“You are looking at my new pamphlet, Pettifer, The Prison Walls must Cast no Shadow.  I am hoping that it will have a great influence.”

“No,” replied Pettifer.  “I wasn’t.  I was looking at this,” and he held up the little book.

“Oh, that?” said Hazlewood, turning away with disappointment.

“Yes, that,” said Pettifer with a strange and thoughtful look at his brother-in-law.  “And I am not sure,” he added slowly, “that in a short time you will not find it the more important publication of the two.”

He laid the book down and in his turn he moved away towards the billiard-table.  Margaret Pettifer remained.  She had been struck by the curious deliberate words her husband had used.  Was this the hint for which she was looking out?  She took up the little book.  It was a copy of Notes and Queries.  She opened it.

It was a small periodical magazine made up of printed questions which contributors sent in search of information and answers to those questions from the pens of other contributors.  Mrs. Pettifer glanced through the leaves, hoping to light upon the page which her husband had been studying.  But he had closed the book when he laid it down and she found nothing to justify his remark.  Yet he had not spoken without intention.  Of that she was convinced, and her conviction was strengthened the next moment, for as she turned again towards the drawing-room Robert Pettifer looked once sharply towards her and as sharply away.  Mrs. Pettifer understood that glance.  He was wondering whether she had noticed what in that magazine had interested him.  But she did not pursue him with questions.  She merely made up her mind to examine the copy of Notes and Queries at a time when she could bring more leisure to the task.

She waited impatiently for the party to break up but eleven o’clock had struck before any one proposed to go.  Then all took their leave at once.  Robert Pettifer and his wife went out into the hall with the rest, lest others seeing them remain should stay behind too; and whilst they stood a little apart from the general bustle of departure Margaret Pettifer saw Stella Ballantyne come lightly down the stairs, and a savage fury suddenly whirled in her head and turned her dizzy.  She thought of all the trouble and harm this young woman was bringing into their ordered family and she would not have it that she was innocent.  She saw Stella with her cloak open upon her shoulders radiant and glistening and slender against the dark panels of the staircase, youth in her face, enjoyment sparkling in her eyes, and her fingers itched to strip her of her bright frock, her gloves, her slim satin slippers, the delicate white lace which nestled against her bosom.  She clothed her in the heavy shapeless garments, the coarse shoes and stockings of the convict; she saw her working desperately against time upon an ignoble task with black and broken finger-nails.  If longing could have worked the miracle, thus at this hour would Stella Ballantyne have sat and worked, all the colour of her faded to a hideous drab, all the grace of her withered.  Mrs. Pettifer turned away with so abrupt a movement and so disordered a face that Robert asked her if she was ill.