"Oh, it is nothing. Only I think that I had better rest it a little, and that is rather a difficult thing for me to do; rest means interference with my work." Perhaps because he seemed to hesitate, she added: "I am a teacher of music."

"Then I am afraid that your accident will be hard on your pupils."

She laughed. "The worst of it is, there are not many of them. I cannot afford to offend the few I have." She changed her tone. "I cannot think how it was I was so awkward, Mr Coventry. I was coming up the steps when my foot slipped, and--there I was. It was such a silly thing to do."

Mr Coventry explained that it was the easiest thing in the world to twist one's ankle. Further, that a twisted ankle sometimes turned out to be a serious matter. Possibly the lady knew this without his telling her, yet she seemed grateful for the information.

The gentleman's visit, considering the circ.u.mstances, extended to what seemed to be an unnecessary length, yet neither appeared particularly desirous to bring it to a close. Before they parted they were talking like old friends. She had told him that her name was Hardy--Dora Hardy. She had imparted the further information that she was an orphan--alone in the world. They talked a great deal about, it must be owned, a very little, and they would probably have had as much to say even if the subject matter had been still less. Such conversations are not dependent upon subjects.

The next day he returned to inquire after her foot. It seemed better, but was not yet quite recovered; its owner was still upon the couch.

That visit was even longer than the first had been. During its progress Mr Coventry became singularly frank. He actually made a confidant of the little woman on the couch. He told her all his history, unfolded the list of his follies--a part of it that is, for the list was long. Some folks would have said that he was adding to the crowning folly of them all. He told her of his recent disastrous speculations on what, doubtless in the cause of euphony, is called "the turf." He even told of the ten thousand pounds!

It must be allowed that Miss Hardy seemed to find the young gentleman's egotistical outpourings not devoid of interest. When he spoke of the contents of the mysterious envelope she gave quite a little start.

"I don't understand. Do you mean to say, Mr Coventry, that yesterday morning you received 10,000 from a stranger?"

"I do. In ten bank-notes of a thousand pounds each."

"But it's ridiculous. They can't be genuine."

"Aren't they? See for yourself. If they're not, then I never saw a genuine bank-note yet."

He took an envelope from his pocket. He gave it to Miss Hardy.

"Is this the envelope in which they came?"

"It is."

"And are these the bank-notes?"

"They are."

She took out the rustling pieces of paper. Her eyes sparkled. She laughed; it sounded like a little laugh of pleasure.

"Bank-notes! Ten of them, for a thousand each! You beauties!" She pressed them between her little hands. "Think of all they can buy. Ten thousand pounds!" She laughed again; this time in her laughter there was the sound of something very like a sob. "Why, Mr Coventry, it's--it's like a fairy tale. Some people never dream that they will be able to even handle such a sum--just once."

"It is a queer start."

Mr Coventry rose from his chair. He stood with his back to the fireplace. The little woman followed him with her eyes.

"Come, Mr Coventry, you know very well from whom they came."

"I wish I did."

"Think! They came from that rich old uncle you have been telling me about."

"He would see me starve before he gave me a fiver. I know it is a fact."

"Is there n.o.body of whom you can think?"

"Not a soul! I don't believe there's an individual in the world who would give me a hundred pounds to keep me from the workhouse."

There was a pause. The gentleman looked at the lady; the lady looked at him. She kept folding and unfolding the notes between her dainty fingers; a smile parted her lips.

"Mr Coventry, I know from whom they came."

"Miss Hardy, you don't mean it! From whom?"

"They came," with a rapid glance she looked down, then up again, "from a woman."

"A woman!" Mr Coventry looked considerably startled. "What woman?"

"Ah, there it is!"

Mr Coventry still looked startled.

"I suppose, Miss Hardy, you are simply making a shot at it."

"It looks to me like the act of a woman. Think! Is there a woman possible?"

Mr Coventry looked even disconcerted.

"It--it can't be. It--it's quite impossible."

"I thought there was. Mr Coventry, here are your notes. I don't wish to intrude upon your confidence."

"But, I--I a.s.sure you, the--thing can't be."

"Still, I fancy, the thing is, and so, I see, do you. Mr Coventry, if it is not stretching feminine curiosity too far--in my case you have piqued it--might I ask who is the woman?"

"There isn't one; I a.s.sure you there isn't. But I'll tell you all about it." Mr Coventry fidgeted about the room, then sat down on the chair he had just vacated. "Have--have you ever heard of a Mrs Murphy?"

"Had she anything to do with Mr Murphy?"

"You mean the iron man? It's his widow. She's--she's stopping at the Metropole just now."

"Isn't she rich?"

"Awfully, horribly rich. In fact my--my uncle wrote to me about her."

"You mean Sir Frederick?"

"Yes, old rip! I wrote, asking if he could let me have a few hundreds, just to help me along. He wrote back saying that he couldn't, but that he could put me in the way of laying my hands on several hundred thousands instead. Then he spoke of the widow."

"I see; go on."

Mr Coventry had stopped. He seemed to be a little at a loss.