"I have made up my mind," continued Annie. "I won't ever do anything wrong to help you again."

"Oh, you won't, won't you? Then listen-heartless girl. Don't you know that I have you completely in my power? If I were to tell what you did at Wingfield you could be arrested on a charge of forgery. There is an ugly punishment accorded by the law to such proceedings."

"You cannot frighten me, Rupert," said Annie, much to the astonishment of that gentleman, "for I have thought the whole thing carefully over.

It would be quite impossible for me to be punished and for you to go scot-free; so, for your own safety, you will keep what you know in the dark. Now, the thing for you to consider is that I do not intend to help you to get any money from my friends, the Achesons."

Rupert was so much astonished at Annie's tone that for a moment he did not reply. Then, all of a sudden, he changed his tactics. He ceased to be furious, and became, in the poor girl's opinion, far more dangerous.

He drew her hand through his arm and invited her to walk with him. He then proceeded to sketch a most vivid and graphic picture of his own sufferings, the extreme danger in which he stood, and the awful disgrace which would fall upon Annie's devoted head when the law of the land took its course upon him.

But Annie, for some reason which she did not quite understand herself, felt strangely strong that afternoon. Perhaps it was Mrs. Acheson's kindness; perhaps it was the thought of Leslie, and what Leslie endured through Annie's former ill-doing. Even Belle, with all her eccentricities, had a perceptible influence upon Annie now.

"For all these good, these dear people look upon crime as an impossibility," thought the girl. "Now, Rupert seems to take it as the ordinary course of existence. There is no saying; I may get to look at things from his standpoint if I don't take care. I dare not; I will never yield to his entreaties."

So, though he begged of her, and implored of her, and bullied her, and flattered her, though he used all his eloquence, Annie remained firm.

It was the first time in all Rupert's experience that he found her so, and it was the first time he thoroughly respected his sister. At the end of that interview he saw that if he was to get anything out of the Achesons he must do it in his own way.

"You have astonished and pained me," he said at last. "I never thought you would desert me. Even in my darkest hour I have always thought 'Well, at least there is Annie.' Now my hour of gloom has truly arrived, my black hour come, and I am only able to say 'Annie has deserted me.'"

"No," answered Annie, "I have not really deserted you; but I will not consent to drag either you or myself any lower. I dragged you low enough when I gave you that last money; I have lowered myself. I shall never be the same again. I have also injured one of the best girls in the world.

I bitterly repent of the sin which I committed. I am truly sorry for poor Leslie. Now, Rupert, you know my decision."

"Yes, it is true what I have just said: you have utterly forsaken me."

"No; for I still love you."

"Oh, don't talk humbug, Annie!" said Rupert with an angry interjection.

"When you utter the word 'love' at such a moment like the present you make me actually sick."

"I will not utter it again," said Annie; "but I can still feel it.

Rupert, I will not do wrong for you. On that point I am firm. Now I must leave you. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Acheson gave me a message for you. She wished to know if you would dine with them this evening. Of course you will not come. Under the circ.u.mstances it would be quite impossible; but you may as well send back a polite message."

"Say, with my compliments, that I shall be heartily pleased to accept the invitation," answered Rupert.

"How can you dare?"

"Will you give the message? May I not accept my own invitation, or am I to be beholden to you?"

"Well, come if you like," said poor Annie. "I cannot quarrel with you nor argue with you any longer. Come if you wish to do so; but plainly understand that, if you attempt to ask Belle Acheson to lend you any money, I shall immediately tell the entire truth to Mrs. Acheson."

"I believe you; you are turning into a perfect little fiend. Well, at any rate expect me at dinner time."

CHAPTER x.x.xI

HANDWRITING.

After Annie and Leslie had left him, Mr. Parker returned to his office.

There were two or three candidates still waiting for the vacant post of secretary. One of his clerks came to inquire what was to be done with them.

"I cannot see them," was the reply. "You may as well say that the matter is practically settled, and that there is no use in any of them waiting."

The clerk withdrew, and Mr. Parker began to pace up and down the length of his room.

"Well, bless my soul!" he said; "I cannot make out what all this means.

There is a mystery somewhere. Why won't Leslie Gilroy confess the truth?

Well, if I don't get to the bottom of this thing my name's not Charles Parker. I believe-yes, I cannot help believing-that somehow the girl is innocent; but appearances are much against her."

He opened a certain drawer in a cabinet which stood behind his desk, took from it a letter, and began to read. The letter ran as follows:

"Dear Mr. Parker:

"I am in great trouble and perplexity. I have got into a terrible sc.r.a.pe here, and only you can get me out again. I dare not confide in mother; you alone can help me. Will you give my friend, Annie Colchester, sixty pounds for me, and will you give it in notes and gold? I will never do what I have done again if only you will trust and forgive me this time. I cannot imagine how I have been led into these terrible debts; but I can only say I will never incur another.

Please give the money to Annie at once, for the matter is most urgent.

"Your affectionate friend, "Leslie Gilroy."

"There," said the good merchant to himself, "there is her own letter-her own statement in black and white. She got into a sc.r.a.pe, went in debt, and wanted me to give her money. Well, if it were only debt-the ordinary girlish wish to possess herself of fal-lals and finery-why, I could forgive the child. There's a look on her face which makes it hard for any man to withstand her; but the thing is this: she has not made a full statement; she did not want money for ordinary debts; she had another reason, and she would not divulge it. Why did she write to me as she did? What can be up? 'Pon my word! I feel quite frightened. There's that mother of hers, the best of good women, and that n.o.ble young fellow her brother, and the rest of 'em; plenty of character, plenty of go, plenty of spirit, nothing mean or underhand about one of them; and there's Leslie, whom all the rest look up to as the straightest of the straight and the best of the best, and who has about the most open face I ever looked into; and yet, if this letter is true, she is a sly, cunning little rogue, as sly and cunning as can be. I pity the mother, that I do: but there, is the girl guilty? Isn't there some explanation of this extraordinary mystery?"

Mr. Parker looked again at the letter, then he folded it up and was about to put it back into his cabinet when he saw the paper on which Leslie had scribbled her request to him that day, lying on the floor. He stooped and picked it up, and the next moment his red face had turned pale, for Leslie's scribble, carelessly written as it was, seemed to him to be written in a decidedly different hand from that of the letter. A moment later, all eagerness, quite trembling with excitement, the shrewd man of business was comparing both writings. There was a strong resemblance; most of the capitals were formed in the same way, but there was also a distinct difference.

With pursed-up lips and a wise shake of his head, Mr. Parker slipped the letter and the sc.r.a.p of paper into his pocket, and left the office. On his way out he spoke to his head clerk:

"Hudson, don't expect me back to-day. I shall return at my usual hour to-morrow."

"Something has happened to annoy the chief very considerably," thought the clerk to himself as Mr. Parker's back disappeared through the doorway.

A moment later the great tea-merchant found himself in the street, the next he had hailed a hansom, and given the address of Mrs. Gilroy's house in West Kensington.

"I could go by train, but a hansom will take me quicker," he muttered to himself. "I hope to goodness she won't be in; it's Llewellyn I wish to have a chat with. Yes, I must investigate this matter, and I don't want the mother to know anything about it until I can feel my bearings.

There's a way out of this somehow, and I believe the poor girl is nothing but a dupe. Can it be possible that she is shielding someone; but no, that can't be the case, for when I went down to Wingfield she knew all about the story and never denied for a moment that she had written the letter. She looked sorry enough, but not surprised-no, not surprised. Bless me! if I know what the whole thing means. These girls, with their modern education, know a thing too much when they're a match for a shrewd old fellow like myself. But I'll see Llewellyn. I'll sound him, whatever happens."

When Mr. Parker got to the Gilroys' house it so happened that Llewellyn himself was going up the steps. He was just about to put his latchkey into the door when the merchant's hearty voice arrested him.

Llewellyn turned round, and a smile broke over his face.

"But mother's out, I am afraid, Mr. Parker. You'll come in all the same though, won't you?"

"Yes, Llewellyn, my man, I just will. I want to have a word with you, my boy."

"Certainly, sir. Is there anything I can do?"

"Take me where we can be alone for a minute or two. Your sister isn't in-eh?"

"Do you mean Leslie?"