It was a soft, sweet voice: the same voice, Miss Blake could have laid a wager on it, that had sung "When lovely woman stoops to folly." Their hands met: she was sure of that. Perhaps their lips also: but she could not see. "Why, how did you know I was back?" he asked. "Oh, Ann came to the gate to answer a ring, and saw you pass by from the station." "Why are you out here!" he resumed. "Is it prudent!" "I was restless, expecting you. I have so much to say; and, do you know, Karl----" The voice sank into too low a tone to be audible to the thirsty ears outside. Both had spoken but in whispers. Miss Blake cautiously stretched forth her head, so as to get a glimpse through the closely-barred gate. Yes: it was the lovely girl she had seen during that stealthy visit of hers: and she had taken Sir Karl's arm while she talked to him. Another minute, and they both disappeared within the trees of the maze. Whether Miss Blake was glued to the trunk of the tree she stood at, or whether it was glued to her, remains a problem to be solved. It was one of the two. There she stood; and leave it she could not. That the flood-gates of a full tide of iniquity had suddenly been opened upon her was as clear to her mind as the light of day. Much that had been incomprehensible in the Maze and its inmates admitted of no doubt now. An instinct of this had been playing in her fancy previously: but she had driven it away as fancy, and would not allow herself to dwell on it. And now--it seemed as though she stood at the edge of a yawning precipice looking down on a gulf of almost unnatural evil, from the midst of which Sir Karl Andinnian shone prominently out, the incarnation of all that was wicked and false and treacherous. But for the necessity of stillness and silence, Miss Blake could have groaned aloud. A few minutes, and she stole away. There was nothing to wait or watch for: she knew all. Forgetting about Clematis Cottage and the eyes that might be peeping from it, she got back into the grounds of Foxwood and sat down on the bare terrace in the night to commune with herself. What should her course be? Surely she ought to impart the secret to that poor girl, Lucy, whom the man had dared to make his wife. Let us render justice to Miss Blake. Hard though she was by nature, she strove to do her duty in all conscientiousness at all times and in all places. Sin she detested, no matter of what nature; detested it both as sin and for its offence against God. That Sir Karl Andinnian was living in secret, if not open sin, and was cruelly deceiving his innocent and unsuspicious wife, was clearly indisputable. It must not be allowed to go on--at least so far as Lucy was concerned. To allow her to remain the loving and unsuspicious partner of this man would be almost like making her a third in the wickedness, was what Miss Blake thought in her anger. And she decided on her course.