I sat and shivered in my brown shoes. In bringing Lady Mabel to The Lodge I had quite overlooked the possibility that she might espy the photograph of Monk which stood always, as I very well knew, on the piano in the drawing-room, and the worst of it was that the photograph had only been taken a few months, so there was no possibility of mistaking the face. It was certain that Mabel would appeal to me for confirmation of her assertion, since I had met Marr in her presence, so what could I do? While the two girls stared alternatively at one another and at the photograph, I tried to make up my mind what course it would be best to pursue.

"I think you must be mistaken," said Gertrude, who looked puzzled, "the photograph is certainly one that my father had taken early this year."

"Then your father is Wentworth Marr," insisted Mabel, examining the photograph more closely.

"Walter Monk is my father\'s name," said Gertrude with some stiffness, "there is no need for him to change it."

Mabel looked round at me, and I shivered again. The heavens were falling. "I ask you, Cyrus," she cried imperatively, "isn\'t this," she touched the photograph, "Mr. Marr."

"There is a likeness," I admitted cautiously.

"Nonsense! it\'s Mr. Marr himself. You met him at Aunt Lucy\'s. You must know."

"Know what?" I asked doggedly and uneasily.

"That this," she touched the photograph again, "is Mr. Marr."

I was silent, and looked at my toes, wondering what was best to say. Certainly I had made a promise to Monk to be silent, provided he fulfilled certain conditions. He had done so, and therefore my lips were sealed. Then I recalled the fact that I had limited the time of concealment to a fortnight and thus, in all honor, I was now free to tell the truth. It seemed necessary to do so at the moment, as no other course was open to me. Mabel was a most pertinacious young woman, and would never leave things alone until her doubts were set at rest. Moreover, Gertrude was looking at me inquiringly, as she had noticed my obvious embarrassment.

"Cyrus," she asked, and I raised my eyes, "what does this mean?"

"It\'s a long story," I said weakly.

"Oh," Mabel walked up to me, "then there is a story. Just you tell it." She sat down with a determined air. "I don\'t move from here until I know how Mr. Marr\'s photograph comes to be here under the name of Mr. Monk."

There was no help for it. I had to speak out and make the best I could of a most uncomfortable situation. "Mr. Walter Monk goes by that name in Burwain," I blurted out, "but in London he is known as Mr. Wentworth Marr."

"Well I never!" Mabel drew a long breath and looked at Gertrude, who had sat down, and was staring hard at me.

"Why has my father two names?" she asked apprehensively.

"Oh, there\'s nothing wrong," I said hastily, "he is Wentworth Marr by Act of Parliament."

"Perhaps he is a millionaire also by Act of Parliament," said Mabel sarcastically. "Can you say that he is, Cyrus?"

"Papa is not a millionaire," put in Gertrude hastily. "All he has is this house and five hundred a year."

"Oh," Mabel drew another long breath, "and he gave Aunt Lucy to understand that he was a rich man."

"Did he give her to understand that he was actually a millionaire?" I asked.

"Well no, not exactly. Aunt Lucy exaggerates. But he did say that he had no end of money and asked her permission to pay his addresses to me."

"To you!" cried Gertrude, her color coming and going; "why, I thought that you were engaged to Mr. Weston."

"I am in love with Mr. Weston," said Mabel straightforwardly, "but I am not engaged to him, although I may be. I refused him once, and my aunt wished me to marry you--that is, Mr. Marr!" She paused, then spread out her hands in a foreign fashion, "I can\'t understand what it means."

"Cyrus understands," said Gertrude, and her voice sounded cold. "Perhaps you will explain, Cyrus."

"Willingly," I said, nerved to desperate coolness, "but you will understand in your turn that I was bound by a promise made to your father not to say anything if certain conditions were fulfilled.

"Was that fair to me?" asked Mabel angrily.

"Perfectly fair," I snapped. "I learned the truth when I met Mr. Marr at Lady Denham\'s house. Then I recognized him as Mr. Monk, and afterwards I had an explanation with him."

"Why didn\'t you tell us his real name when you set eyes on him?" demanded Lady Mabel crossly.

"I did not wish to make a scene. It was only fair to await an explanation."

"What?" cried the girl, her color rising, "when Mr. Marr was calling on my aunt under a false name----"

"He has a perfect legal right to the name."

"And under the pretence of being a rich man."

"He is a rich man," I assured her, "to the extent of one hundred thousand pounds."

Gertrude looked at me in astonishment. "That isn\'t true," she denied.

"My dear girl, I have the word of your father for the amount."

"It\'s all very strange," said Mabel, calming somewhat, and hiding a covert smile. "Oh, great heavens! I wonder what Aunt Lucy will say!" She laughed outright. "It\'s like a play: to think that a man with a daughter as old as I am should wish to marry me."

Gertrude colored, and I saw that her mind was tormented to think that her father should act in this underhand way. To lessen her anguish I hastened to relate all I knew--this is, I explained about the Australian cousin, the legal change of name and reason for the suppression of the Burwain household, and the conditions upon which I had held my peace. The two girls listened quietly, Mabel with astonishment and Gertrude with pain. Certainly Walter Monk, alias Wentworth Marr, had not committed a crime, but he had scarcely acted straightforwardly.

"Well," said Mabel, drawing a long breath as usual when I had ended, "I never heard of such a thing. Why on earth didn\'t Mr. Marr, or Mr. Monk--I\'m sure I don\'t know what to call him--tell me the whole truth? There was no reason to keep quiet that I can see."

"I was the reason, evidently," said Gertrude, with crimson cheeks, for she was heartily ashamed of her father. "Papa did not think you would marry him if you saw me."

For answer, Mabel, who was an extremely kindhearted girl, jumped up and kissed those same flushed cheeks. "My dear, I liked your father well enough, and would have no objection to you as a step-daughter." She laughed merrily at the idea. "But the fact is, I never intended to marry Mr. Marr, whatever Aunt Lucy said. I always loved Dicky Weston and I always shall, although he\'s so horrid."

"I\'m glad of that," said Gertrude quickly, "for now I can see that my father is not the man to make any woman happy. I always thought that he was a kindhearted, harmless man, a trifle frivolous, perhaps, but quite honest. Now I understand that I have been deceived--in more ways than one," she added half to herself, and I could not understand what she meant. I did later.

"Do you blame me, Gertrude?" I asked, rising to take her hand.

"Of course she doesn\'t," said Mabel very rapidly; "you made a promise on certain conditions to keep quiet for an agreed time, and you have done so. No blame can possibly attach itself to you."

"Gertrude?" I said anxiously, taking no notice of Mabel\'s defence.

She pressed my hand. "I wish you could have told me," she said, in a low voice, "but my father was too clever for you. I understand."

"And you forgive me?" I pleaded.

"There is nothing to forgive."

"Of course there isn\'t," cried Mabel, kissing Gertrude again, "and don\'t let this make any difference to our friendship, dear. You will marry Cyrus and I shall marry Dicky--if he goes down on his knees to apologize for daring to ask me again--and everything will be well. But when I meet your father," ended Mabel wrathfully, "I shall speak my mind."

"I don\'t think that you will see him again," said Gertrude quietly. "He has gone to America, and went without a word of farewell or explanation to me. I think he will stop there. I see now that my affection was wasted on him, since he apparently cares for no one but himself."

"Never mind." Mabel caressed her. "You have Cyrus."

"Yes; thank God for an honest man," and she threw herself on my breast.

Mabel looked at us, and walked to the door. "I\'ll leave you together and go after Cannington. If Dicky\'s anything of a lover he\'ll meet me on the road--in his airship, if possible"--and with a laugh to relax the tension of the situation she vanished. Shortly, we heard her open the front door and pass out. Then only did I speak.

"Don\'t worry, Gertrude. He isn\'t worth it."

"He\'s my father, after all," she moaned; "it\'s terrible to think that he should deceive me so."

"Well, he hasn\'t done any real harm. He told me that he gave you the whole five hundred a year to yourself, more or less."

"That is not true. He has kept me very short."

"Hang him, he----" I stopped. After all, as she said, the man was her father, and I could not very well speak what was in my mind to his daughter. "Don\'t think of him any more, Gertrude," I whispered coaxingly. "I have you and you have me. Let us forget him."

"It will be best," she said, drying her eyes, for the ready tears had filled them, and small blame to her. "Do you think papa will come back?"

"No. He will probably stop in the States and marry an heiress."

"Thank God he will not come back," she muttered, half to herself. "I never want to see him in England again."

I thought that this was rather a strained view to take of Monk\'s delinquencies, seeing how fond Gertrude had been of him until she discovered his true character. But that is the way with true affection: it is all or nothing. Gertrude, a truthful, honest girl, could never trust her father again.

"No, I could never trust him," she said, speaking exactly what was in my mind. "He would only deceive me when it suited him. I always knew that my father was more or less selfish, but I looked upon him as a child. His character is not a deep one."

"It is deeper than we supposed," I said grimly.

"I can see that now, and--and--oh!" she rose and pushed me away--"I must go to my room to think matters over."

"What matters?"

"What you have told me and--and--others," she stammered.

I caught her hands. "Gertrude, what is it?"

She wrenched away her hands and glided towards the door. "I daren\'t tell you, I daren\'t tell you," she whispered, and her lips were as white as her face as she waved me back. "Wait, wait," she muttered, "when I can make up my mind, you shall know all." And she disappeared.

"All what?" That was the question I asked myself as I returned to the inn. Apparent............