d you, the question of your own innocence--to her?" Forsythe looked
at him narrowly, smiled slightly to himself.

"Is--inconsequential! The main point is--the 'Frisco Pet is dead.
Gillett won't speak; you won't; Lord Ronsdale can't. Another to whom I
am about to tell the story, will, I am sure, be equally silent."

"Another? You don't mean to say you are deliberately going to--" Captain
Forsythe frowned; a bell rang.

John Steele smiled. "Can you think of no one to whom I am bound to tell
the truth, the whole truth? Who extended me his hand in friendship,
invited me to his home? Of course it would be easier to go without
speaking; it is rather difficult to own that one has accepted a man's
hospitality, stepped beneath his roof and sat at his board, as--not to
mince words--an impostor. I could have delegated you--to tell him all;
but that wouldn't do. It is probably a part of the old, old debt; but I
must meet him face to face; so I have sent for--"

A servant opened the door of the library; Sir Charles Wray walked in.

* * * * *

Below, in the cab, Jocelyn waited; her pale face expressed restlessness;
her eyes, deep and shining, were bent on the river, fixed unseeingly on
a small boat that struggled, struggled almost in vain, against the
current. Then they lowered to something she held in her hand, a bit of
crumpled paper. It was John Steele's note to Sir Charles asking him to
call; stating nothing beyond a mere perfunctory request to that end,
giving no reason for his wish to see him.

Her eyes lingered on the message; beneath the bright golden hair, her
brows drew together. The handwriting was in the least unlike his, not
quite so bold and firm as that she remembered in one or two messages
from him to her--some time ago. But then he had been ill, Captain
Forsythe had told her, and was still, he thought, far from well.

She made a movement; the little fingers crumpled the message; then one
of them thrust it within her glove. She continued to sit motionless, how
long? The small boat, with sail at the bow and plodding oar at stern, at
length drew out of sight; the paper made itself felt in her warm palm.
Why did not her uncle return? He had been gone some time now; what--what
could detain him?

"Can you drop in at my chambers for a few minutes?" John Steele had
written. "A few minutes;" the blue eyes shone with impatience. He was
leaving London, Captain Forsythe had informed her; a