LITMIR.BIZ

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her; really, really, she had put them all into a most painful position! An engagement was an engagement, save in the event of grave culpability on either side. Eustace spoke as a lawyer; his professional instincts were outraged. He should certainly call upon the Jacks' and utterly dissociate himself from his sister in this lamentable affair.

      "Why, what a shock it will be to Mrs. Jacks!"

      "She'll get over it, I fancy," remarked the Doctor drily.

      The young barrister withdrew to his room, where he read hard until very late. Eustace was no trifler; he had brains, and saw his way to make use of them to the one end which addressed his imagination, that of social self-advancement. His studies to-night were troubled with a resentful fear lest Irene's "unwomanly" behaviour (a generation ago it would have been "unladylike") should bring the family name into some discredit. Little ejaculations escaped him, such as "Really!" and "Upon my word!" Eustace had never been known to use stronger language.

      When his son had retired, Dr. Derwent stepped up to the drawing-room, where Olga Hannaford was sitting. After kindly regretting that she should be alone, he repeated to his niece what he had just told Eustace. Doubtless she would here very soon from Irene.

      "I have already heard something about this," said Olga. "I'm sure she has done right, but no one will ever know what it cost her."

      "That's the very point we have all been losing sight of," observed her uncle, gratified. "It would have been a good deal easier, no doubt, to go on to the marriage."

      "Easier!" echoed the girl. "She has done the most wonderful thing! I admire her, and envy her strength of character."

      The Doctor's eyes had fallen upon that crayon portrait which held the place of honour on the drawing-room walls. Playing with superstition, as does every man capable of high emotional life, he was wont to see in the pictured countenance of his dead wife changes of expression, correspondent with the mood in which he regarded it. At one time the beloved features smiled upon him; at another they were sad, or anxious. To-night, the eyes, the lips were so strongly expressive of gladness that he felt startled as he gazed. A joy from the years gone by suddenly thrilled him. He sat silent, too deeply moved by memories for speech about the present. And when at length he resumed talk with Olga, his voice was very gentle, his words all kindliness. The girl had never known him so sympathetic with her.

      On the morrow--it was Saturday--Olga received a letter from Piers Otway, who said that he had something of great importance to speak about, and must see her; could they not meet at the Campden Hill House, it being inadvisable for him to call at Dr. Derwent's? Either this afternoon or to-morrow would do, if Olga would appoint a time.

      She telegraphed, appointing this afternoon at three.

      Half an hour before that, she entered the house, which was now occupied only by a caretaker. Dr. Derwent was trying to let it furnished for the rest of the short lease. Olga had a fire quickly made in the drawing-room, and ordered tea. She laid aside her outdoor things, viewed herself more than once in a mirror, and moved about restlessly. When there sounded a visitor's knock at the front door, she flushed and was overcome with nervousness; she stepped forward to meet her friend, but could not speak. Otway had taken her hand in both his own; he looked at her with grave kindliness. It was their first meeting since Mrs. Hannaford's death.

      "I hesitated about asking you to see me here," he said. "But I thought--I hoped----"

      His embarrassment increased, whilst Olga was gaining self-command.

      "You were quite right," she said. "I think I had rather see you here than anywhere else. It isn't painful to me--oh! anything but painful!"

      They sat down. Piers was holding a large envelope, bulgy with its contents, whatever they were, and sealed; his eyes rested upon it.

      "I have to speak of something which at first will sound unwelcome to you; but it is only the preface to what will make you very glad. It is about my brother. I have seen him two or three times this last week on a particular business, in which at length I have succeeded. Here," he touched the envelope, "are all the letters he possessed in your mother's writing."

      Olga looked at him in distressful wonder and suspense.

      "Not one of them," he pursued, "contains a line that you should not read. They prove absolutely, beyond shadow of doubt, that the charge brought against your mother was false. The dates cover nearly five years--from a simple note of invitation to Ewell--you remember--down to a letter written about three weeks ago. Of course I was obliged to read them through; I knew to begin with what I should find. Now I give them to you. Let Dr. Derwent see them. If any doubt remains in his mind, they will make an end of it."

      He put the packet into Olga's hands. She, overcome for the moment by her feelings, looked from it to him, at a loss for words. She was struck with a change in Otway. That he should speak in a grave tone, with an air of sadness, was only natural; but the change went beyond this; he had not his wonted decision in utterance; he paused between sentences, his eyes wandering dreamily; one would have taken him for an older man than he was wont to appear, and of less energy. Thus might he have looked and spoken after some great effort, which left him wearied, almost languid, incapable of strong emotion.

      "Why didn't he show these letters before?" she asked, turning over the sealed envelope.

      "He had no wish to do so," answered Piers, in an undertone.

      "You mean that he would have let anything happen--which he could have prevented?"

      "I'm afraid he would."

      "But he offered them now?"

      "No--or rather yes, he offered them," Piers smiled bitterly. "Not however, out of wish to do justice."

      Olga could not understand. She gazed at him wistfully.

      "I bought them," said Piers. "It made the last proof of his baseness."

      "You gave money for them? And just that you might give them to me?"

      "Wouldn't you have done the same, to clear the memory of someone you loved?"

      Olga laid the packet aside; then, with a quick movement, stepped towards him, caught his hand, pressed it to her lips. Piers was taken by surprise, and could not prevent the action; but at once Olga's own hand was prisoned in his; they stood face to face, she blushing painfully, he pale as death, with lips that quivered in their vain effort to speak.

      "I shall be grateful to you as long as I live," the girl faltered, turning half away, trying gently to release herself.

      Piers kissed her hand, again and again, still speechless. When he allowed her to draw it away, he stood gazing at her like a man bewildered; there was moisture on his forehead; he seemed to struggle for breath.

      "Let us sit down again and talk," said Olga, glancing at him.

      But he moved towards her, the strangest look in his eyes, the fixed expressionless gaze of a somnambulist.

      "Olga----"

      "No, no!" she exclaimed, as if suddenly stricken with fear, throwing out her arms to repel him. "You didn't mean that! It is my fault. You never meant that."

      "Yes! Give me your hand again!" he said in a thick voice, the blood rushing into his cheeks.

      "Not now. You misunderstood me. I oughtn't to have done that. It was because I could find no word to thank you."

      She panted the sentences, holding her chair as if to support herself, and with the other hand still motioning him away.

      "I misunderstood----?"

      "I am ashamed--it was thoughtless--sit down and let us talk as we were doing. Just as friends, it is so much better. We meant nothing else."

      It was as

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