“You little fool. I took the diamonds!” She stooped and picked up the fragments of her cut-glass bottle. “You know all I did,” she cried, straightening herself to face her daughter, her clean-cut face very pale. “What on earth has changed you, till you talk like a Sunday-school book? What has become of your fine plan for securing Mr. Cylmer, that you try to frighten me into leaving here with your silly, lying accusation? You work for me?” she laughed miserably. “Would you take in washing?” Ismay’s passion of earnestness left her with her old manners, her old catlike grace. She flung herself into a chair. “Never mind what I’d do. I meant it,” she retorted. “As for Mr. Cylmer, you can let him alone. I would have let him go--for you--five minutes ago. But I don’t think I would--now! Go to London,” politely, “but don’t forget my advice. You ought to know by this time it’s more lucky to take it.” “I know you are an ungrateful little idiot,” said Mrs. Trelane angrily. And with that for her only farewell, she swept down-stairs to get into her carriage. Ismay turning pious was a good joke. As for Cylmer, it was simply girlish boasting. Mrs. Trelane felt quite safe on that score as she drove away. It was not in the least likely that he would come to Marchant’s Hold, or that Ismay would get hold of him, and bring down the wrath of Marcus Wray. All girls had a hero, usually out of reach. Why should Ismay be superior to the rest? And as for Wray and his awful schemes, with his absence their very memory had vanished from the light mind of the woman who lived to please herself. It was all absurd nonsense, he would not dare to go any farther with it. All her fears soothed to rest, she proceeded to spend a cheerful afternoon on reaching London, little knowing how she had rocked her troubles to sleep with lying hopes. In his chambers, Marcus Wray sat reading a short newspaper paragraph over and over, his fingers tapping at his knee, his lips hard set. Only a short paragraph, but it meant danger, and he frowned as he read. Helen Trelane up in London, dressed in her best, was like a child playing with a smoking bomb; if Mr. Wray had known of it he would have packed her straight off to the country, and gone with her himself, which it was well for Ismay that he did not do. She was very nervous about the sudden freak her mother had taken; in some way or other it was sure to mean more trouble. And she was disappointed about her afternoon. At lunch Cristiane had mentioned carelessly that Cylmer had sent a groom over with the horse borrowed the day before; that was all, but Ismay knew he had meant to come himself, and had thought better of it. She would not listen when Cristiane proposed lending her a habit and taking her out riding. “I think I’ve got a headache,” she said wearily. “You go for a ride, and I’ll walk a little by myself. I’ll be all right at tea-time.”