f I had not
already taken my precautions. I may tell you, however, that Violet is
accompanied by a discreet person, who has my instructions as to the
disposal of any letters she may write."

This amounted to an open declaration of war, and I felt myself on the
point of answering so hotly that I was wise in binding myself, for the
moment at least, to silence.

"Pray let us thoroughly understand each other," I said at length. "You,
on your side, have resolved to place complete reliance on the statement
of an exposed adventuress, without one word of corroboration, and to
refuse the clear proof of my innocence, which I undertake to give
you." I waited for a moment, but she maintained an altogether obstinate
silence. "Very well," I resumed, "that is understood so far. You
conceive it your duty to separate Violet and myself, and to attempt to
widen any possible separation between us by suppressing my letters to
her and hers to me. You must permit me to point out to you that you are
adopting a very dangerous course, and I must warn you that I shall do my
best to frustrate a design which seems to me so ureasonable and so cruel
that I should never have thought you capable of forming it."

"You will do your best, of course," she answered, "and I shall do mine.
I wish you good-morning, Captain Fyffe."

What with perplexity, and what with grief and anger, I scarce knew what
to do, but I turned to her with a final appeal.

"I am sure," I said, "that you have your niece's interests at heart. It
is not so very long since you professed to be my friend. Ever since I
have known you I have had to tell you that you very much overestimated a
chance service I have rendered to your son."

"I have been waiting for that," she answered. "That is just the sort of
appeal I was expecting you to make. It is of no use for us to discuss
this question any longer, for let me tell you I have seen your letters."

"The letters!" I cried.

"The letters," she repeated--"the letters to Miss Constance Pleyel."

"Great Heaven, madam!" I cried, exasperated beyond patience, "I have
never denied that I wrote to Miss Constance Pleyel, but the letters
were written when I was a boy, and they are as absolutely harmless and
blameless as any love-sick nonsense ever written in the world!"

"I have seen the letters," she repeated, "and I have seen Miss Pleyel,
and, once more, Captain Fyffe, and for the last time, I have made up my
mind."

With that she laid h