“That’s it,” and Genevieve nodded her head wisely. “Opportunity is what counts. I’ve read detective stories, and they prove it. Be careful, Mr. Appleby, how you trust yourself alone with Mr. Wheeler.” “That will do,” he reprimanded. “I can take care of myself, Miss Lane.” Genevieve always knew when she had gone too far, and, instead of sulking, she tactfully changed the subject and entertained the others with her amusing chatter, at which she was a success. At that very moment, Maida Wheeler, alone in her room, was sobbing wildly, yet using every precaution that she shouldn’t be heard. Thrown across her bed, her face buried in the pillows, she fairly shook with the intensity of her grief. But, as often happens, after she had brought her crying spell to a finish—and exhausted Nature insists on a finish—she rose and bathed her flushed face and sat down to think it out calmly. Yet the more she thought the less calm she grew. For the first time in her life she was face to face with a great question which she could not refer to her parents. Always she had confided in them, and matters that seemed great to her, even though trifling in themselves, were invariably settled and straightened out by her wise and loving father or mother. But now, Samuel Appleby had told her a secret—a dreadful secret—that she must not only weigh and decide about, but must—at least, until she decided—keep from her parents. “For,” Maida thought, “if I tell them, they’ll at once insist on knowing who the rightful heir is, they’ll give over the place to him—and what will become of us?” Her conscience was as active as ever it was, her sense of right and wrong was in no way warped or blunted, but instinct told her that she must keep this matter entirely to herself until she had come to her own conclusion. Moreover, she realized, the conclusion must be her own—the decision must be arrived at by herself, and unaided. Finally, accepting all this, she resolved to put the whole thing out of her mind for the moment. Her parents were so intimately acquainted with her every mood or shade of demeanor, they would see at once that something was troubling her mind, unless she used the utmost care to prevent it. Care, too, not to overdo her precaution. It would be quite as evident that she was concealing something, if she were unusually gay or carefree of manner. So the poor child went downstairs, determined to forget utterly the news she had heard, until such time as she could be again by herself. And she succeeded. Though haunted by a vague sense of being deceitful, she behaved so entirely as usual, that neither of her parents suspected her of pretense. Moreover, the subject of Samuel Appleby’s visit was such a fruitful source of conversation that there was less chance of minor considerations.