"Oh," said Severino, "she quite fell in love with the table you found for me, and Mrs. Woodgate wanted the vase. They were wondering if Mrs. Brunton would accept a price." "They don't belong to Mrs. Brunton," said Langholm, shortly. "No? Mrs. Woodgate said she had never noticed them in your room. Where did you pick them up?" Langholm looked at the things, lamps of remembrance alight beneath his lowered eyelids. "The table came from a little shop on Bushey Heath, in Hertfordshire, you know. We--I was spending the day there once ... you had to stoop to get in at the door, I remember. The vase is only from Great Portland Street." The prices were upon his lips; both had been bargains, a passing happiness and pride. "I must remember to tell them when they come to-morrow," said Severino. "They are the sort of thing a woman likes." "They are," agreed Langholm, his lowered eyes still lingering on the table and the vase "the sort of thing a woman likes ... So these women are coming again to-morrow, are they?" The question was quite brisk, when it came. "Yes, they promised." "Both of them, eh?" "Yes, I hope so!" The sick man broke into eager explanations. "I only want to see her, Langholm! That's all I want. I don't want her to myself. What is the good? To see her and be with her is all I want--ever. It has made me so happy. It is really better than if she came alone. You see, as it is, I can't say anything--that matters. Do you see?" "Perfectly," said Langholm, gently. The lad lay gazing up at him with great eyes. Langholm fancied their expression was one of incredulity. Twilight was falling early with the rain; the casement was small, and further contracted by an overgrowth of creeper; those two great eyes seemed to shine the brighter through the dusk. Langholm could not make his visit a very short one, after all. He felt it would be cruel. "What did you talk about, then?" he asked. A small smile came with the answer, "You!" "Me! What on earth had you to say about me?" "I heard all you had been doing." "Oh, that." "You know you didn't tell me, that evening in town." "No, I was only beginning, then." It seemed some months ago--more months since that very afternoon. "Have you found out anything?" Langholm hesitated. "Yes." Why should he lie? "Do you mean to say that you have any suspicion who it is?" Severino was on his elbow. "More than a suspicion. I am certain. There can be no doubt about it. A pure fluke gave me the clew, but every mortal thing fits it." Severino dropped back upon his pillow. Langholm seemed glad to talk to him, to loosen his tongue, to unburden his heart ever so little. And, indeed, he was glad. "And what are you going to do about it?" "That's my difficulty. She must be cleared before the world. That is the first duty--if it could be done without--making bad almost worse!" "Bad--worse? How could it, Langholm?" No answer. "Who do you say it is?"