ell me about it
another time."

"As I have begun I shall finish," says Dulce, heroically, "even at the
risk of boring you. But"--wistfully--"you will forgive me that."

"Go on; I _want_ to hear," says Portia, strangely moved. Yet it seems
cruel to make her repeat what she knows so well already, and what is so
bitter to the narrator.

"Well, Uncle Christopher went out to see the man who wanted him, and
after a little bit came back again, with a white face, and told us one
of the clerks at the County Bank had dared to say Fabian had forged
his--Uncle Christopher's--name for L500. I think I hardly understood;
but Fabian got up, and first, he grew very red, and then very white, but
he said nothing. He only motioned to me not to stir, so I sat quite
still, and then he went up to Uncle Christopher, who was very angry, and
laid his hand upon his arm and led him out of the room."

She pauses.

"Dulcinea," as yet the more familiar appellation "Dulce" is strange to
Miss Vibart. "Dulcinea," she says, very sweetly, holding out a soft,
pale, jewelled hand, with tender meaning, "come and sit here beside me."

Dulce is grateful for the unspoken sympathy, but instead of accepting
half the lounging chair, which is of a goodly size, she sits down upon a
cushion at Portia's feet, and leans her auburn head against her knee.

"It was quite true that somebody had forged Uncle Christopher's name for
L500, but who it was has never transpired. Uncle Christopher wanted to
hush it up, but Fabian would not let him. The writing was certainly
Fabian's, I mean the imitation was exactly like it. I saw it myself; it
was so like Fabian's that no one could possibly know one from the other.
You see"--wistfully--"I am terribly honest, am I not? I do not pretend
to see a necessary flaw."

"I like you the better for that," says Portia; involuntarily she lays
her hand on Dulcinea's throat, just under her chin, and presses her
gently towards her. "If it will make you happier tell me the rest," she
says.

"Unfortunately at that time Fabian _did_ want money. Not much you know,
but the fact that he wanted it at all was fatal. He had lost something
over the Grand National--or one of those horrid races--and people heard
of it; and then, even after long waiting and strictest inquiry, we could
not discover who had been the real offender, and that was worst of all.
It seemed to lay the crime forever upon Fabian's shoulders. He nearly
went mad at that time,