she
burst out. "He knows no more where your daughter is than I do--and he's
off with your money!"

The woman's hateful touch struck out a spark of the old fire in Mrs.
Farnaby. Her natural force of character asserted itself once more.
_"You_ lie!" she rejoined. "Leave the room!"

The door was opened, while she spoke. A respectable woman-servant came
in with a letter. Mrs. Farnaby took it mechanically, and looked at the
address. Jervy's feigned handwriting was familiar to her. In the
instant when she recognized it, the life seemed to go out of her like
an extinguished light. She stood pale and still and silent, with the
unopened letter in her hand.

Watching her with malicious curiosity, Mrs. Sowler coolly possessed
herself of the letter, looked at it, and recognized the writing in her
turn. "Stop!" she cried, as the servant was on the point of going
out. "There's no stamp on this letter. Was it brought by hand? Is the
messenger waiting?"

The respectable servant showed her opinion of Mrs. Sowler plainly in her
face. She replied as briefly and as ungraciously as possible:--"No."

"Man or woman?" was the next question.

"Am I to answer this person, ma'am?" said the servant, looking at Mrs.
Farnaby.

"Answer me instantly," Mrs. Sowler interposed--"in Mrs. Farnaby's own
interests. Don't you see she can't speak to you herself?"

"Well, then," said the servant, "it was a man."

"A man with a squint?"

"Yes."

"Which way did he go?"

"Towards the square."

Mrs. Sowler tossed the letter on the table, and hurried out of the room.
The servant approached Mrs. Farnaby. "You haven't opened your letter
yet, ma'am," she said.

"No," said Mrs. Farnaby vacantly, "I haven't opened it yet."

"I'm afraid it's bad news, ma'am?"

"Yes. I think it's bad news."

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, thank you. Yes; one thing. Open my letter for me, please."

It was a strange request to make. The servant wondered, and obeyed. She
was a kind-hearted woman; she really felt for the poor lady. But
the familiar household devil, whose name is Curiosity, and whose
opportunities are innumerable, prompted her next words when she had
taken the letter out of the envelope:--"Shall I read it to you, ma'am?"

"No. Put it down on the table, please. I'll ring when I want you."

The mother was alone--alone, with her death-warrant waiting for her on
the table.

The clock downstairs struck the half hour after ten. She moved, f