say what you know.'

'All right. Who was the father of the child born not long ago?'

'That's asking a question.'

'And telling what I know at the same time. It saves breath.'

Beatrice laughed; and Nancy, become a mere automaton, laughed too.

'That's more like it,' said Miss. French cheerfully. 'Now we shall get
on together. It's very shocking, my dear. A person of my strict morality
hardly knows how to look you in the face. Perhaps you had rather I
didn't try. Very well. Now tell me all about it, comfortably. I have a
guess, you know.'

'What is it?'

'Wait a little. I don't want to be laughed at. Is it any one I know?'

'You have never seen him, and I dare say never heard of him.'

Beatrice stared incredulously.

'I wouldn't tell fibs, Nancy.'

'I'm telling the truth.'

'It's very queer, then.'

'Who did you think--?'

The speaking automaton, as though by defect of mechanism, stopped short.

'Look straight at me. I shouldn't have been surprised to hear that it
was Luckworth Crewe.'

Nancy's defiant gaze, shame in anguish shielding itself with the front
of audacity, changed to utter astonishment. The blood rushed back into
her cheeks; she voiced a smothered exclamation of scorn.

'The father of my child? Luckworth Crewe?'

'I thought it not impossible,' said Beatrice, plainly baffled.

'It was like you.' Nancy gave a hard laugh. 'You judged me by yourself.
Have another guess!'

Surprised both at the denial, so obviously true, and at the unexpected
tone with which Nancy was meeting her attack, Miss. French sat
meditative.

'It's no use guessing,' she said at length, with complete good-humour.
'I don't know of any one else.'

'Very well. You can't expect me to tell you.'

'As you please. It's a queer thing; I felt pretty sure. But if you're
telling the truth, I don't care a rap who the man is.'

'You can rest in peace,' said Nancy, with careless scorn.

'Any way of convincing me, except by saying it?'

'Yes. Wait here a moment.'

She left the room, and returned with the note which Crewe had addressed
to her from the hotel at Falmouth.

'Read that, and look at the date.'

Beatrice studied the document, and in silence canvassed the
possibilities of trickery. No; it was genuine evidence. She remembered
the date of Crewe's journey to Falmouth, and, in this new light, could
interpret his quarrelsome behaviour after he had returned. Only the
discovery she had since made inflamed her with