However, these matters were yet in abeyance, as Lydia was too diplomatic to break off with so subtle a man as the Count, who might prove a dangerous enemy were his love turned to hate, and Mr. Clyne was quite willing to remain on friendly terms with the man so long as Lydia chose that such friendship should exist. In short, Lydia ruled her simple father with a rod of iron, and coaxed Ferruci--a more difficult man to deal with--into good humour; so she managed both of them skilfully in every way, and contrived to keep things smooth, pending her plunge into London society. For all her childish looks, Lydia was uncommonly clever. When Lucian's card was brought in, Mrs. Vrain proved to be at home, and as his good looks had made a deep impression on her, she received him at once. He was shown into a luxuriously furnished drawing-room without delay, and welcomed by pretty Mrs. Vrain herself, who came forward with a bright smile and outstretched hands, looking more charming than ever. "Well, I do call this real sweet of you," said she gaily. "I guess it is about time you showed up. But you don't look well, that's a fact. What's wrong?" "I'm worried a little," replied Lucian, confounded by her coolness. "That's no use, Mr. Denzil. You should never be worried. I guess I don't let anything put me out." "Not even your husband's death?" "That's rude!" said Lydia sharply, the colour leaving her cheek. "What do you mean? Have you come to be nasty?" "I came to return you this," said Denzil, throwing the cloak which he had carried on his arm before the widow. "This?" echoed Mrs. Vrain, looking at it. "Well, what's this old thing got to do with me?" "It's yours; you left it in Jersey Street!" "Did I? And where's Jersey Street?" "You know well enough," said Lucian sternly. "It is near the place where your husband was murdered." Mrs. Vrain turned white. "Do you dare to say----" she began, when Denzil cut her short with a hint at her former discomposure. "The stiletto, Mrs. Vrain! Don't forget the stiletto!" "Oh, God!" cried Lydia, trembling violently. "What do you know of the stiletto?" CHAPTER XVII A DENIAL "What do you know of the stiletto?" repeated Mrs. Vrain anxiously. She had risen to her feet, and, with an effort to be calm, was holding on to the near chair. Her bright colour had faded to a dull white hue, and her eyes had a look of horror in their depths which transformed her from her childish beauty into a much older and more haggard woman than she really was. It seemed as though Lucian, by some necromantic spell, had robbed her of youth, vitality, and careless happiness. To him this extraordinary agitation was a proof of her guilt; and hardening his heart so as not to spare her one iota of her penalty--a mercy she did not deserve--he addressed her sternly: "I know that a stiletto purchased in Florence by your late husband hung on the library wall of Berwin Manor. I know that it is gone!"