“Let me see — a sovereign's worth of silver.”

She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.

“No, I haven't told Cecil or any one,” she remarked, when she returned. “I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money — all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now.”

Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St. John ascending, which had been framed.

“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source.”