The last trace of what Lexy had called “mawkish self-pity” had vanished now. She was no longer concerned with Mrs. Enderby’s attitude toward herself. It didn’t matter. Finding another job didn’t matter, either. She had a little money due her, and she meant to use it—every penny of it—in finding Caroline. She washed her hands and face, brushed her hair, put on her own hat and jacket, and went downstairs again. Mrs. Enderby was standing in the tiny hall, and from the sitting room there came a sound of muffled sobbing. “She is an imbecile, that woman!” said Mrs. Enderby, with a sigh; “but she will hold her tongue. And you?” “I’ve got to do as I think best,” answered Lexy. “I’ll say good-by now, Mrs. Enderby.” “There is no train until three o’clock. It is now after one. We shall have lunch directly.” “No, thank you,” said Lexy. “I’d rather go now. I dare say I can find something to eat in the village.” She was not in the least angry now, or hurt; only she wanted to get away, by herself, to think this out. “Good-by?” repeated Mrs. Enderby, with a smile. “You think, then, never to see me again?” “No,” said Lexy. “I mean to see you again—when I have something to tell you; but just now I want to go back and pack up my things.” “And leave my house?” “Yes.” They were both silent for a moment. Then, to Lexy’s amazement, Mrs. Enderby laid a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. “My child,” she said, “you think I am a very hard woman. Perhaps it is so; but, like you, I do what seems to me the right. Certainly it is better now that you should leave us; but not like this. You must have your lunch here, then you must return to the house and sleep there, all in the usual way. To-morrow you shall go.” She paused a moment. “You shall go, if you are still determined that you will not keep faith with me.” It was not a very difficult matter to touch Lexy’s heart. Whatever resentment she may have felt against Mrs. Enderby vanished now, lost in a sincere pity and respect; but she was firm in her purpose. “I’ve got to tell one person,” she said. “If I do, I shall be able to tell you something you ought to know. I wish you could trust me! I wish you could believe that all I’m thinking of is—Caroline!” “I do believe you,” said Mrs. Enderby. “You are very honest, and very, very young. You wish to do good, but you do harm. Very well, my child—I cannot stop you. Go your way, and I go mine; but”—she paused again, and again smiled her faint, shadowy smile—“if I think it right that you should be sacrificed, it shall be so. I am sorry. I have affection for you. I shall be sorry if you stand in my way.” Lexy met her eyes steadily. “I’m sorry, too,” she said. And so she was. There was nothing in her heart now but sorrow for them all—for Caroline, for Mrs. Enderby, for the luckless Mr. Houseman, even for Miss Craigie; but most of all for Caroline. “I’ve got to find her,” she thought, over and over again; “and _he’ll_ help me!”