She said nothing of what she found and thought to her mother, and lived on in that state of isolated reflection and regret which can only be supported by those who are strong in character and independent of sympathy, but from which even they suffer greatly. She did not try to trace Robert Airley. When she heard that he was suspected of the crime but could not be found, she was relieved to think that he was lost to sight; his seizure and trial would have been agony to her. The horror of her discoveries and the shame of them filled her with a feeling as of personal guilt. She looked worn, unwell, aged; she had nothing in her regard, in her manner, in her thoughts, of the sense of freedom and power which all would have expected her to feel in such an accession to immense wealth, in entire liberty. She had no one to whom she could speak of anything which she felt. Lord Framlingham was in India, and he was the only person to whom she could have confided something of her anxieties, her shame, her uncertainty what to do and how to bear the burden laid upon her. She knew that she must carry all her knowledge shut up in her own breast as long as she lived. It lay like a stone upon her, as did the inheritance of all this ill-gotten wealth. One day, when she was as usual in the little study poring over an old ledger, one of the servants brought her a card. On it was printed, “Earl of Hurstmanceaux.” She was surprised, much surprised, but she remembered the letter her father had addressed to him. She hesitated some moments: if he came on his sister’s business could he not go to the lawyer? “Ask Lord Hurstmanceaux to be so good as to see the solicitors,” she said to the servant, who returned in a few minutes with the reply that Lord Hurstmanceaux desired the favor of a personal interview. “Show him into the library then,” she said, much surprised. “I will come to him there.” She put back the ledger in its place, closed the case which held it, and left the room, locking the door with that safety-key which had never quitted her father’s watch-chain in his lifetime, and which she carried now always on hers. She did not go to her room to see how she looked, as most women would have done; she did not even glance at one of the mirrors in the rooms through which she passed. She went as she was, looking very white, very worn, very stern in her close black gown, to the other end of the house where the library was. Hurstmanceaux was standing in the middle of the room; the light from one of the windows shone on his fair hair. She saw that he too was very pale and appeared distressed and embarrassed. “You wished to see me, Lord Hurstmanceaux,” she said coldly. “Would not the solicitors have done equally well?” “No,” said Hurstmanceaux--his voice was harsh and unsteady. “I venture to beg of you not to make my errand known to your solicitors.” She was silent; she sat down and motioned to him to do the same, but he remained standing.