write 'Be on
your guard' or not. Shall I?... may I?... But it is written and
must stand. Oh! do not imagine that I am distrustful--I _know_
you can be relied on--I _know_ you can be true and firm and
faithful: but my heart fails when I remember that you are a
man; encompassed, too, by perils you hardly perceive, snares
almost impalpable. Forgive me! I have no right to speak like
this.... I know you are honorable ... but the greatness of the
stake forces me to utter my warning--to foresee danger which
may be remote--to leave no stone unturned to insure a
triumph--to guard against any weakness, however venial or
trivial, which may make my path--and the path of Lukos!--more
difficult.

"This is a rambling letter. It is midnight, and I have had a
tiring day. Forgive me and understand; or, if you can not
understand, forgive! I urge you again to watch my sister
carefully.... Heavens! it seems a perfidy; but the life of
Lukos!... Watch her, I say again. I have grave cause for
suspicion, though she does not guess I suspect. Why she, above
all others, should betray me I can not tell. I had hoped
that--but this is weak and futile. _Watch her carefully._

"You say that up to the present nothing has happened. It may
well be that nothing will happen for a time. In any case, you
are of the greatest service by remaining at The Quiet House--on
guard! Stay there at all costs, till you hear from me again. Do
what _she_ tells you--play the hypocrite if need be--strive to
conciliate her, but _watch_. I have London under my eyes.

"So much for the chief business. As for news, the play ceases
very shortly and I may be able to arrange a meeting, when we
can talk things over. On the whole, I am happy, being busy,--at
least as happy as I can expect to be until.... Oh! by the way,
since we parted I have had another offer of marriage. Such a
nice man, too. But if only men could be satisfied with being
true _friends_.... Some men can, I know, but the rest ... I am
tired. Good night, my friend.--Your friend,

"BEATRICE BLAIR."

Such was the letter that Lionel was reading for the fiftieth time since,
a fortnight past, it had come to The Quiet House. It gave him little
information and less comfort. From the formal "Dear Mr. Mortimer" ("Hang
it! I couldn't _expect_ 'Lionel