ng before--?'

'Yes, quite soon.'

'You are mysterious,' remarked Mrs. Baxendale, raising her eyebrows a
little as she smiled.

'Well, aunt, I will be so no longer. I want to cross-examine you, if you
will let me. Do you promise to answer?'

'To the best of my poor ability.'

'Then the first question shall be this,--when did you last hear of
Emily Hood?'

'Of Emily Hood?'

Mrs. Baxendale had the habit of controlling the display of her emotions,
it was part of her originality. But it was evident that the question
occasioned her extreme surprise, and not a little trouble.

'Yes, will you tell me?' said Beatrice, in a tone of calm interest.

'It's a strange question. Still, if you really desire to know, I heard
from her about six months ago.'

'She was in London then?'

Mrs. Baxendale had quite ceased to smile. When any puzzling matter
occupied her thought she always frowned very low; at present her frown
indicated anxiety.

'What reason have you to think she was in London, Beatrice?'

'Only her being here now.'

Beatrice said it with a show of pleasant artfulness, holding her head
aside a little and smiling into her aunt's eyes. Mrs. Baxendale relaxed
her frown and looked away.

'Have you seen her lately?' Beatrice continued.

'I have not soon her for years.'

'Ah! But you have corresponded with her?'

'At very long intervals.'

Before Beatrice spoke again, her aunt resumed.

'Don't lay traps for me, my dear. Suppose you explain at once your
interest in Emily Hood's whereabouts.'

'Yes, I wish to do so. I have come to you to talk about it, aunt,
because I know you take things quietly, and just now I want a little
help of the kind you can give. You have guessed, of course, what I am
going to tell you,--part of it at least. Wilfrid and she have met.'

'They have met,' repeated the other, musingly, her face still rather
anxious. 'In what way?'

'By chance, pure chance.'

'By chance? It was not, I suppose, by chance that you heard of the
meeting?'

'No. Wilfrid told me of it. He told me on Sunday--'

Her voice was a little uncertain.

'Give me your hand, dear,' said Mrs. Baxendale. 'There, now tell me the
rest.'

Beatrice half sobbed.

'Yes, I can now more easily,' she continued, with hurried utterance.
'Your hand is just what I wanted; it is help, dear help. But you mustn't
think I am weak; I could have stood alone. Yes, he told me on Sunday.
And that of course was the end.'

'At hi