She had taken it out mechanically when she came in, and as mechanically slipped her fingers through the flap and extracted a folded paper. But she put it down without so much as a glance at its contents.

    What would Jack say? What a fool she had been, what a perfectly reckless fool! She had met difficulties before, and had overcome them. When she had left her uncle's house as a child of fourteen and had subsisted on the slender income which her father had left her, rejecting every attempt on the part of Chartres Dane to make her leave the home of an invalid maiden aunt where she had taken refuge, she had faced what she believed was the supreme crisis of life.

    But this was different.

    Chartres Dane! She rejected the thought instantly, only to find it recurring. Perhaps he would help. She had long since overcome any ill-feeling she had towards him, for whatever dislike she had, had been replaced by a sense of shame and repentance. She had often been on the point of writing him to beg his forgiveness, but had stopped short at the thought that he might imagine she had some ulterior motive in seeking to return to his good graces. He was her relative. He had some responsibility… again the thought inserted itself, and suddenly she made up her mind.

    Chartres Dane's house lay twelve miles out of town, a great rambling place set on the slopes of a wooded hill, a place admirably suited to his peculiar love of solitude.

    She had some difficulty in finding a taxi-driver who was willing to make the journey, and it had grown dark, though a pale light still lingered in the western skies, when she descended from the cab at the gateway of Hevel House. There was a lodge at the entrance of the gate, but this had long since been untenanted. She found her way up the long drive to the columned portico in front of the house. The place was in darkness, and she experienced a pang of apprehension. Suppose he was not there? (Even if he were, he would not help her, she told herself.) But the possibility of his being absent, however, gave her courage.

    Her hand was on the bell when there came to her a flash of memory. At such an hour he would be sitting in the window-recess overlooking the lawn at the side of the house. She had often seen him there on warm summer nights, his glass of port on the broad window-ledge, a cigar clenched between his white teeth, brooding out into the darkness.

    She came down the steps, and walking on the close-cropped grass bordering the flower-beds, came slowly, almost stealthily, to the library window. The big casement was wide open; a faint light showed within, and she stopped dead, her heart beating a furious rat-a-plan at the sight of a filled glass on the window-ledge. His habits had not changed, she thought; he himself would be sitting just out of sight from where she stood, in that window-recess which was nearest to her. Summoning all her courage, she advanced still farther. He was not in his customary place, and she crept nearer to the window.

    Colonel Chartres Dane was sitting at a large writing-table in the center of the room; his back was toward her, and he was writing by the light of two tall candles that stood upon the table.

    At the sight of his back all her courage failed, and, as he rose from the table, she shrank back into the shadow. She saw his white hand take up the glass of wine, and after a moment, peeping again, she saw him, still with his back to her, put it on the table by him as he sat down again.

    She could not do it, she dare not do it, she told herself, and turned away sorrowfully. She would write to him.

    She had stepped from the grass to the path when a man came from an opening in the bushes and gripped her arm.

    "Hello!" he said, "who are you, and what are you doing here?"

    "Let me go," she cried, frightened. "I—I——"

    "What are you doing by the colonel's window?"

    "I am his niece," she said, trying to recover some of her dignity.

    "I thought you might be his aunt," said the gamekeeper ironically. "Now, my girl, I am going to take you in to the colonel——"

    With a violent thrust she pushed him from her; the man stumbled and fell. She heard a thud and a groan, and stood rooted to the spot with horror.

    "Have I hurt you?" she whispered. There was no reply.

    She felt, rather than saw, that he had struck his head against a tree in falling, and turning, she flew down the drive, terrified, nearly fainting in her fright. The cabman saw her as she flung open the gate and rushed out.

    "Anything wrong?" he asked.

    "I—I think I have killed a man," she said incoherently, and then from the other end of the drive she heard a thick voice cry:

    "Stop that girl!"

    It was the voice of the gamekeeper, and for a moment the blood came back to her heart.

    "Take me away, quickly, quickly," she cried.

    The cabman hesitated.

    "What have you been doing?" he asked.

    "Take—take me away," she pleaded.

    Again he hesitated.

    "Jump in," he said gruffly.

    

* * * * *

    

    Three weeks later John Penderbury, one of the greatest advocates at the Bar, walked into Jack Freeder's chambers.

    The young man sat at his table, his head on his arm, and Penderbury put his hand lightly upon the shoulders of the stricken man.

    "You've got to take a hold of yourself, Freeder," he said kindly. "You will neither help yourself nor her by going under."

    Jack lifted a white, haggard face to the lawyer.

    "It is horrible, horrible," he said huskily. "She's as innocent as a baby. What evidence have they?"

    "My dear good fellow," said Penderbury, "the only evidence worth while in a case like this is circumstantial evidence. If there were direct evidence we might test the credibility of the witness. But in circumstantial evidence every piece of testimony dovetails into the other; each witness creates one strand of the net."

    "It is horrible, it is impossible, it is madness to think that Ella could——"

    Penderbury shook his head.