“What things, dear?” she managed to say, as Marcus Wray turned round and faced her. Cristiane’s hand was cold in hers, and the touch brought back the deadly chill of Abbotsford’s hand as he lay in the little rose-colored room. But she would not wait for an answer. “Mr. Wray!” she exclaimed; and, to her credit, there was pleased surprise in her voice. “You here? I did not know you knew my little ward!” Marcus Wray came forward and took the loose, lifeless hand that she could not make steady, Cristiane clinging to the other the while. “It is an unexpected pleasure for me,” he murmured, with smooth untruth. “I did not know Miss Le Marchant was your ward. I came to tell her”--he paused almost imperceptibly, noting the tiny drops round Helen Trelane’s mouth--“that I was with her father--at the end.” His eyes were on hers, in cold warning; yet, in spite of the hidden threat there, the woman breathed again. At least, he had not been telling Cristiane of Abbotsford--and the diamonds. “I did not know you knew Mrs. Trelane.” Cristiane glanced wonderingly from one to the other. “You see, Miss Le Marchant,” he said courteously, “Mrs. Trelane and I have been--friends--for some years.” “We have known each other--well, for a long time.” For her life, Helen Trelane could not keep the angry scorn from her voice, but Cristiane was not woman enough to hear it. “I am so glad,” she said, with a little sigh of pleasure, “for now perhaps Mr. Wray will spend the night. I have so much to ask him--it seems like a last message”--with a quiver of her lovely lips--“from daddy.” Mrs. Trelane sat down, Cristiane beside her, on the wide sofa by the fire. Her brain was whirling. Was it possible that Marcus Wray was telling the truth, or was it all a lie to get into the house? “Please tell it all again,” Cristiane said pleadingly, and Marcus Wray obeyed her, the story of the accident to the train only slightly altered by his being with Sir Gaspard, having accompanied him from Paris, instead of having followed him in that lucky last carriage. “It was all so quick he felt nothing,” he ended gently. “I would have saved him if I could.” “Have you been in Aix ever since?” Mrs. Trelane asked dryly. Marcus Wray made his last, best point with Cristiane. “I have been to Rome,” he responded. “There was a telegram from Sir Gaspard’s lawyers that he should be buried there, and I, as his only friend, went, too, and saw him laid in his last resting-place. He had told me, in Paris, that he would like to be buried in Rome----” “But was he ill in Paris?” Cristiane cried. “Very ill, I am afraid,” Wray answered gently. “He spoke of his wish, at all events, and so I saw that it was fulfilled.” He drew out a pocketbook and took some violets from it that were sweet still. “These are from your mother’s grave”--his voice reverential, softly thrilled, he put them into Cristiane’s hand. “And he lies beside her.”