"Who are you?" she exclaimed, starting up breathlessly from her chair. She was in fear of me, I saw. "Who are you that you should know this?" she gasped. "William Morton," was my cool reply. "I thought I sent my name up to you this morning!" CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. COMPLICATIONS AND CONFESSIONS. Next morning, after a night journey, I called at the Douglas Hotel, in Newcastle, and was informed that Mrs Morton had arrived on the previous evening. At last I had run her to earth. She sent word that she would see me in half an hour, therefore I idled along Grainger Street West, killing time until she made her appearance. She approached me in the hall of the hotel smiling merrily and putting out her hand in welcome. Her black dress seemed slightly the worse for wear owing to her constant travelling, yet she was as neat and dainty as ever, a woman whose striking beauty caused every head to be turned as she passed. We went out, turning to walk towards Blackett Street, and then amid the bustle of the traffic began to talk. She asked me when I had arrived, and how I had fared in London. I told her nothing of the success of my advertisements, or the discovery of the plot so ingeniously formed against her, and allowed her to believe that I had only just arrived from London. I was waiting to see whether she would explain her journey to Scotland, and her companionship with Mrs Rumbold. But she said nothing. We walked on together through Albion Place, and presently found ourselves in Leazes Park, that pretty promenade, gay in summer, but somewhat cheerless on that grey wintry morning. "You were recognised in Carlisle," I exclaimed after we had been chatting some time. "Tell me about it. I was surprised to get your note, and I confess I was also somewhat alarmed. Was the person who recognised you an enemy or a friend?" "A friend," was her prompt reply. "But his very friendliness would, I knew, be fatal to my interests, so I had to fly. He recognised me, even in this dress, stopped me in the street, raised his hat and spoke. But I discerned his intention, therefore I passed on with affected indignation and without answering. Had I opened my mouth my voice might have betrayed me. I went on to Glasgow." "And there? What happened?" She glanced at me in quick suspicion. I saw she was embarrassed by my question. "Happened?" she echoed, nervously. "What do you mean?" We were in the Park, and quite alone, therefore I halted, and looking her straight in the face exclaimed,-- "Something happened there, Sybil. Why don't you tell me?" "Sybil," she said in a tone of reproach. "Am I no longer Tibbie to you, as of old? You are changed, Wilfrid--changed towards me. There is something in your manner so very unusual. What is it?"