"No one. I have not told my maid or footman. It was not necessary, as we intended to remain here a week." "Admirable! When you leave the hotel in the morning give Yarmouth as your destination. Not until you reach King's Cross need you inform your servants that you are really going to Whitby. Would you object to--ah, well that is perhaps, difficult. I was about to suggest an assumed name, but Miss Layton's father would object, no doubt." "If he did not, I would," said Robert impetuously. "Who has Margaret to fear, and what do David and I care for all the anonymous scoundrels in creation?" "Is there really so much danger that such a proceeding is advisable?" inquired the trembling Nellie. "To-day's circumstances speak for themselves, Miss Layton," replied Brett. "Neither you nor Mrs. Capella run the least risk. I will not be answerable for the others. Grave difficulties must be surmounted before the power for further injury is taken from the man we seek. In my professional capacity, I say act openly, advertise your destination, make it known that Mr. Hume escaped from the wreck of the hansom unhurt. Should the would-be murderer follow you to Whitby he cannot escape me. Here in London he is one among five millions. But speaking as a friend, I advise the utmost vigilance unless another Hume-Frazer is to die in his boots." It was not Helen but Margaret who wailed in agony: "Do you really mean what you say? Have matters reached that stage?" "Yes, they have." His voice was cold, almost stern. "Kindly telegraph your Whitby address to me," he said to Hume. Then he walked to the door, leaving them brusquely. For once in his career he was deeply annoyed. "Confound all women!" he muttered in anger. "They nurse some petty little secret, some childish love affair, and deem its preservation more important than their own happiness, or the lives of their best friends. They are all alike--duchess or scullery-maid. Their fluttering hearts are all the world to them, and everything else chaos. If that woman only chose--" "Mr. Brett!" came a clear voice along the corridor. It was Margaret. She came to him hastily "Why do you suspect me?" she exclaimed brokenly. "I am the most miserable woman on earth. Suffering and death environ me, and overwhelm those nearest and dearest. Yet what have I done that you should think me capable of concealing from you material facts which would be of use to you?" The barrister was tempted to retort that what she believed to be "material" might indeed be of very slight service to him, but the contrary proposition held good, too. Then he saw the anguish in her face, and it moved him to say gently: