ve been talking in the kitchen about Philip?"

The suggestion was not lost on me. I said to Maria--who was standing at
the other end of the room, near the door--"Did you happen to hear which
way Mr. Dunboyne went when he left us?"

"I know where he was, miss, half an hour ago."

"Where was he?"

"At the hotel."

Selina went on with her hints in the same way as before. "How does she
know--ah, how does she know?" was the vocal part of the performance this
time. My clever inquiries followed the vocal part as before:

"How do you know that Mr. Dunboyne was at the hotel?"

"I was sent there with a letter for him, and waited for the answer."

There was no suggestion required this time. The one possible question
was: "Who sent you?"

Maria replied, after first reserving a condition: "You won't tell upon
me, miss?"

I promised not to tell. Selina suddenly left off playing.

"Well," I repeated, "who sent you?"

"Miss Helena."

Selina looked round at me. Her little eyes seemed to have suddenly
become big, they stared me so strangely in the face. I don't know
whether she was in a state of fright or of wonder. As for myself, I
simply lost the use of my tongue. Maria, having no more questions to
answer, discreetly left us together.

Why should Helena write to Philip at all--and especially without
mentioning it to me? Here was a riddle which was more than I could
guess. I asked Selina to help me. She might at least have tried, I
thought; but she looked uneasy, and made excuses.

I said: "Suppose I go to Helena, and ask her why she wrote to Philip?"
And Selina said: "Suppose you do, dear."

I rang for Maria once more: "Do you know where my sister is?"

"Just gone out, miss."

There was no help for it but to wait till she came back, and to
get through the time in the interval as I best might. But for one
circumstance, I might not have known what to do. The truth is, there was
a feeling of shame in me when I remembered having listened at the study
door. Curious notions come into one's head--one doesn't know how or why.
It struck me that I might make a kind of atonement for having been mean
enough to listen, if I went to papa, and offered to keep him company
in his solitude. If we fell into pleasant talk, I had a sly idea of my
own--I meant to put in a good word for poor Philip.

When I confided my design to Selina, she shut up the piano and ran
across the room to me. But somehow she was not like her old self agai