“What can I do?” she asked. “I can’t let him be deceived. And Mr. Rotherfield is behaving infamously, Lady Sarah; he is robbing his best friend. Don’t deny it. You know that it is the truth; at least, that it is part of the truth.” Lady Sarah turned pale again. Then she suddenly unclasped her hands, and clung to Rhoda, coaxing, piteous, irresistible. It was part of the charm of this wayward woman that she could transform herself, without a moment’s notice, into a sort of grown-up child, helpless, weak, plaintive, lost in doubts and fears, begging for help, for kindness, for guidance. That was what she seemed to be now, as she looked with imploring eyes into Rhoda’s face, and whispered: “Don’t do it, don’t do it, dear. You wouldn’t like to break up the home, you wouldn’t like to make poor Sir Robert miserable. Even if what you thought were true, that is what would happen, if you were to tell him what you mean to tell.” Rhoda trembled. It was almost impossible to resist the clinging hands, the appealing eyes, knowing as she did know that the danger of a break-up was real. Whatever might be the exact result of her telling Sir Robert the truth, as far as she knew it, Rhoda thought it more likely than not that it would take some tragic form. “What do you suggest yourself that I should do?” she asked. Lady Sarah recovered some of her brightness of manner, her alertness, upon the instant. “I propose that you should give the picture to me, and that I should give it back to Sir Robert myself, telling him that the thief left it at the house, with a note begging to be forgiven for what he had done.” But Rhoda frowned impatiently. “No, no,” she said. “Don’t tell him more lies. You may give back the picture yourself, if you like, but on condition that you tell the truth, that you confess who it was that stole it, and say that he, Mr. Rotherfield, has given it back and begs forgiveness. It will be a shock to him, of course, to find who it was that did it, but at any rate it is better that he should be shocked than that he should be further deceived.” Lady Sarah, however, shook her head. “He would never forgive him. I couldn’t tell him that. Unless,” her face brightened, as a fresh idea struck her, “I might perhaps be able to persuade him that it was a rough practical joke! I might take the blame of that upon myself.” “Yes, yes. Sir Robert would forgive you anything, anything,” urged Rhoda. Already Lady Sarah had sprung up from her knees and seized the rolled-up picture. “I’ll go at once,” said she, “and make him happy.” But Rhoda was not satisfied. Misgivings had seized her the moment she saw the lady’s quick recovery from her depression. She was troubled, also, as to the extent to which she could rely upon her keeping her word. “Lady Sarah,” she urged in a trembling voice, “remember this is not the only thing that has to be given back. The snuff-boxes----”