“I am a very different man indeed from what I fancy you take me for. My resources are practically limitless, and without boasting I may say that I hold Melun in the hollow of my hand.” Again, to his surprise, Kathleen gave him the same keen look of suspicion. “I fear no consequence as the result of what I will tell you,” she said quietly, “but Melun declares that you are merely an American confederate.” “Good Heavens!” cried Westerham, and so great was the sincerity of his tones that Lady Kathleen's face softened. “But perhaps you are not. I wish I knew.” She buried her face in her hands and rocked to and fro in her distress. “If I tell you who I am,” cried Westerham, stung to desperation, “am I not right in thinking that you would tell your father?” Kathleen nodded her assent. “And then we should be worse off than ever,” he rejoined gloomily. “Far from being regarded as a friend, I should be regarded as an interloper, possibly a danger, because I knew of your father's difficulty. Yet what the nature of that trouble is I have not the least idea. Why not tell me?” The girl leapt to her feet and looked at him with wild eyes. “If you do know,” she cried, “you are as great a fiend as Melun to persecute me in this way, and if you do not know—then Heaven forbid that you ever should. “I cannot tell you because if I did I should be a murderess.” “A murderess!” Westerham drew a step back in horror. “A murderess of whom?” “Don't ask,” cried Kathleen; “I should be a murderess of not one, but many. As it is I can at least be silent, and if needs be make the sacrifice.” “What sacrifice?” “What sacrifice? Ah, that I cannot tell you now, though I cannot hide it from you always. I fear that there is no hope. That you will have to know in time unless—unless——” “Unless what?” “Unless——” cried the girl, and her voice trailed away. Westerham took her hands gently and with great deference. “Unless,” he said softly, “you allow me to help you.” She tore her hands away from his and almost screamed at him. “Go! Go!” she cried. Her whole air was so distraught, she was so obviously on the verge of a complete breakdown, that Westerham realised it would be mere folly to remain. His offers could only exasperate her the more. So he turned away sorrowfully. It cut him to the heart to see her huddled there upon the steps crying as if her heart would break. But he could do nothing. It was with a blind rage against Melun that he stumbled back along the avenue to his car and curtly ordered the man to return to London. And at every yard of the way he repeated to himself the words: “Murderess!” “Sacrifice!” “Sacrifice!” “Murderess!” On a sudden he resolved to call on Mme. Estelle. Possibly she could help to solve all this sickening mystery.