his forbears.

"Well--his mother's father was General Faskally, you know," she replied,
after a pause, in her strange, oblique manner. "Mr. Le Geyt is General
Faskally's eldest grandson."

"Exactly," I broke in, with a man's desire for solid fact in place of
vague intuition. "But I fail to see quite what that has to do with it."

"The General was killed in India during the Mutiny."

"I remember, of course--killed, bravely fighting."

"Yes; but it was on a forlorn hope, for which he volunteered, and in
the course of which he is said to have walked straight into an almost
obvious ambuscade of the enemy's."

"Now, my dear Miss Wade"--I always dropped the title of "Nurse," by
request, when once we were well clear of Nathaniel's,--"I have every
confidence, you are aware, in your memory and your insight; but I do
confess I fail to see what bearing this incident can have on poor Hugo's
chances of being hanged or committing suicide."

She picked a second flower, and once more pulled out petal after petal.
As she reached the last again, she answered, slowly: "You must have
forgotten the circumstances. It was no mere accident. General Faskally
had made a serious strategical blunder at Jhansi. He had sacrificed
the lives of his subordinates needlessly. He could not bear to face the
survivors. In the course of the retreat, he volunteered to go on this
forlorn hope, which might equally well have been led by an officer of
lower rank; and he was permitted to do so by Sir Colin in command, as a
means of retrieving his lost military character. He carried his point,
but he carried it recklessly, taking care to be shot through the heart
himself in the first onslaught. That was virtual suicide--honourable
suicide to avoid disgrace, at a moment of supreme remorse and horror."

"You are right," I admitted, after a minute's consideration. "I see it
now--though I should never have thought of it."

"That is the use of being a woman," she answered.

I waited a second once more, and mused. "Still, that is only one
doubtful case," I objected.

"There was another, you must remember: his uncle Alfred."

"Alfred Le Geyt?"

"No; HE died in his bed, quietly. Alfred Faskally."

"What a memory you have!" I cried, astonished. "Why, that was before our
time--in the days of the Chartist riots!"

She smiled a certain curious sibylline smile of hers. Her earnest face
looked prettier than ever. "I told you I could remember many things that
ha