“Because I meant no one to tell her but me. Don’t you understand that yet?” asked the girl sharply. Oh! how lucky she had been! But for her it might have been Miles Cylmer Cristiane had clung to. Miles Cylmer who had caught her as she swayed. The thought made Ismay sick, and for another reason than the sake of her own bread and butter. “Shall I go to her?” Mrs. Trelane made a step toward the shut door. “No, better not! And don’t see Mr. Cylmer. It isn’t proper to see people when there is any one dead,” she added. “I’m not anxious to see him, you needn’t worry. But he gave Thomas this for Cristiane.” She held out a card. Ismay’s eyes flashed as she read it. Was it thus that a man who was only a friend of her father’s would write to the girl who lay prostrate with grief? “Be brave, dear. It may not be true. I am going up to town to-night to find out all I can from the lawyers. I will be back as soon as possible. Please let me try to help you. MILES.” “He must have seen the flag and come over at once,” she thought, a wild, unreasoning terror at her heart that he cared for Cristiane. Men were like that; they kissed one girl when they loved another. “I’ll give it to her. There’s no answer,” she said. And in the dusky corridor her mother did not see that her lips had grown bloodless. “Tell Thomas to say to Mr. Cylmer that Cristiane can’t see him. And send up some tea or wine, or something.” She leaned hard on the door for support. “I’m worn out; worn out!” She had been full of life five minutes since, but now, when she must go and comfort this girl whom Miles Cylmer had come in such haste to see, Ismay’s knees trembled under her. If only she dared to leave Cristiane long enough to go to him, to tell him----Bah! what could she tell him? Mr. Cylmer turned away from Marchant’s Hold perfectly unsuspicious that the green witch eyes that had held his were those of no other than Ismay Trelane. If he had known he might not have been the first to spread a net for her feet. But what he did unconsciously she did with meaning. His note never reached the girl to whom it was written. CHAPTER XII. “IF I ASK YOU?” Mr. Cylmer was not back at Marchant’s Hold as soon as he had expected. Three days after his arrival in London he was still there, and he sat now in Mr. Bolton’s private office listening impatiently to the old man’s precise sentences. He had been put off from day to day till now; there was no news, nothing definite. Mr. Cylmer must excuse Mr. Bolton for not seeing him, as he had nothing to communicate--and so on. Small wonder that when at last he was admitted Miles Cylmer sat impatiently in the client’s chair of Mr. Bolton’s sanctum.