ent room, fifty feet long
and thirty feet wide. A number of French windows opened on to a noble
balcony, with three short flights of stone steps leading down to the
lawn. The central steps were broad, the side steps narrow. There were
four entrances to it: two by double doors, and two by heavily curtained
apertures leading to little subsidiary rooms.

At twelve o'clock next day, what with the burst of color from the
potted flowers on the balcony, the white tents, and the flags and
streamers, and a clear sunshiny day gilding it all, the room looked a
"palace of pleasure," and no stranger peeping in could have dreamed
that it was the abode of care, and about to be visited by gloomy
Penitence and incurable Fraud.

The first to arrive was Bartley, with a witness. He was received kindly
by Colonel Clifford and ushered into a small room.

He wanted another witness. So John Baker was sent for, and Bartley and he
were closeted together, reading the deed, etc., when a footman brought in
a card, "The Reverend Alleyn Meredith," and written underneath with a
pencil, in a female hand, "Mrs. Walter Clifford."

"Admit them," said the Colonel, firmly.

At this moment Grace, who had heard the carriage drive up to the door,
peeped in through one of the heavy curtains we have mentioned.

"Has she actually come?" said she.

"She has, indeed," said the Colonel, looking very grave. "Will you stay
and receive her?"

"Oh no," said Grace, horrified; "but I'll take a good look at her through
this curtain. I have made a little hole on purpose." Then she slipped
into the little room and drew the curtain.

The servant opened the door, and the false rector walked in, supporting
on his arm a dark woman, still very beautiful; very plainly dressed, but
well dressed, agitated, yet self-possessed.

"Be seated, madam," said the Colonel. After a reasonable pause he began
to question her.

"You were married on the eleventh day of June, 1868, to a gentleman of
the name of Walter Clifford?"

"I was, sir."

"May I ask how long you lived with him?"

The lady buried her face in her hands. The question took her by surprise,
and this was a woman's artifice to gain time and answer cleverly.

But the ingenious Monckton gave it a happy turn. "Poor thing! Poor
thing!" said he.

"He left me the next day," said Lucy, "and I have never seen him since."

Here Monckton interposed; he fancied he had seen the curtain move.
"Excuse me," said he, "I think