Isabel had thrown herself into an easy-chair near the door, and was holding her handkerchief to her face as if deeply affected by the scene, while Oscar Hilton was perhaps the most excited of all the little group. He feared to detain Iris lest something should be said to betray his plot, and he dared not let her go forth alone lest St. John should follow to protect her, and thus learn all the truth. Mr. Hilton himself was puzzled to account for the mystery of Iris’ connection with Broughton, for, from his own experience of his wife’s beautiful daughter, he knew her to be pure as the untrodden snow, and utterly incapable of the sin of which she stood accused. Whatever the cause of the singular emotion she had betrayed at his chance mention of Broughton’s name, he--Hilton--was satisfied with the effect upon St. John, seeing as he did that the latter’s newly awakened faith in the girl he had loved so devotedly was again shattered. Mr. Hilton made haste to respond to Iris’ last words before St. John had time to speak, if such had been that gentleman’s intention. “My dear child, if you can prove to us that we have wronged you, I, for one, shall be happy, both for your own sake and that of the woman who bears my name, your mother; and now, Iris, I shall appropriate the car of one of my guests to take you to your home, as you are looking weak and ill, and it is nearly midnight. St. John, I may have your machine for this purpose, may I not?” At this direct appeal, Chester--who had crossed the room, and stood leaning against the low marble mantel, with his eyes bent on the floor, and his face pale with an agony he did not endeavor to conceal--advanced quickly to the spot on which Iris stood, with a look in his eyes that filled Oscar Hilton with fear. St. John was about to ask Iris a question which would have betrayed him. He was about to ask her where was the man whose fortune she had left her home to follow, that he might have constituted himself her champion and avenger, had he discovered that this lover had basely deserted or deceived her. At this moment light footsteps were heard approaching the door, and a sweet, girlish voice calling gayly: “Chester! Isabel! Where are you, truants?” as the door was thrown open unceremoniously to admit a fairylike vision in the person of pretty, golden-haired Grace St. John, who had been Iris Tresilian’s most intimate and best-loved friend. “Ah, brother Chester, how wicked of you to keep Belle all this time from her friends; we shall be obliged----” Grace’s merry voice ceased all of a sudden, for her eyes had fallen on the pale, drooped face of Iris, and although Chester made an involuntary movement as if to step between them--a movement Iris understood but too well, the impulsive Grace sprang quickly to the side of the outcast, and clasped her white arms around the latter’s neck, crying joyously: