arms of the Civil Wars, into a small panelled room on the left, the deep-set window with its diamond panes giving out upon the old bowling-green and the flower-garden beyond.
Presently the door opened, and a tall, dark-haired girl in white entered with an enquiring expression upon her face as she halted and bowed to me.
"You are Miss Lydia Moreton, I believe?" I commenced, and as she replied in the affirmative I went on: "I have first to apologise for coming to you, but Miss Sotheby, the principal of the school at Chichester, referred me to you for information as to the present whereabouts of Miss Elma Heath, who, I believe, was one of your most intimate friends at school." And I added a lie, saying: "I am trying, on behalf of an aunt of hers, to discover her."
"Well," responded the girl, "I have had only one or two letters. She's in her uncle's hands, I believe, and he won't let her write, poor girl. She dreaded leaving us."
"Why?"
"Ah! she would never say. She had some deep-rooted terror of her uncle, Baron Oberg, who lived in St. Petersburg, and who came over at long intervals to see her. But possibly you know the whole story?"
"I know nothing," I cried eagerly. "You will be furthering her interests, as well as doing me a great personal favour, if you will tell me what you know.”
"It is very little," she answered, leaning back against the edge of the table and regarding me
