“The least you can do,” he said, sternly, “is not to irritate her. It is so easy to irritate her!” He addressed himself again to Grace, endeavoring to help her through her difficulty in a new way. “Never mind explaining yourself for the moment,” he said. “In the absence of your letters, have you any one in London who can speak to your identity?” Grace shook her head sadly. “I have no friends in London,” she answered. It was impossible for Lady Janet--who had never in her life heard of anybody without friends in London--to pass this over without notice. “No friends in London!” she repeated, turning to Horace. Horace shot another shaft of light satire. “Of course not!” he rejoined. Grace saw them comparing notes. “My friends are in Canada,” she broke out, impetuously. “Plenty of friends who could speak for me, if I could only bring them here.” As a place of reference--mentioned in the capital city of England--Canada, there is no denying it, is open to objection on the ground of distance. Horace was ready with another shot. “Far enough off, certainly,” he said. “Far enough off, as you say,” Lady Janet agreed. Once more Julian’s inexhaustible kindness strove to obtain a hearing for the stranger who had been confided to his care. “A little patience, Lady Janet,” he pleaded. “A little consideration, Horace, for a friendless woman.” “Thank you, sir,” said Grace. “It is very kind of you to try and help me, but it is useless. They won’t even listen to me.” She attempted to rise from her chair as she pronounced the last words. Julian gently laid his hand on her shoulder and obliged her to resume her seat. “_I_ will listen to you,” he said. “You referred me just now to the consul’s letter. The consul tells me you suspected some one of taking your papers and your clothes.” “I don’t suspect,” was the quick reply; “I am certain! I tell you positively Mercy Merrick was the thief. She was alone with me when I was struck down by the shell. She was the only person who knew that I had letters of introduction about me. She confessed to my face that she had been a bad woman--she had been in a prison--she had come out of a refuge--” Julian stopped her there with one plain question, which threw a doubt on the whole story. “The consul tells me you asked him to search for Mercy Merrick,” he said. “Is it not true that he caused inquiries to be made, and that no trace of any such person was to be heard of?” “The consul took no pains to find her,” Grace answered, angrily. “He was, like everybody else, in a conspiracy to neglect and misjudge me.” Lady Janet and Horace exchanged looks. This time it was impossible for Julian to blame them. The further the stranger’s narrative advanced, the less worthy of serious attention he felt it to be. The longer she spoke, the more disadvantageously she challenged comparison with the absent woman, whose name she so obstinately and so audaciously persisted in assuming as her own.