He looked at her, at the tea-table where the silver glittered sumptuously; at all the luxury of the room. It might all come to be this woman’s own. Already she looked as though she were mistress. He seemed not to see the hand she held out to him, and, white and smooth, she let it fall to her black skirts. “No, there is no fresh news. It is all quite true, that is all.” His voice rang harshly in spite of himself. Mrs. Trelane, looking at him, was somehow afraid. He looked as though he had come for a purpose. “Poor Cristiane!” she said gently. “You would like to see her? I hardly know--I am afraid----” “I came to see you!” This time he saw her quick start as the fire blazed up. “I have just come from London. I met a friend of yours there.” “A friend of mine?” she stammered. “Did they send you to me?” She had only one thought, Lord Abbotsford lying dead in the little rose-colored room. Had anything come out? On a sudden her very throat was dry. Cylmer had not sat down; she wished he would not stand over her, as if he threatened her. “I have few friends,” her voice was wonderfully steady. “Who was this?” “Lord De Fort.” He looked at her masterfully. “Mrs. Trelane, you are a clever woman. I think you will see that Marchant’s Hold will not give your--abilities--scope!” Lord De Fort! It was he and his old stories that had made her shake in her chair! She would have laughed aloud had she dared. “Lord De Fort hates me!” She shrugged her shoulders. “Have you come down here to tell me so?” Her glance moved suddenly to a dark corner of the room. Did something stir there? Or was it a curtain swaying in a draft? Cylmer was puzzled. There was relief in her voice when he had implied that he knew what would have overwhelmed another woman with shame--and at first she had been terrified. What was she looking at now in the dark, over his shoulder? He turned sharply. A slim girl, all in black, her flaxen head held high, her eyes very dark in the fitful light, stood behind him, for once the witch-smile absent from her mouth. “Mother, please go to Cristiane,” she said almost sternly, and Mrs. Trelane without a word obeyed her. Ismay came a step nearer to Cylmer and looked him in the eyes. “You!” she said, and the sound of her voice was like knives. “It is you, who would”--she stopped as if something suffocated her. Cylmer put his hand on her shoulder, quick and hard. “What are you doing here--with her?” he nodded toward the door. “She is my mother,” the girl said simply. “I am Ismay Trelane!” In the silence neither knew how long they stood motionless. The girl spoke first. “I heard all you said,” she uttered slowly. “I know--oh! I know--what you meant. That we are not fit to stay here, my mother and I. Make your mind easy; we shall be turned out when the will is read! We have no money, nowhere to go; but that will not concern you.” Miles Cylmer felt suddenly contemptible. His righteous anger fell from him like a garment.