“I knew there’d be mischief--I knew there would. I said if she would meddle in my affairs she’d make a mess of it. I told her she didn’t know what she was going in for, that he was dangerous. But she’s as obstinate as a mule; she never would take my advice, never!” “Which shows that she is a lady of considerable discretion. What connection, Mr. Withers, have you with Miss Moore?” He started forward on the chair, casting a frightened look about him. “Is she--taken? And are you a policeman?” “No, I am not a policeman; I have not that honour. And she is not taken--as yet. I repeat my inquiry. What connection, Mr. Withers, have you with Miss Moore?” “Never mind! That’s my business, not yours. She’s got into this mess by herself, and she must get out of it by herself; I wash my hands of her. I’ve got an appointment which I must keep. You let me go.” He got up with a little air of bluster which was pitiful; it was such a poor attempt at make-believe. “Listen to me, Mr. Withers--correct me if I am wrong; but you seem to be a nice young man--a very nice young man. And it’s because you’re such a very nice young man, always attending, Mr. Withers, your correction, that I desire to inform you that if you don’t answer my questions, as truthfully as your nature will allow you, there’ll be trouble. You understand? Trouble. So be so good as to tell me at once what there can possibly be in common between a lady of Miss Moore’s class and a person of yours?” “‘Yours’ is good. I don’t see what difference there can be between our classes, considering that she’s my sister.” Miss Adair interposed. “Your sister? Bessie’s your sister. Then you’re Tom Moore, her vagabond of a brother, who’s robbed her of hundreds and hundreds of pounds. I thought I knew your face, it’s like a bad copy of Bessie’s, with all her goodness left out and your own wickedness put in. You ungrateful scamp, to speak of her in that cold-blooded manner, when she has done all that she possibly could for you, and you, in return, have been to her the one trouble of her life.” He confronted the frank-spoken lady with looks which were alive with impudence. I perceived that he was a better match for a woman than a man. “I know who you are; you call yourself ‘Miss Adair.’ ‘Adair!’ Go on! Sure that’s your proper name? I know more about you than you perhaps think. And for Bessie to let out things to you about me shows the sort she is; telling a pack of lies about her only relative.” “Her only relative! It’s her misfortune that she has you.” “Oh, that’s it, is it? Then from this day forward she hasn’t got me; tell her so, with my kind regards. As I’ve said already, I wash my hands of her; I cut the relationship. Willingly I’ll never own to bearing her name again. It’s not a name I ever have been particularly proud of, and now it’s one of which I shall have less cause to be proud than ever, from what I’m told. Good-day to you, Miss Adair!”