ngry by talking of a friend of his
at Paris who offered untold advantages to any clever and well-educated
English girl who wished to learn the language, and who would in return
teach her own. Erica had been made miserable by the mere suggestion that
such a situation would suit her; the slightest hint that it might be
well for her to go abroad had roused in her a sort of terror lest her
father might ever seriously think of the scheme. She had not quite
forgiven M. Noirol for having spoken, although the proposal had not
been gravely made, and probably only persevered in out of the spirit of
teasing. But today M. Noirol looked very grave.

"You have heard our good news?" said Erica. "Now don't begin again about
Madame Lemercier's school; I don't want to be made cross today of all
days, when I am so happy."

"I will tease you no more, dear mademoiselle," said the Frenchman; but
he offered no congratulations, and there was something in his manner
which made Erica uneasy.

"Is anything wrong? Has anything happened?" she asked quickly.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

"Who knows! It is an evil world, Mademoiselle Erica, as you will realize
when you have lived in it as long as I have. But I detain you. Good bye.
AU REVOIR!"

He took off his hat with a flourish, and passed on.

Erica, feeling baffled and a little cross, hurried home. M. Noirol had
not teased her today, but he had been inscrutable and tiresome, and he
had made her feel uneasy. She opened the front door, and went at once to
her father's study, pausing for a moment at the sound of voices within.
She recognized, however, that it was her cousin, Tom Craigie, who was
speaking, and without more delay she entered. Then in a moment she
understood why M. Noirol had been so mysterious. Tom was speaking
quickly and strongly, and there was a glow of anger on his face. Her
father was standing with his back to the mantlepiece, and there was a
sort of cold light in his eyes, which filled Erica with dismay. Never
in the most anxious days had she seen him look at once so angry, yet as
weighed down with care.

"What is the matter?" she questioned, breathlessly, instinctively
turning to Tom, whose hot anger was more approachable.

"The scamp of a Christian has gone bankrupt," he said, referring to
the defendant in the late action, but too furious to speak very
intelligibly.

"Mr. Cheale, you mean?" asked Erica.

"The scoundrel! Yes! So not a farthing of costs a