“Unless you have a particular wish for Lord Usk as a partner, I would advise you to go right to your own room, and do it there,” said Mr Steinherz, and Maimie was thankful to escape. Passing Félicia’s door, she caught the monotonous tones of the weary maid, who was reading her mistress to sleep, and heard also a pettish voice say, “What nonsense you make of it, Pringle! I believe you are going right asleep. I had just lost myself, and now you have waked me up again.” “Maybe I ought to go and massage her head,” said Maimie thoughtfully to herself, “but I guess I’ll have Pringle go on suffering this once. I want to think. If Félicia only knew! But if I told her now, the same house wouldn’t hold her and her father. And I can’t tell Lord Usk about it, because he knows already, nor talk about it with Pappa Steinherz, because he would know I’d been listening, and it’s no use thinking of making it public, because he would be fit to deny all of the story, and I suppose it couldn’t be proved without him. When I concluded to find out why he was so set on marrying Félicia off to this lord, I didn’t ever expect this. It’s tremendous. For--the--land’s--sake!” she spoke slowly and emphatically, “what a boom I could work up if we were back in New York! But here I don’t see I can do anything with it any way. I guess I’ll just have to save it up in case Prince Malasorte should show his face again. I might fix things then so’s it would fall to him to charge it on Mr Steinherz. But what am I to say about my listening? I’m not ashamed of it a cent--though I did feel awfully mean when he talked about his love-affairs--but some folks would think it cast a doubt on my evidence. What I want is some queer fact that would be likely to set my wits to work until I puzzled out the thing for myself. But suppose there isn’t anything really. Suppose Mr Steinherz dreamed all of the story--suppose he has lost his mind! Oh, I can’t endure this! There must be something right away back that I could remember, to give me the clue I want. St Mary Windicotes! Where have I ever heard that name before?” She sat for a while pondering the question, then sprang up, and throwing open a huge trunk in a corner, plunged her arm to the very bottom, and brought out a small old-fashioned Prayer-book. She turned to the fly-leaf. On it were written the words, “Julia Slazenger, from her sincere friend Marian Cotton. St Mary Windicotes Vicarage, May 18th, 18--.”