description, Aynesworth recognized her at once, and yet, for a moment, he hesitated to believe that this was the woman whom he had come to see. The years had indeed left her untouched. Her figure was slight, almost girlish; her complexion as smooth, and her coloring, faint though it was, as delicate and natural as a child's. Her eyes were unusually large, and the lashes which shielded them heavy. It was when she looked at him that Aynesworth began to understand.

She carried his card in her hand, and glanced at it as he bowed.

"You are the Daily Scribbler," she said. "You want me to tell you about my bazaar, I suppose."

"I am attached to the Daily Scribbler, Lady Ruth Barrington," Aynesworth answered; "but my business this afternoon has nothing to do with the paper. I have called with a message from--an old friend of yours."

She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. The graciousness of her manner was perceptibly abated.

"Indeed! I scarcely understand you, Mr.--Aynesworth."

"My message," Aynesworth said, "is from Sir Wingrave Seton."

The look of enquiry, half impatient, half interrogative, faded slowly from her face. She stood quite still; her impassive features seemed like a plaster cast, from which all life and feeling were drawn out. Her eyes began slowly to dilate, and she shivered as though with cold. Then the man who was watching her and wondering, knew that this was fear--fear undiluted and naked.

He stepped forward, and placed a chair for her. She felt for the back of it with trembling fingers and sat down.

"Is--Sir Wingrave Seton--out of prison?" she asked in a strange, dry tone. One would have thought that she had been choking.

"Since yesterday," Aynesworth answered.

"But his time--is not up yet?"

"There is always a reduction," Aynesworth reminded her, "for what is called good conduct."

She was silent for several moments. Then she raised her head. She was a brave woman, and she was rapidly recovering her self-possession.

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