“'Yes, it is your note to Mr. Ffolliott,' and he read it aloud. “Do not come to the house. I will meet you in Bartyon Wood.” That is a nice note for a man's wife to have written, to be picked up and read by a stranger, if your confessor is not cautious in the matter of letters from women----' “When he begins a thing in that way, you may always know that he has planned everything--that you can do nothing--I always know. I knew then, and I knew I was quite white when I answered him: “'I wrote it in a great hurry, Mrs. Farne is worse. We are going together to her. I said I would meet him--to save time.' “He laughed, his awful little laugh, and touched the paper. “'I have no doubt. And I have no doubt that if other persons saw this, they would believe it. It is very likely. “'But you believe it,' I said. 'You know it is true. No one would be so silly--so silly and wicked as to----' Then I broke down and cried out. 'What do you mean? What could anyone think it meant?' I was so wild that I felt as if I was going crazy. He clenched my wrist and shook me. “'Don't think you can play the fool with me,' he said. 'I have been watching this thing from the first. The first time I leave you alone with the fellow, I come back to find you have been giving him an emotional scene. Do you suppose your simpering good spirits and your imbecile pink cheeks told me nothing? They told me exactly this. I have waited to come upon it, and here it is. “Do not come to the house--I will meet you in the wood.”' “That was the unexpected thing. It was no use to argue and try to explain. I knew he did not believe what he was saying, but he worked himself into a rage, he accused me of awful things, and called me awful names in a loud voice, so that he could be heard, until I was dumb and staggering. All the time, I knew there was a reason, but I could not tell then what it was. He said at last, that he was going to Mr. Ffolliott. He said, 'I will meet him in the wood and I will take your note with me.' “Betty, it was so shameful that I fell down on my knees. 'Oh, don't--don't--do that,' I said. 'I beg of you, Nigel. He is a gentleman and a clergyman. I beg and beg of you. If you will not, I will do anything--anything.' And at that minute I remembered how he had tried to make me write to father for money. And I cried out--catching at his coat, and holding him back. 'I will write to father as you asked me. I will do anything. I can't bear it.'” “That was the whole meaning of the whole thing,” said Betty with eyes ablaze. “That was the beginning, the middle and the end. What did he say?” “He pretended to be made more angry. He said, 'Don't insult me by trying to bribe me with your vulgar money. Don't insult me.' But he gradually grew sulky instead of raging, and though he put the note in his pocket, he did not go to Mr. Ffolliott. And--I wrote to father.” “I remember that,” Betty answered. “Did you ever speak to Mr. Ffolliott again?”