George laughed aloud. 'Where on earth did Hilda get this precious information? Athelstan in a low quarter? Athelstan a Prodigal? Athelstan in rags? My dearest Elsie, if Lady Dering were not your sister, I should say that she had gone mad with venomous hatred of the brother whom she made so much haste to believe guilty.' 'Oh! Tell me quick, George. Don't say anything against Hilda, please. I am already---- Tell me quick the whole truth.' 'Well, dear, the whole truth is this. Athelstan is doing very well. I suppose you might call him prosperous. When he went away, he had ten pounds to begin with. People kindly credited him with the nice little sum of 720_l_. obtained by a forgery. We now know that this money has been lying in the safe all the time--how it got there, the Lord knows--perhaps Checkley could tell. He went to America by the cheapest way possible. He had many adventures and many ups and downs, all of which he will tell you before long. Once he had great good fortune on a silver mine or something: he made thousands of pounds over it. Then he lost all his money--dropped it down a sink or into an open drain--you know, in America, these traps are plentiful, and started again on his ten pounds. He was a journalist all the time, and he is a journalist still. He is now over here as the London correspondent of a great paper of San Francisco.--That, my dear Elsie, is, briefly, the record of your brother since he went away.' 'Oh! But are you quite sure, George?--quite--quite sure? Because, if this can be proved----' 'Nothing is more easy to prove. He brought letters to a London Bank introducing him as the correspondent, and empowering him to draw certain moneys.' 'How long has Athelstan been at home?' She remembered the dates of the recent forgeries, and the alleged fact that all were in the same handwriting. 'You are so persistent, Elsie, that I am certain you have got something serious on your mind--won't you tell me?' 'No, George--not to-night. But--how long has Athelstan been in England?' 'I will tell you exactly how and when I met him. Do you remember three weeks ago, that Sunday evening when we were so happy and so miserable--resolved on braving everything--going to live on love and a crust for the rest of our lives?--you poor, dear, brave girl!' He touched her fingers. 'I shall always be thankful for that prospect of poverty, because it revealed my mistress to me in all her loveliness of love and trust and courage.' 'Oh, George--you spoil me. But then I know myself better.'