d, coolly. "I saw them quarrelling
in a most friendly way. Where is Mr. Beecot?"

"I expect him later."

"And Bart Tawsey who married your nurse?"

"He is absent on his rounds. May I ask why you question me in this way,
Miss Krill?" asked Sylvia, coldly.

"Because I have much to say to you which no one else must hear," was the
calm reply. "Dear me, how hot this fire is!" and she moved her chair so
that it blocked Sylvia's way to the door. Also, Miss Krill cast a glance
at the window. It was not snibbed, and she made a movement as if to go
to it; but, restraining herself, she turned her calm, cold face to the
girl. "I have much to say to you," she repeated.

"Indeed," replied Sylvia, politely, "I don't think you have treated me
so well that you should trouble to converse with me. Will you please to
be brief. Mr. Beecot is coming at four, and he will not be at all
pleased to see you."

Maud glanced at the clock. "We have an hour," she said coldly; "it is
just a few minutes after three. My business will not take long," she
added, with an unpleasant smile.

"What is your business?" asked Sylvia, uneasily, for she did not like
the smile.

"If you will sit down, I'll tell you."

Miss Norman took a chair near the wall, and as far from her visitor as
was possible in so small a room. Maud took from her neck a black silk
handkerchief which she wore, evidently as a protection against the cold,
and folding it lengthways, laid it across her lap. Then she looked at
Sylvia, in a cold, critical way. "You are very pretty, my dear," she
said insolently.

"Did you come to tell me that?" asked the girl, firing up at the tone.

"No. I came to tell you that my mother was arrested last night for the
murder of _our_ father."

"Oh," Sylvia gasped and lay back on her chair, "she killed him, that
cruel woman."

"She did not," cried Maud, passionately, "my mother is perfectly
innocent. That blackguard Hurd arrested her wrongfully. I overheard all
the conversation he had with her, and know that he told a pack of lies.
My mother did _not_ kill our father."

"My father, not yours," said Sylvia, firmly.

"How dare you. Lemuel Krill was my father."

"No," insisted Sylvia. "I don't know who your father was. But from your
age, I know that you are not--"

"Leave my age alone," cried the other sharply, and with an uneasy
movement of her hands; "we won't discuss that, or the question of my
father. We have more interesting things to ta