“Oh, that was Miss Spicer’s little job. My name was dragged in promiscuous. That about me is all lies, from beginning to end; but Miss Spicer and that Mahone was awful thick for awhile. She was always giving him money, being so malicious against that handsome Laurence girl, that she was willing to plot with any one against her. I’m pretty sure she _was_ in the scrape, because she once offered me anything I’d ask just to join in with them; but, of course, I never had a word for her, but no. I want to marry that Mahone! The idea! I hope, marm, you think better of me than that.” Mrs. Lambert was a woman of the world, whom airs, such as her maid put on, were not likely to deceive. She simply folded the paper, drew forth her portemonnaie, and paid Ellen Post a month’s wages in advance. “I cannot give you a recommendation,” she said, very quietly, “and probably shall never have occasion to mention your name. Perhaps you had better put on your things, and go at once. The express man will come for your trunk.” Ellen Post turned her half-scared, half-insolent face on her mistress. It had turned to a dull grayish-white, and her eyes gleamed with gathering malice. “Perhaps, marm, you had better think twice. Some girls are blind as to what is going on around them, and can be sent off meek and broken-hearted; but I ain’t one of that sort. Just take a second thought, marm. You’d better, I can tell you.” “I never take a second thought, Ellen. Go! I am engaged!” The slender finger that pointed toward the door belonged to a fragile, but firm little hand, which scarcely seemed strong enough to support the diamonds that blazed upon it; but a revolver could not have more effectually silenced the impudent servant. Ellen walked backward, step by step, until she almost fell against a footman, who stood in the door with a card in his hand. Mrs. Lambert took the card, giving no further heed to the retreating maid, and read the name upon it. “Miss Spicer! Tell her to come up.” There was a rustle of silk flounces, a clatter of high heels, as Miss Spicer came up the stairs. There was also a strong scent of the last fashionable perfume left floating in the hall, as she entered her friend’s boudoir, closing the door behind her. Fifteen minutes after this Ellen Post glided down the back stairway, with an evil look on her face, and a satchel in her hand. Then all was still, and only a faint murmur of voices disturbed the sumptuous quiet of that lady’s boudoir. Voices, did I say? Only the quick, rattling sound of Miss Spicer’s tongue was heard; the firm, even tones of Mrs. Lambert never penetrated beyond the room in which she sat. Once, when the door was open, and Miss Spicer stood upon the ermine mat, biting her lips, and beating her flounces with the end of her cane parasol, the clear ringing tones of that voice penetrated into the hall.