bargain for that, when you came here. Go to the
church, and inquire about me—you will find
Mrs. Catherick has her sitting, like the rest of
them, and pays the rent on the day it's due. Go
to the town-hall. There's a petition lying
there; a petition of the respectable inhabitants
against allowing a Circus to come and perform
here and corrupt our morals: yes!  OUR morals.
I signed that petition, this morning. Go to the
bookseller's shop. The clergyman's Wednesday
evening Lectures on Justification by Faith are
publishing there by subscription—I'm down on
the list. The doctor's wife only put a shilling
in the plate at our last charity sermon—I put
half-a-crown. Mr. Churchwarden Soward held
the plate, and bowed to me. Ten years ago he
told Pigrum, the chemist, I ought to be whipped
out of the town, at the cart's tail. Is your
mother alive? Has she got a better Bible on
her table than I have got on mine? Does she
stand better with her tradespeople than I do
with mine? Has she always lived within her
income? I have always lived within mine.—Ah!
there is the clergyman coming along the square.
Look, Mr. What's-your-name—look, if you
please!"

She started up, with the activity of a young
woman; went to the window; waited till the
clergyman passed; and bowed to him solemnly.
The clergyman ceremoniously raised his hat,
and walked on. Mrs. Catherick returned to her
chair, and looked at me with a grimmer sarcasm
than ever.

"There!" she said. "What do you think of
that for a woman with a lost character? How
does your speculation look now?"

The singular manner in which she had chosen
to assert herself, the extraordinary practical
vindication of her position in the town which
she had just offered, had so perplexed me, that
I listened to her in silent surprise. I was not the
less resolved, however, to make another effort to
throw her off her guard. If the woman's fierce
temper once got beyond her control, and once
flamed out on me, she might yet say the words
which would put the clue in my hands.

"How does your speculation look now?" she
repeated.

"Exactly as it looked when I first came in,"
I answered. "I don't doubt the position you
have gained in the town; and I don't wish to
assail it, even if I could. I came here because
Sir Percival Glyde is, to my certain knowledge,
your enemy, as well as mine. If I have a grudge
against him, you have a grudge against him, too.
You may deny it, if you like; you may distrust
me as much as you please; you may be as angry
as you will—but, of all the women in England,
you, if you have any sense of injury, are the
woman who ought to help me to crush that
man."

"Crush him for yourself," she said—"then
come back here, and see what I say to you."

She spoke those words, as she had not spoken
yet—quickly, fiercely, vindictively. I had stirred
in its lair the serpent-hatred of years—but only
for a moment. Like a lurking reptile, it leapt
up at me—as she eagerly bent forward towards
the place in which I was sitting. Like a lurking
reptile, it dropped out of sight again—as
she instantly resumed her former position in
the chair.

"You won't trust me?" I said.

"No."

"You are afraid?"

"Do I look as if I was?"

"You are afraid of Sir Percival Glyde."

"Am I?"

Her colour was rising, and her hands were at
work again, smoothing her gown. I pressed the
point farther and farther home—I went on,
without allowing her a moment of delay.

"Sir Percival has a high position in the
world," I said ; "it would be no wonder if you
were afraid of him. Sir Percival is a powerful
man—a baronet—the possessor of a fine estate
—the descendant of a great family——"

She amazed me beyond expression by
suddenly bursting out laughing.

"Yes," she repeated, in tones of the bitterest,
steadiest contempt. "A baronet—the possessor
of a fine estate—the descendant of a great
family. Yes, indeed! A great family especially
by the mother's side."

There was no time to reflect on the words that
had just escaped her; there was only time to
feel that they were well worth thinking over
the moment I left the house.

"I am not here to dispute with you about
family questions," I said. "I know nothing of
Sir Percival's mother——"

"And you know as little of Sir Percival
himself," she interposed, sharply.

"I advise you not to be too sure of that," I
rejoined. "I know some things about him—and
I suspect many more."

"What do you suspect?"

"I'll tell you what I don't suspect. I don't
suspect him of being Anne's father."

She started to her feet, and came close up to
me with a look of fury.

"How dare you talk to me about Anne's
father! How dare you say who was her father,
or who wasn't!" she broke out, her face quivering,
her voice trembling with passion.

"The secret between you and Sir Percival is
not that secret," I persisted. "The mystery
which darkens Sir Percival's life was not born
with your daughter's birth, and has not died
with your daughter's death."

She drew back a step. "Go!" she said, and
pointed sternly to the door.

"There was no thought of the child in your
heart or in his," I went on, determined to press
her back to her last defences. "There was no
bond of guilty love between you and him, when
you held those stolen meetings when your
husband found you whispering together under the
vestry of the church."

Her pointing hand instantly dropped to her
side, and the deep flush of anger faded from her
face while I spoke. I saw the change pass over
her; I saw that hard, firm, fearless, self-possessed
woman quail under a terror which her