even yours, will not stand in the way of this secret being kept.” “Lord Penshurst is no murderer, even though you may be,” cried Westerham, indignantly. [Pg 115] [Pg 115] “Perhaps not, my dear sir, perhaps not; but, at the same time, the situation is such that he cannot possible prosecute.” “What do you mean?” thundered Westerham, again laying his hand roughly on Melun's shoulder. “Pardon me,” Melun answered, shaking himself free, “but that is my business—and Lord Penshurst's business.” Poor little Lady Kathleen sobbed till she could sob no more. Then she lifted her head wearily, mopped her swollen eyes, and, gathering herself together, walked slowly back to the Hall. She went at once to her father's room, to find the Premier in a scarcely less pitiable frame of mind than she was in herself. The old man was sitting at his desk, his head buried in his hands, though the table was littered with papers requiring urgent attention. Kathleen walked up behind him, and, placing one of her hands on his head, stroked his hair gently. “Poor father!” she said. “Heaven help us, my dear!” said Lord Penshurst, and he stood up and took his daughter in his arms, holding her almost as though he were afraid she might be taken from him. After a little while he became calmer, and began to speak of the dreadful thing which weighed so upon both their spirits. But even while he spoke of it he looked cautiously about, as though he were fearful that other ears might be listening. “So you see, little girl,” he said,[Pg 116] “that your very kindly estimate of the red-headed man Robinson was entirely wrong. He didn't look like a scoundrel, but he is one. He is not even a scoundrel of Melun's description. Upon my soul, I think I prefer the blackmailer to the mere thief.” [Pg 116] “Do you think,” asked Kathleen,
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