At last, however, she saw a fair chance of speaking, for, supper being over, the dining-room was left to the occupation of Miss Stratton, Mrs. Dollman, and Sergeant-Major Twiley. The latter had come over unexpectedly, having had some commission in the town to execute, and still had a little time to spare ere he need return to quarters. “Have you time to sit down here a little while, Mrs. Dollman?” asked Miss Stratton, not without a slight touch of nervousness in her voice. “I have something very important to tell you, and I am anxious that your brother-in-law should listen to me also. But the door must be carefully closed, lest we be overheard. You will appreciate my anxiety on this score when I tell you that life itself may depend upon our caution. Nay, do not look so dubious. I have much to confess to you, but my confessions are not discreditable to myself. At least, I do not believe it likely that you will think so when I have told you my story. I am here, not in the character of a fugitive, but of a pursuer.” “And whom are you pursuing?” asked the sergeant-major, his curiosity considerably aroused. “You know the man very well. He lives in this house.” “Impossible!” “Not a bit of it. I have known the man as Hugh Stavanger, as Paul Torrens, and as Harry Morton, and have at last, I hope, run him to earth as Gregory Staines.” “Why, Miss Stratton,” said Mrs. Dollman, with some excitement, although she obeyed the warning finger held up, and modulated her voice to a low pitch, “you and he were the best of friends yesterday, and to-day, also, anyone seeing you together would have thought you were old friends.” “Poor girl! I imagined I had been too careful to have betrayed any apparent familiarity with Staines,” thought Miss Stratton; “but ‘to the jealous, trifles light as air are proofs as strong as Holy Writ.’ It is well I came here before this poor child’s heart was wounded too sorely. She is a brave girl, I am sure, and her farcical admiration for this scoundrel will turn to disgust as soon as she learns his real character.” It will be noticed that our heroine spoke of the young widow as if she herself were the senior of the two. But wisdom and self-reliance are not always dependant upon age, and the younger girl’s experience and courage had given her sounder judgment than is possessed by the average woman of forty. Aloud she said:-- “Yes, I flatter myself that I have acted my part well this time. He hates me, fears me, and flees from me as if I were grim death. And yet he is ready to fall in love with me.” “I don’t understand,” said Phœbe Dollman, with a troubled look in her eyes. “How can he both hate you and love you?”