"I have news of it," said Prue, passing a cool, soothing hand over the hot brow and brushing away the heavy, straggling masses of hair, once the pride of Sarah Churchill and the envy of rival beauties. "If the necklace is returned what reward will you give the finder?" "Reward? Oh! he shall be well rewarded; the finder need not be afraid to ask his own price," cried the duchess. "And yet the thing is worthless to any one, child—worse than worthless—it is deadly! No one would steal it except to injure me! But they shall swing for it, no matter who is at the bottom of it. It is a conspiracy of those who hate me—" "It is a mistake," interrupted Prue; "the necklace was not stolen, it was taken by—by accident." "Accident! Oh, I know what kind of accident it was; it was a conspiracy, I tell you!" the duchess reiterated. "It was a mistake," Prue urged. "I am sure I can prove it." "Prove it a conspiracy, Prudence Brooke—prove it so that I can get my revenge upon these wretches and you may ask what reward you will. Honors and emoluments shall be heaped upon you—" "I want neither!" cried Prue vehemently. "That is, the finder would not accept money or anything of that kind." She began to feel uneasy at the threatening tone the duchess took, and her nimble wit jumped for shelter. "For myself," she said, in her most cajoling way, "I would ask a favor—not now, but later—and I want you to promise that you will grant it, no matter how strange and unreasonable it may seem." The duchess, who was now quite collected, sat up and looked searchingly into the guileless blue eyes, bent so eagerly upon her. "_You_ would not ask anything that would injure _me_?" she said slowly. "My enemies are so many and so wily, I fear to trust—even you. Is it something you want for yourself? If so, I promise." "A thousand thanks," cried Prue. "I may never ask for anything; certainly never for anything that would hurt my dear benefactress to grant. ’Twas but a fancy. And such strange things happen—one never knows what one may be led into. I have had the strangest adventure to-night—" "Another time, dear Prue," the duchess interrupted; "I can think of nothing now but the necklace." "Yet you will own," persisted Prue, "when you have heard it to the end, that it is worth listening to. ’Twas thus—as soon as I heard of your grace’s troubles, I set out to offer my heartfelt condolences. Scarce a hundred yards from home, the chair was stopped and a rough hand thrust a paper through the curtains. Here it is; shall I fetch a lamp for you to read it by?" "No, read it to me. I have wept myself purblind," replied the duchess, without attempting to disguise her impatience and lack of interest. Prue unfolded the paper, now soiled and crumpled from frequent handling, and read: "MISTRESS BROOKE: "Follow the bearer and you will find the queen’s diamond necklace."