oubt what to
other people would seem obvious. He recalled Joan's face, grim and
forbidding enough, almost a tragical figure in her black garb, as severe
and sombre as a country dressmaker could fashion it. He must get to
know these things. He must find Cicely. He walked thoughtfully back to
the offices of the Courier, where he found some work, which, for the
time, completely engrossed him.

The next morning the following advertisement appeared in most of the
London newspapers.

"To C. S. I must see you. British Museum to-day at six."

For three days Douglas watched in vain. On the fourth his heart gave a
great leap, for a sombre little figure stepped out from an omnibus at
the corner of Russell Square and stood hesitatingly upon the pavement,
looking in through the iron bars at the Museum. He came across the
street to her boldly--she turned and saw him. After all, their greeting
approached the conventional. He remembered to raise his hat--she held
out her hand--would have withdrawn it, but found it already clasped in
his.

"Cicely. How good of you. You saw my advertisement?"

"Yes."

"And you saw me in the Strand, but you would not speak to me. Was that
because of Joan?"

"Yes."

"I want to talk to you," he said. "I have so much to say."

She raised her eyes to his, and he saw for the first time how much
thinner she was.

"Douglas," she said, "there is something I must ask you first of all
before I stay with you for a moment. Must I put it into words?"

"I do not think you need, Cicely," he answered. "I went to your
father's room that night beyond a doubt, but I never raised my hand
against him. I should have very hard work to prove it, I fancy, but I
am wholly innocent of his death--innocent, that is to say, so far as any
direct action of mine was concerned."

She drew a long deep breath of relief. Then she looked up to him with a
beautiful smile.

"Douglas," she said, "I was sure of it, yet it is a great weight from my
heart to hear you say so. Now, can you take me somewhere where we can
talk? I am afraid of the streets. I will tell you why afterwards."

He called a hansom and handed her in. After a moment's hesitation he
gave the address of the restaurant where he had first met Rice.

"It is only a shabby little place," he explained to her, apologetically,
"but we can talk there freely."

"Anywhere," she answered; "how strange it seems to be here--in London
with you."

There was a sense of unr