She had promised: but how if David Harcourt was truly the thing which he was said to be? Her maiden mind shrank and shuddered. It was possibly false, but, then, it was possibly true--all men seemed to be liars. She had better wait and first hear the truth from Miss L'Estrange. If Miss L'Estrange proved him false, she, Violet, would give herself one luxury, the writing to him of one note--such a note! stinging, crushing, killing! After which she would forget once and forever that such a being had ever lived, and seemed nice, and been detestable. Meantime, it would be too unmaidenly rash to see him. It could not be done; however much he drew her with his strong magnetism, she should not, and would not. Why could he not have been good, and grand, and high, and everything that is noble and wonderful, as a man should be? In that case, ah, then! As it was, how could she? It was his own fault, and she hated him. Still, she had promised, and one should keep one's word unless the keeping becomes impossible. Moreover, since she was to leave London on the morrow, she should dearly like to see the grave once more. The new wreath must be already on its way from the florist's. She would like to go, dearly, dearly, if only it were not for the lack of dignity and reserve. Thinking such thoughts, she lay so long that Van Hupfeldt went away without seeing her again; but he had no intention of leaving it to chance whether she saw David that evening or not. Certain that the rendezvous was at the grave, his cautious mind proceeded to take due precautions, and by three o'clock the eyes of his spy, a young woman rather overdressed, were upon the grave in the Kensal Green cemetery, while Van Hupfeldt himself was sitting patient in the smoking-room of a near hotel, ready to be called the moment a sign of Violet should be seen. Violet, however, did not go to the grave. About four o'clock one of the servants of 60A, Porchester Gardens, arrived at the cemetery in a cab, went to the grave, put the new wreath on it, and on the wreath put an envelope directed to "David Harcourt, Esq," and went away. The moment she was gone, Van Hupfeldt's spy had the envelope, and with it hurried to him in the hotel. Breaking it open without hesitation, he read the words: "Miss Mordaunt regrets that she is unable to visit her sister's grave to-day, as she hoped, and from to-morrow morning she will be in the country; but if Mr. Harcourt really has anything of importance to communicate to her, he may write, and she will reply. Her address is Dale Manor, Rigsworth, near Kenilworth, Warwickshire." "What do you think of this handwriting?" Van Hupfeldt asked of his she-attendant, showing her the note. "Do you think you could imitate it?" "It is big and bold enough; it doesn't look difficult to imitate," was the critical estimate. "Just have a try, and let me see your skill. Write--"