intensity which made it more impressive than his louder tones. "I'll
tell you what I should do if I were my father. I should say to this
fellow--'Now, you may be in trouble through no fault of your own, but
that is no matter to me. If you cannot bear your own name, you have no
business to live in an honest man's house under false pretences; you
may, therefore, either tell me your whole story, and let me judge
whether it is a disgraceful one or not, or you may go--the quicker the
better.' That's what I should say to Mr. Stretton; and the sooner it is
said to him the more I shall be pleased."

"Fortunately," said Elizabeth, "the decision does not rest in your
hands." She rose, and drew herself to her full height; her cheeks were
crimson, her eyes gleamed with indignation. "Mr. Stretton is a
gentleman; as long as he is in my employment--mine, if you please; not
yours, nor your father's, after all--he shall be treated as one. You
could not have shown yourself more ungenerous, more poor-spirited,
Percival, than by what you have said to-day."

And then she walked with a firm, resolute step and head erect, towards
the house. Percival did not attempt to follow her. He watched her until
she was out of sight, then he re-seated himself, and sank into deep
meditation. It was night before he roused himself, and struck a blow
with his hand upon the arm of the seat, which sent the rotten woodwork
flying, as he gave utterance to his conclusion.

"I was right after all. My father will live to own it some day. He has
made a devil of a mistake."

Then he rose and took the path to the house. Before he entered it,
however, he looked vengefully in the direction in which the twinkling
lights of the little village inn could be seen.

"If you have a secret," he said, slowly and resolutely, from between his
clenched teeth, "I'll find it out. If you have a disgraceful story in
your life, I'll unmask it. If you have another name you want to hide,
I'll publish it to the world. So help me, God! Because you have come, or
you are coming, between me and the woman that I love. And if I ever get
a chance to do you a bad turn, Mr. John Stretton, I'll do it."

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MISTRESS OF NETHERGLEN.

"Shall I go, or shall I not go?" meditated Hugo Luttrell.

He was lying on a broad, comfortable-looking lounge in one of the
luxurious rooms which he usually occupied when he stayed for any length
of time in London. He had been smoking a