ght." That was said as though Gwen's question had worded
a thought the speaker herself had found hard to express.

"_Has_ she nothing to gain by it? I do so want you to think over this
quietly.... I wish you would sit down...." Mrs. Thrale did so. "Thank
you!--that _is_ comfortabler. Now, just consider this! There is no
evidence at all that the young daughter whom she left behind with her
sister is not still living, though of course the chances are that the
sister herself is dead. This daughter may be.... What's that?"

"I thought I heard her waking up. Will your ladyship excuse me one
moment?..." She rose and went to the bedroom. But the old lady was, it
seemed, still sleeping soundly, and she came back and resumed her seat.

Of all the clues Gwen had thrown out to arouse suspicion of the truth,
and make full announcement possible, not one had entered the unreceptive
mind. Was this to go on until the sleeper really waked? Gwen felt,
during that one moment alone, how painfully this would add to the
embarrassment, and resolved on an act of desperation.

"I think," said she, speaking very slowly, and fighting hard to hide the
effort speech cost her. "I think I should like you to see this horrible
forged letter. I brought it on purpose.... Oh--here it is!... By-the-by,
I ought to have told you. Prichard is not her real name." A look like
disappointment came on Widow Thrale's face. An _alias_ is always an
uncomfortable thing. Gwen interpreted this look rightly. "It's no blame
to her, you know," she said hastily. "Remember that her proper
name--that on the direction there--belonged to a convict! You or I might
have done the same."

And then, as the eyes of the daughter turned unsuspicious to her
mother's name--forged by her father, to imitate the handwriting of her
grandfather--Gwen sat and waited as he who has fired a train that leads
to a mine awaits the crash of the rifted rock and its pillar of dust and
smoke against the heavens.

"But _my_ name was Daverill--Ruth Daverill!" Was the train ill-laid
then, that this woman should be able to sit quite still, content to fix
a puzzled look upon the wicked penmanship of fifty years ago?

"And your mother's, Ruth Daverill? What was hers?"

"Maisie Daverill." She answered mechanically, with an implication
of "And why not?" unspoken. She was still dwelling on the
direction, the first name in which was not over-legible, no doubt
owing to the accommodation due to the non-eras