; an
ascetic; a man under whose modest or careless or self-mocking ways she,
with her eye for character, divined the most critical instincts, and a
veracity, iron, scarcely human--a man before whom one must be always
posing at one's best--that was a personal risk too great to take for a
Julie Le Breton.

Unless, indeed, if it came to this--that one must think no more of
love--but only of power--why, then--

A ring at the door, resounding through the quiet side street. After a
minute the Scotchwoman opened the drawing-room door.

"Please, miss, is this meant for you?"

Julie took the letter in astonishment. Then through the door she saw a
man standing in the hall and recognized Captain Warkworth's
Indian servant.

"I don't understand him," said the Scotchwoman, shaking her head.

Julie went out to speak with him. The man had been sent to Crowborough
House with instructions to inquire for Miss Le Breton and deliver his
note. The groom of the chambers, misinterpreting the man's queer
English, and thinking the matter urgent--the note was marked
"immediate"--had sent him after the ladies to Heribert Street.

The man was soon feed and dismissed, and Miss Le Breton took the letter
back to the drawing-room.

So, after all, he had not failed; there on her lap was her daily letter.
Outside the scanty March sun, now just setting, was touching the garden
with gold. Had it also found its way into Julie's eyes?

Now for his explanation:

"First, how and where are you? I called in Bruton Street at
noon. Hutton told me you had just gone to Crowborough House.
Kind--no, wise little Duchess! She honors herself in
sheltering you.

"I could not write last night--I was too uncertain, too
anxious. All I said might have jarred. This morning came your
note, about eleven. It was angelic to think so kindly and
thoughtfully of a friend--angelic to write such a letter at
such a time. You announced your flight to Crowborough House,
but did not say when, so I crept to Bruton Street, seeing
Lady Henry in every lamp-post, got a few clandestine words
with Hutton, and knew, at least, what had happened to
you--outwardly and visibly.

"Last night did you think me a poltroon to vanish as I did?
It was the impulse of a moment. Mr. Montresor had pulled me
into a corner of the room, away from the rest of the party,
nominally to look at a picture, really that I