“You seem to be a good sort,” she said, making up her mind at last. “There’s nothing stuck-up about you. I’ll help you if I can. I have rummaged among the books here over and over again, and I know more about them than you do. What book do you want?” As she put that awkward question she noticed for the first time Lady Clarinda’s nosegay lying on the side-table where the Major had left it. Instantly forgetting me and my book, this curious girl pounced like a fury on the flowers, and actually trampled them under her feet! “There!” she cried. “If I had Lady Clarinda here I’d serve her in the same way.” “What will the Major say?” I asked. “What do I care? Do you suppose I’m afraid of _him?_ Only last week I broke one of his fine gimcracks up there, and all through Lady Clarinda and her flowers!” She pointed to the top of the book-case--to the empty space on it close by the window. My heart gave a sudden bound as my eyes took the direction indicated by her finger. _She_ had broken the vase! Was the way to discovery about to reveal itself to me through this girl? Not a word would pass my lips; I could only look at her. “Yes!” she said. “The thing stood there. He knows how I hate her flowers, and he put her nosegay in the vase out of my way. There was a woman’s face painted on the china, and he told me it was the living image of _her_ face. It was no more like her than I am. I was in such a rage that I up with the book I was reading at the time and shied it at the painted face. Over the vase went, bless your heart, crash to the floor. Stop a bit! I wonder whether _that’s_ the book you have been looking after? Are you like me? Do you like reading Trials?” Trials? Had I heard her aright? Yes: she had said Trials. I answered by an affirmative motion of my head. I was still speechless. The girl sauntered in her cool way to the fire-place, and, taking up the tongs, returned with them to the book-case. “Here’s where the book fell,” she said--“in the space between the book-case and the wall. I’ll have it out in no time.” I waited without moving a muscle, without uttering a word. She approached me with the tongs in one hand and with a plainly bound volume in the other. “Is that the book?” she said. “Open it, and see.” I took the book from her. “It is tremendously interesting,” she went on. “I’ve read it twice over--I have. Mind you, _I_ believe he did it, after all.” Did it? Did what? What was she talking about? I tried to put the question to her. I struggled--quite vainly--to say only these words: “What are you talking about?” She seemed to lose all patience with me. She snatched the book out of my hand, and opened it before me on the table by which we were standing side by side. “I declare, you’re as helpless as a baby!” she said, contemptuously. “There! _Is_ that the book?” I read the first lines on the title-page-- A COMPLETE REPORT OF THE TRIAL OF EUSTACE MACALLAN.