n a low despairing tone, "that people would
talk."

He coughed gently.

"It was inevitable," he declared. "It is not, of course, a pleasant
subject of conversation for you or for me, yet I think I may venture
to suggest to you that your sister's--er--indiscretions--have reached
a point which makes a separation between you almost a necessity."

She covered her face with her hands.

"It--it--must come," she faltered.

"I do not lay claim," he continued, "to any remarkable amount of
insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your
present cause of distress."

"You are wonderful!" she murmured.

He smiled complacently.

"Not at all. This is simply a chapter of coincidences. Now what I want
you to feel is this. I want you to feel that you have found a friend
who has a strong desire to be of service to you. Treat me as an elder
brother, if you like. He is here by your side. How can he help you?"

She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall,
carpet-merchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous,
deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Perhaps the Parisian
atmosphere had affected him. He leaned towards her, laid his hand
tenderly upon hers.

"I hope you realize," he went on, in a lower and less assured tone,
"that I am in earnest--very much in earnest. You must let me do
whatever I can for you. I shall count it a privilege."

"I believe you," she murmured. "I trust you altogether. I am going to
take you entirely at your word. I want to leave Paris to-day. Will you
lend me the money for my ticket to London?"

"With all the pleasure in the world," he answered heartily. "Let me
add too that I am thankful for your decision. You have somewhere to go
to in London, I hope."

She nodded.

"There is my aunt," she said. "The one who used to live at Lyndmore.
She will take me in until I can make some plans. It will be horribly
dull, and she is a very trying person. But anything is better than
this."

He took out his watch.

"Let me see," he said. "Your best route will be via Boulogne and
Folkestone at nine o'clock from the Gare du Nord. What about your
luggage?"

"I could get a few of my things, at any rate," she said. "My sister is
sure to be out."

"Very well," he said. "It is just six o'clock now. Supposing you fetch
what you can, and if you will allow me, I will see you off. It would
give me great pleasure if you would dine with me somewhere first."

She