p d'etat_," thought the
housekeeper, "and vanish before she recovers herself."

"Horrible!" cried Mrs. Lecount, interrupting the ghostly narrative by
a shrill little scream and making for the door, to Mrs. Wragge's
unutterable astonishment, without the least ceremony. "You freeze the
very marrow of my bones. Good-morning!" She coolly tossed the Oriental
Cashmere Robe into Mrs. Wragge's expansive lap and left the room in an
instant.

As she swiftly descended the stairs, she heard the door of the bedroom
open.

"Where are your manners?" cried a voice from above, hailing her feebly
over the banisters. "What do you mean by pitching my gown at me in that
way? You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" pursued Mrs. Wragge, turning
from a lamb to a lioness, as she gradually realized the indignity
offered to the Cashmere Robe. "You nasty foreigner, you ought to be
ashamed of yourself!"

Pursued by this valedictory address, Mrs. Lecount reached the house
door, and opened it without interruption. She glided rapidly along the
garden path, passed through the gate, and finding herself safe on the
Parade, stopped, and looked toward the sea.

The first object which her eyes encountered was the figure of Mr.
Bygrave standing motionless on the beach--a petrified bather, with his
towels in his hand! One glance at him was enough to show that he had
seen the housekeeper passing out through his garden gate.

Rightly conjecturing that Mr. Bygrave's first impulse would lead him to
make instant inquiries in his own house, Mrs. Lecount pursued her way
back to Sea View as composedly as if nothing had happened. When she
entered the parlor where her solitary breakfast was waiting for her, she
was surprised to see a letter lying on the table. She approached to
take it up with an expression of impatience, thinking it might be some
tradesman's bill which she had forgotten.

It was the forged letter from Zurich.

CHAPTER XI.

THE postmark and the handwriting on the address (admirably imitated from
the original) warned Mrs. Lecount of the contents of the letter before
she opened it.

After waiting a moment to compose herself, she read the announcement of
her brother's relapse.

There was nothing in the handwriting, there was no expression in
any part of the letter which could suggest to her mind the faintest
suspicion of foul play. Not the shadow of a doubt occurred to her that
the summons to her brother's bedside was genuine. The hand th