stood
huddled up against her, as though half afraid of me. That she was a lady
was at once apparent. Her age was about twenty-two, and her countenance
one of the most beautiful that I had ever gazed upon. Her dark, luminous
eyes met mine with an expression half of innate modesty, half of fear.
The white hand lying in her lap trembled, and with the other she stroked
the child's head caressingly.

She had unhooked her dripping cloak, and I saw that beneath she wore a
well-cut travelling-gown of pale-grey cloth that fitted admirably, and
showed off her neat figure to perfection. Her dress betrayed her foreign
birth, but the accent when she spoke was only very slight, a rolling of
the "r's," by which I knew that she was French.

"I'm so afraid that someone may see me here," she said, after a slight
pause.

"Then I take it, mademoiselle, that you are leaving the neighbourhood in
secret?" I remarked in French, with some suspicion, still wondering who
she might be. The boy was certainly not her child, yet he seemed to
regard her as his guardian.

"Yes, m'sieur," was her brief reply; and then in French she said, after
a pause, "I am wondering whether I can trust you further."

"Trust me?" I echoed. "Certainly you can, mademoiselle." And taking out
a card, I handed it to her, declaring my readiness to serve her in any
way in my power.

She was silent for some moments.

"To-morrow, or the next day, there will be a sensation in the
neighbourhood where I joined you," she said at last.

"A mystery, you mean?" I exclaimed, looking straight into her handsome
face.

"Yes," she answered in a deep, hoarse voice. "A mystery. But," she added
quickly, "you will not prejudge me until you know--will you? Recollect
me merely as an unhappy woman whom you have assisted, not as----" She
sighed deeply, without concluding the sentence.

I saw that her splendid eyes were filled with tears--tears of regret, it
seemed.

"Not as what?" I inquired softly. "May I not at least know your name?"

"Ah!" she said bitterly. "Call me Clotilde, if you like. The name will
be as good as any other--until you know the truth."

"But, mademoiselle, you are in distress, I see. Cannot I do anything
else for you now than merely dropping you at the roadside station? I am
on my way to Stamford."

"No," she sighed; "you can do nothing more at present. Only deny that
you have ever met me."

Her words puzzled me. At one moment I wondered if she were not so