"So I think. He spends, I believe, too much time in the billiard-room, and report talks of high play at The Lilacs with Lord Camberley and others. All these things distress me greatly." "Naturally--if you feel a special interest in him," remarked Ella. Again Maria's colour deepened. "Just before I went to Leamington he asked me to be his wife." "Did you refuse him?" "For the time being." "And you have not yet made up your mind to accept him?" "No. How can I? I could never make up my mind unless papa's will went with it." "Perhaps Philip is vexed--disheartened: and so flies to these foolish courses?" "I don't know," sighed Maria. "It would show great weakness of mind, would it not?" "People in love are said to be not always accountable for their actions. Poor Philip! But you love him still?" "I never quite knew till lately what he is to me," answered Maria, in a low voice. "I have tried not to care for him, but----" "You find that you, too, are a little weak-minded?" "I suppose so. But he never passed me in the street before without speaking." CHAPTER III. MALACHITE AND GOLD. Of all days in the week, Saturday was the one most longed for by Ella Winter. The reason was that it always--or nearly always, for now and then there was a breakdown or a delay somewhere--brought her a letter from Edward Conroy. These letters were her greatest comfort in her perplexities and troubles. She read them and re-read them till she knew all their sweetest passages by heart. How she longed for his return that she might tell him everything!--for in truth she sometimes felt that the burden laid upon her was almost more than she could bear without help. Were he but here to share it with her! Absence had enabled her to read her heart in all its entirety, had endeared his image to her more day by day. Mr. Conroy was not expected in England until spring; but towards the end of November there came a letter, the contents of which filled his mistress with unexpected delight. Conroy's mission in Spain was nearly at an end, and he might be expected home in three or four weeks--in time, it might be, to eat his Christmas dinner. He did not tell her that latterly her letters had filled him with so much uneasiness that he had requested his employers to relieve him of his duties abroad, or that he had wisely made up his mind to ascertain for himself, and as quickly as possible, the exact state of affairs at Heron Dyke. Little by little the popular excitement in connection with the murder and robbery at Heron Dyke began to subside, especially as all the efforts of the police resulted in no fresh discoveries. People had talked and wondered till there was nothing left to talk and wonder about. Fresh topics and other interests began to claim their attention. The newspapers had ceased to comment on the case, and there seemed every probability of its adding one more to the long list of undiscovered crimes.