"I expect my aunt has been very much puzzled by your card," she said. "She will probably be wondering whoever you can be." "If you so desire, Miss Miller, you can explain to your aunt that I am a friend of yours, and that by a mistake of the servant the card was sent to her." "A most excellent excuse," she laughed. "I'll tell her so, and then if you are still remaining here over to-morrow, perhaps you will call." "I shall be only too delighted," I assured her. "Your father I found a most charming man--almost as charming as his daughter." "Now no compliments please, Mr Leaf," she exclaimed, flushing slightly. "It is not an idle one, I assure you," I said. "The compliment is equally to your father as to yourself." And then we strolled forward again along the banks of a small rippling brook overhung by willows and hawthorns. Was it possible that she, so full of grace and sweetness, was actually the woman who Sammy had declared her to be? No, I could not bring myself to believe it. She spoke with such feeling and sympathy, and she was so full of an ineffable charm that I refused to believe that she was a mere adventuress assisting her father in his direction of some ingenious gang of thieves who worked in secret. Her father, too, was the very last man whom I should have believed to be an adventurer had not the proof been so plain. Was not that appeal of Lucie's to Nardini an ugly and suspicious truth? The more suspicious, too, that she would give me no idea of the allegation against her. She evidently feared lest I should make inquiry and discover the disgraceful truth. Presently, as we came to a bend in the stream where the water was deeper, its unruffled surface shining like a mirror, I halted, and looking straight into her face, said:-- "Miss Miller, yesterday at your house I made a discovery--one that utterly astounded me." Her countenance went ashen grey. "A discovery!" she faltered. "What--what do you mean?" Instantly I saw that I had quite unintentionally alarmed her and hastened to set her at her ease. "I saw upon a table in your drawing-room the photograph of a very dear friend--Ella Murray. She was your friend, so your father told me. How curious that we should both have been acquainted with her!" "Oh! Ella! Did you really know poor Ella?" she exclaimed quickly, reassured that my discovery was not of a compromising character. "I knew her very well indeed," was my slow response. "When were you acquainted with her?" "Oh! years ago. We were together at the Sacre Coeur at Evreux, and both left the convent the same year. She was my most intimate friend, and once or twice came with me here, to Studland, when we had our holidays together." "She actually visited here!" I exclaimed in surprise.