"Mrs. Stenhouse will forgive you that--for her son's sake; we are all frail, and nobody can blame the defunct," said the baronet, with a hasty bow to the widow. "Come, my boy, out with it; or at least let's have a little private conversation, Scarsdale--there's a good fellow; a secret is the greatest humbug in the world--never does anybody any good to keep it. Should have been able to bring the late Mr. Stenhouse to reason, I have no doubt, if I could have seen him. My good fellow, with Mrs. Stenhouse's permission, step downstairs with me." "Oh, do please, if it's a secret, tell it here. I love a secret of all things," cried Amelia. But Amelia was cowed a little. She had caught Horace's wild eye, where so many fires lay latent and smouldering. How could she tell what the secret might be? She was vaguely afraid in the midst of her curiosity. If he had gone downstairs with Sir John, Amelia would have followed them, and listened at the door. "May I have the paper to look at?" said Horace, seizing it suddenly, as Sir John rose. "No, I do not trade in my friend's secrets. Mrs. Stenhouse, good morning. I shall send back the paper, and I will see you again before I go." So saying, Horace left the room almost before any one was aware--before any one, save Amelia, saw what he was going to do. She, foreseeing his intention, vanished while he was still speaking, and waylaid him on the staircase. "Oh, Mr. Scarsdale, was it something very dreadful?" said the breathless Amelia, with a pretty affectation of alarm. "Do you care about your father's reputation?" said Horace, with one of his old familiar sneers. "I--don't know--that was papa's own business--if he did not mind, why should we?" said Amelia, with a toss of her pretty head. "But suppose I had something to say which could make it quite sure that Edmund's will was of no good, Miss Stenhouse?" said the vindictive lover--"suppose I knew of a creditor who could empty this pretty house, and all your purses, and leave you nothing--what then would you have to say to me?" The beautiful Amelia stood dumb for a moment, looking at him--trembling for her problematical co-heiresship--trembling lest she might have to forswear Sir John, and no longer dream of being called "my lady"--trembling most of all before the fiery eyes fixed upon her with so intent a gaze. "What should I say?" said the troubled flirt, with a little gasp--"why, that you were bound to make up for it somehow, you cruel creature--you who were to be so very rich, too;" and Amelia escaped, scared, when he chose to permit her--making up her mind to do anything in the world rather than marry this violent lover; while he went downstairs, roused by these last words into a renewed frenzy of excitement, carrying the Kenlisle paper in his hand.