"Clara--my maid," replied Olive. "I cannot understand it at all. She appeared perfectly content with her place, and said nothing about leaving. It was only when I sent for her to dress me for dinner that I found she had gone. What can it mean?" "It probably seems extraordinary to you," replied Mallow, coolly; "but I confess I am not surprised. Your Clara has gone to join Carson." Olive gasped. "To join my husband?" she said incredulously. "What has Clara to do with him?" "That is what I should like to know. Carson has been in the habit of meeting this girl for some time past. Before you were married, Aldean saw them together; but he carefully refrained from letting me know anything about it until quite recently. I suppose he was afraid of what I should do to the scoundrel. Save, under the present circumstances, I should not have told you. But, as I have little doubt she has gone to him, it is right you should know." "Oh!" cried Olive, suddenly recollecting; "then she was the woman I saw! The night before my husband left me I saw him talking with a woman quite close to the hotel. I recognized him but her face I could not see. Yes, it must have been Clara." "The scoundrel!" murmured Mallow, "there is clearly something between him and the girl. She was probably a spy." "A spy--on me? For what reason?" "Semberry could probably explain that. I understand that he was instrumental in finding the girl for you." "That's true. A Mrs. Arne, whose address he gave me, was anxious to find a place for her; so I wrote, of course, in the usual way for her reference. It was an excellent one, and I did not hesitate to engage her. So far as that goes, she was a first-class servant.' "She probably was no servant at all," said Mallow, bluntly. "She had neither the appearance nor the manners of one. Even Aldean noticed that. By the way, have you Mrs. Arne's letter?" Olive nodded. "I keep all my letters for six months before I destroy them," she said, rising. "I should have hers. Wait one moment, I will go and fetch it." Mrs. Carson returned with the letter. Mallow read it through carefully, but could gather nothing from it. He noted the address, 30, Amelia Street, Kensington, and commented on the firm, masculine character of the writing. "Mrs. Arne is evidently a woman of strong will and considerable character," he said, replacing his pocket-book. "For all we know, she may be mixed up in this plot." "Plot?" echoed Olive, looking scared. "What plot?" "Well," said Mallow, "I can hardly say definitely. There is certainly a plot of some kind. Sooner or later we shall know more about it. At present we must be content to know its object, which was undoubtedly to secure this fifty thousand pounds." "For whom?" "That is the question. Carson, Semberry, Clara Trall, or even Dr. Drabble--they all seem to have something to do with it." "Then you think there is some connection between my husband and that horrid doctor?"