business. I will not detain her for more
than a few minutes."

The man returned presently, and ushered him into a small sitting room.

"Her ladyship will be quite half an hour before she can see you, sir,"
he said.

"I will wait," Aynesworth answered, taking up a paper.

The time passed slowly. At last, the door was opened. A woman, in
a plain but exquisitely fitting black gown, entered. From Lovell's
description, Aynesworth recognized her at once, and yet, for a moment,
he hesitated to believe that this was the woman whom he had come to see.
The years had indeed left her untouched. Her figure was slight, almost
girlish; her complexion as smooth, and her coloring, faint though it
was, as delicate and natural as a child's. Her eyes were unusually
large, and the lashes which shielded them heavy. It was when she looked
at him that Aynesworth began to understand.

She carried his card in her hand, and glanced at it as he bowed.

"You are the Daily Scribbler," she said. "You want me to tell you about
my bazaar, I suppose."

"I am attached to the Daily Scribbler, Lady Ruth Barrington," Aynesworth
answered; "but my business this afternoon has nothing to do with the
paper. I have called with a message from--an old friend of yours."

She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. The graciousness of her manner
was perceptibly abated.

"Indeed! I scarcely understand you, Mr.--Aynesworth."

"My message," Aynesworth said, "is from Sir Wingrave Seton."

The look of enquiry, half impatient, half interrogative, faded slowly
from her face. She stood quite still; her impassive features seemed like
a plaster cast, from which all life and feeling were drawn out. Her eyes
began slowly to dilate, and she shivered as though with cold. Then the
man who was watching her and wondering, knew that this was fear--fear
undiluted and naked.

He stepped forward, and placed a chair for her. She felt for the back of
it with trembling fingers and sat down.

"Is--Sir Wingrave Seton--out of prison?" she asked in a strange, dry
tone. One would have thought that she had been choking.

"Since yesterday," Aynesworth answered.

"But his time--is not up yet?"

"There is always a reduction," Aynesworth reminded her, "for what is
called good conduct."

She was silent for several moments. Then she raised her head. She was a
brave woman, and she was rapidly recovering her self-possession.

"Well," she asked, "what does he want?"

"To see you," Ay