“Yes!” she answered.  “Since you are here, perhaps you had better come in.”

They had met on the landing of the fifth floor of Coniston Mansions.  She led him down the corridor, and, opening a door, ushered him into a tiny sitting-room.

“How did you find me out?” she asked.

“I saw you dining at Luigi’s yesterday and to-day,” he answered sternly.  “You were with the same man both times.  I followed you yesterday.  You both came back here.  To-day you came back alone.  Is this man your brother?”

“No!” she answered.

“Your cousin?  Is he any relation to you?”

“No!” she repeated.

“Who is he, then?”

“A friend,” she answered, “or an enemy perhaps.  What does it matter to you?”

He looked at her steadfastly.  She was dressed in white muslin, and she wore a big black hat without any touch of colour.  Her clothes were those which her uncle had ordered in New York.  She was slim and dainty and elegant, and he found it hard indeed to keep his heart steeled against her.

“How can you ask me that, Virginia?” he replied.  “Have you forgotten that I have asked you to marry me?”

“And I have told you that I cannot,” she replied desperately.  “I cannot and I will not.  You have no right to come here and worry me.”

“So my coming does worry you?” he asked.

“Yes!” she answered desperately, “you know that it does.”

“Virginia,” he said, “what is this man’s name?”

“It is no concern of yours,” she answered.

“Are you in love with him?”

“I shall not tell you,” she said.

“Is he in love with you?”

“If you ask me any more such questions, I shall go into my room and lock the door,” she declared.

Mildmay took a turn up and down the little apartment.  The child was obdurate, yet all the time he seemed to read her soft frightened eyes.

“Virginia,” he said suddenly, stopping in front of her, “I have the license in my pocket.  Won’t you come out with me and be married?”

“No!” she answered, “I will not.”

“Think!” he begged her.  “It would be so easy.  We could walk out of this place together, and in an hour’s time you would have some one else to take your little troubles on their shoulders.  Don’t you think that mine are broad enough, little girt?”

“Please don’t!” she begged.  “I cannot.  I wish you would not ask me.”

“I don’t know whether it makes any difference,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation, “but I have plenty of money.  In fact I am very rich.  If there is any possible way in which money could help your troubles, they would soon be over.”

“Oh!  I know that you have,” she answered.  “It is not that.”

He looked at her fixedly.

“You know that I have?  Perhaps you know who I am?”

“I do,” she answered.  “You are Guy Mildmay, Duke of Mowbray.”