"It'll never bring poor Father back to life," she murmured. "You'd best
go back to Feldwick, Joan. There's the farm--you and Reuben Smith could
work it well enough. Folks there will think you're out of your mind
staying on here in London."

"Folks may think what they will," she answered savagely. "I'll not go
back till Douglas Guest hangs."

"Then may you never see Feldwick again," Cicely prayed.

"You're but a poor creature yourself," Joan cried, turning upon her with
a sudden passion. "You would have him go unpunished then, robber,
murderer, deceiver. Oh, don't think that I never saw what was in your
mind. I know very well what brings you here now. You want to save him.
I saw it all many a time at Feldwick, but you've none so much to flatter
yourself about. He took little enough notice of me, and none at all of
you. He deceived us all, and as I'm a living woman he shall suffer for
it."

Cicely rose up with pale face.

"Joan," she said, "you are talking of the dead."

But Joan only scoffed. She was a woman whose beliefs once allowed to
take root in the mind were unassailable, proof against probability,
proof against argument. Douglas Guest was alive, and it was her mission
to bid him stand forth before the world. She was the avenger--she
believed in herself. The spirit of the prophetess was in her veins.
She grew more tolerant towards her younger sister. After all she was of
weaker mould. How should she see what had come even to her only as an
inspiration?

"Come, Cicely," she said, "I'm not for bandying words with you. The
world is wide enough for both of us. Let us live at peace towards one
another, at any rate. There's tea coming--poor stuff enough, but it's
city water and city milk. You shall sit down and tell me what has
brought you here, for it's not only to see me, I guess."

The tea was brought; they sat and discussed their plans. Cicely had
followed her sister to London, utterly unable to live any longer in a
place so full of horrible memories. They had a little money--Cicely,
almost enough to live on, but she wanted work. Joan listened, but for
her part she had little to say. Only as the clock drew near seven
o'clock she grew restless. Her attention wandered. She looked often
towards the window.

"You'll stay the night here anyhow, sister?" she said at last.

"Why, I'd counted on it," Cicely admitted.

"Well, that's settled then. This is mostly the time I go out. Are you
going with me, or will