g of my
immediate liabilities. Secure in the knowledge that you will
immediately come to my aid, as you know full well I would have
come to yours, had the positions been reversed, I am, my dear
Joan,

"Yours very affectionately,
"PHILIP SLOTMAN."

The letter dropped from her hands to the carpet. Blackmail! Cunningly
and cleverly wrapped up, but blackmail all the same, the reference to
his knowledge of what he believed to be her past! He knew that she was
one who would read and understand, that she would read, as is said,
between the lines.

Three thousand pounds, to her a few short weeks ago a fortune; to her
now, a mere row of figures. She could spare the money. It meant no
hardship, no difficulty, and yet--how could she bring herself to pay
money to the man?

She would not do it. She would return the letter, she would write across
it some indignant refusal, and then--No, she would think it over, take
time, consider. She was strong, and she was brave--she had faced an
unkindly world without losing heart or courage. Yet this was an
experience new to her. She was, after all, only a woman, and this man
was assailing that thing which a woman prizes beyond all else--her good
name, her reputation, and she knew full well how he might circulate a
lying story that she would have the utmost difficulty in disproving now.
He could fling mud, and some of it must stick!

Charge a person with wrongdoing, and even though it be definitely proved
that he is innocent, yet people only remember the charge, the connection
of the man's name with some infamy, and forget that he was as guiltless
as they themselves.

Joan knew this. She dreaded it; she shuddered at the thought that a
breath should sully her good name. She was someone now--a Meredyth--the
Meredyth of Starden. Three thousand pounds! If she paid him for his
silence--silence--of what, about what? Yet his lies might--She paced the
room, her brain in a whirl. What could she do? Oh, that she had someone
to turn to. She remembered the unanswered letter she had sent to Hugh
Alston, and then her eyes flashed, and her breast heaved.

"I think," she said, "I think of the two I despise him the more. I
loathe and despise him the more!"

CHAPTER XXII

JEALOUSY

Joan and Constance Everard had taken a natural and instinctive liking
for one another. But to-day it seemed to Connie that Joan was silent,
less friendly, more thoughtful than usual.