazing at each other, she with strained eyes and drawnback lips, he with a kind of forced stillness on his features, that nevertheless told of inward emotion. "Oh, my good heaven!" she breathed in her agitation. "Is it _you?_" Miss Rye had heard speak of Mr. Brown, the managing clerk in the department of Mr. Bede Greatorex. Jenner had mentioned him: Roland Yorke had commented on him and his wig. But that "Mr. Brown" should be the man now standing before her, she had never suspected; no, not in her wildest dreams. "Sit down, Miss Rye. You are faint." She put his arm from her, as he would have supported her to a seat, and staggered to one of herself. He followed, and stood by her in silence. "What are you called _here?_" she began--and, it may be, that in the moment's agitation she forgot his ostensible name and really put it as a question, not in mocking, condemnatory scorn:--"Godfrey Pitman?" Every instinct of terror the man possessed seemed to rise up within him at sound of the name. He glanced round the room; at the desks; at the walls; as if to assure himself that no ear was there. "Hush--sh--sh!" with a prolonged note of caution. "Never breathe that name, here or elsewhere." "What if I were to? To speak it aloud to all who ought to hear it?" "Why then you would bring a hornet's nest about heads that you little wot of. Their sting might end in worse than death." "Death for you?" "No: I should be the hangman." "What do you mean?" "Listen, Miss Rye. I cannot tell you what I mean: and your better plan will be never to ask me. If----"