sion
after he had left I found her crying in secret. He was mean and unkind
to her. Now that I recollect, I remember that Lydia had said she had
received a letter from her, therefore she might be able to give you some
information."

And with that I took my leave, thanking her, and returned to London.

Could Lydia Moreton furnish any information? If so, I might find this
girl whose photograph had aroused the irate jealousy of the mysterious
unknown.

The ten o'clock Edinburgh express from King's Cross next morning took me
up to Doncaster, and hiring a musty old fly at the station, I drove
three miles out of the town on the Rotherham Road, finding Whiston
Grange to be a fine old Elizabethan mansion in the center of a great
park, with tall old twisted chimneys, and beautifully-kept gardens.

When I descended at the door and rang, the footman was not aware whether
Miss Lydia was in. He looked at me somewhat suspiciously, I thought,
until I gave my card and impressed upon him meaningly that I had come
from London purposely to see his young mistress upon a very important
matter.

"Tell her," I said, "that I wish to see her regarding her friend, Miss
Elma Heath."

"Miss Elma 'Eath," repeated the man. "Very well, sir. Will you walk this
way?"

And then I followed him across the big old oak-paneled hall, filled with
trophies of the chase and arms of the civil wars, into a small paneled
room on the left, the deep-set window with its diamond panes giving out
upon the old bowling-green and the flower-garden beyond.

Presently the door opened, and a tall dark-haired girl in white entered
with an enquiring expression upon her face as she halted and bowed to
me.

"Miss Lydia Moreton, I believe?" I commenced, and as she replied in the
affirmative I went on: "I have first to apologize for coming to you, but
Miss Sotheby, the principal of the school at Chichester, referred me to
you for information as to the present whereabouts of Miss Elma Heath,
who, I believe, was one of your most intimate friends at school." And I
added a lie, saying: "I am trying, on behalf of an aunt of hers, to
discover her."

"Well," responded the girl, "I have had only one or two letters. She's
in her uncle's hands, I believe, and he won't let her write, poor girl.
She dreaded leaving us."

"Why?"

"Ah! she would never say. She had some deep-rooted terror of her uncle,
Baron Oberg, who lived in St. Petersburg, and who came over at long
interval