The dark-haired, good-looking young girl in well-cut black skirt and cotton blouse merely shrugged her well-shaped shoulders. She uttered no word. Indeed, she had not yet recovered from her surprise at the sudden appearance of her former mistress. "I don’t know what you must have thought of me, Céline," Ena added. "I thought many things of Madame," the girl admitted. "Naturally. You must have thought me most ungrateful, after all the services you had rendered me, often without reward," remarked the red-haired widow. "But I assure you that I am not ungrateful." The girl only smiled. She recollected the manner in which she had been suddenly dismissed and sent out from the house at five minutes’ notice—and for no fault that she could discover. She recollected how Madame had two friends, an old man named Martin, and a younger one named Bennett. Mr. Martin, who was a wealthy bachelor, living in Chiswick, had suddenly contracted typhoid and died. Madame, who had been most grief-stricken, received a visit from Bennett next day, and she had overheard the pair in conversation in the drawing-room. That conversation had been of a most curious character, but its true import had never occurred to her at the time. Next day her mistress had summarily dismissed her, giving her a month’s wages, and requesting her to leave instantly. This she had done, and returned to her home in France. It was not until nearly two months later that she realised the grim truth. The strange words of Mr. Bennett, as she recollected them, utterly staggered her. And now this woman’s sudden appearance had filled her with curiosity. "Your action in sending me away in the manner you did certainly did not betray any sense of gratitude, Madame," the girl said quite coolly. "No, no, Céline! Do forgive me," she urged. "Poor Mr. Martin was a very old friend, and his death greatly perturbed me." Céline, however, remembered how to the man Bennett she had in confidence expressed the greatest satisfaction that the old man had died. Ena was, of course, entirely ignorant of how much of that conversation the girl had overheard or understood. Indeed, she had not been quite certain it the girl had heard anything. She had dismissed her for quite another reason—in order that, if inquiries were made, a friendship between Bernard Boyne and the dead man could not be established. Céline was the only person aware of it, hence she constituted a grave danger. Ena used all her charm and her powers of persuasion over the girl, and as she sat chatting with her, she recalled many incidents while the girl was in her service. "Now look here, Céline," she said at last. "I’ll be perfectly frank with you. I’ve come to ask you if you’ll let bygones be bygones, and return to me?" The girl, much surprised at the offer, hesitated for a moment, and then replied: "I regret, Madame, it is quite impossible. I cannot return to London."