"Mrs. Mellop has gone home," explained the girl, with a faint smile, as she thought of the little widow's discomfiture, "and my father was busy in his library. I slipped out quietly." "But you should not have come here, darling. Think of what the world will say. It is so rash." "I don't care what the world says," retorted Audrey, crossly. "The world is doing nothing for me that I should consider it. You blame me for coming to see you, when you have broken two appointments with me." "I broke the first I admit, my dear; but I made no second appointment." "You had my note asking you to come to me this evening?" "Yes, but I did not come." "You had no intention of coming?" "No," said Shawe, without hesitation. "I had no intention of coming." "Ralph"--Audrey caught his hand--"do you think that you are treating me in a straightforward way?" "Yes and no. Perhaps I should be more open with you, and yet if I was you would be afraid and angry." "I am angry in any case, seeing that you will not trust me; but afraid"--she looked at him very straightly--"why should I be afraid?" Shawe dropped into an opposite chair with an air of lassitude. "If I explained that, Audrey, I should have to be more frank than I care to be." "Why? For what reason?" "There are things which I do not wish you to know." "In connection with my mother's death?" "Yes," said Ralph, after a second's pause, "in connection with your mother's death. Audrey"--he knelt at her feet and looked anxiously into her face--"why not leave this matter alone and marry me?" "How can I when you refuse to trust me?" she said sternly. "I do trust you. I trust you entirely." "Then tell me what you know." "I can't. It is too difficult." "Is that why you chose to write me an anonymous letter?" she asked quickly. The barrister rose and flushed a deep red, while he looked at her with startled eyes. "What do you mean?" he stammered. "I mean what I say. Perry Toat examined that letter, and by comparing your handwriting with that of my unknown correspondent, by looking at the postmark, and by recognising the common paper as some used by your office-boy to keep notes, she is certain that you wrote the letter." There was a long pause. Shawe, driven into a corner, said nothing, and did not even meet her reproachful eyes. Standing on the hearth-rug he stared at the floor, opening and shutting his hands. "Well," said Audrey, after a pause, and very impatiently, "what do you say?" "I wrote the letter, and for a very good reason," admitted the young man, nervously. "What is the reason?" she demanded, looking at him searchingly. "I can't tell you, Audrey; don't ask me." "But I do ask you, and you must tell me. Why did you write that letter?" "If you will have the truth," burst out Shawe, "I wished to spare you pain." "So you said in the letter," Audrey assured him, coolly; "but what pain is it that you wish to spare me?"