“Madam Trelane,” said the other dryly. “I can tell you that much without a breach of confidence, for the dean will have told half London by now.” “That woman he sent down to stay with Cristiane!” The words were irrepressible. At the mention of Mrs. Trelane there sprang into Cylmer’s mind the memory of the only day he had seen her, and once more he wondered why she made him think of Abbotsford. “Who is she? Did she mean to marry Le Marchant?” he said quickly. “My dear sir”--Mr. Bolton coughed dryly--“Mrs. Trelane was Helen le Marchant, Sir Gaspard’s own cousin, and the nearest relative he had except Cristiane. And she is said to be a clever woman.” “Where has she been all this time?” Cylmer said slowly. “I never heard of her.” “In London.” There was no need to air all he knew of Helen Trelane. Yet, in spite of his caution, there was deep distrust of her on his face. “A clever woman!” he repeated quietly; “as you will see when the will is read to-morrow.” Miles Cylmer got up, a strange look on his handsome face. “If he has left the money to any one but Cristiane,” he said with a ring of reckless truth in his voice, “I’ll settle twenty thousand pounds on her. I would marry her--but she won’t have me. Anyhow, as long as I live she shall have all the money she wants.” “You are too hasty, Mr. Cylmer;” but there was a kind of pity in the old lawyer’s eyes. “The child’s fortune is hers, but the reversion is Mrs. Trelane’s and her daughter’s.” “Was Sir Gaspard a lunatic?” Miles cried. Mr. Bolton shook his head. “No; only a good man, who knew nothing of the world,” he answered cynically. “Good morning, Mr. Cylmer. If you go to Marchant’s Hold before I do be good enough to keep my confidence.” “I’m traveling down with you,” Cylmer returned with sudden haughtiness. “I’ll meet you at the train to-night.” Yet as he turned he paused. “Has Mrs. Trelane a husband?” he asked. “Dead, years ago! A man who was his own enemy,” briefly. “She and her daughter were alone and in poverty when Sir Gaspard found them.” “And paid their debts?” said Cylmer searchingly. “Very possibly.” Mr. Bolton was still negotiating with those unpaid tradesmen, but he did not say so. “Mrs. Trelane was a very pretty girl, Mr. Cylmer.” “Then she has developed into a very well-painted lady,” Cylmer responded, and departed without more ceremony. “Trelane! It’s not a common name,” he thought as he went down-stairs. “There must be some one in London who knows about her.” He turned into his club at lunch-time, and looked up irritably as old Lord De Fort greeted him from the next table. “Sad news this about Le Marchant,” the neat old dandy said, tapping his newspaper. “A young man, too. And not a relative to come in for all that money but his daughter.” “His cousin, Mrs. Trelane--perhaps!” The last word with late wisdom. “Trelane? Not Helen Trelane?” Lord De Fort put up a shaky eye-glass and stared at Cylmer. “That’s her name, yes! Why?”