Mr. Parmalee, smoking a cigar, made his way to the Beech Walk, and leaning against a giant tree, stared at the moon, and waited.  The loud-voiced turret clock struck eight a moment after he had taken his position.

“Time is up,” thought the photographer.  “My lady ought to be here now.  I’ll give her another quarter.  If she isn’t with me in that time, then good-bye to Lady Kingsland and my keeping her secret.”

Ten minutes passed.  As he replaced his watch a light step sounded on the frozen snow, a shadow darkened the entrance, and Lady Kingsland’s pale, proud face looked fixedly at him in the moonlight.  He took off his hat and threw away his half-smoked cigar.

“My Lady Kingsland!”

She bowed haughtily, hovering aloof.

“You wished to see me, Mr. Parmalee—­that is your name, I believe.  What is it you have to say to me?”

“I don’t think you really need to ask that question, my lady.  You know as well as I do, or I’m mistaken.”

“Who are you?” she demanded, impatiently, impetuously.  “How do you come to know my secret?  How do you come to be possessed of that picture?”

“I told you before.  She gave it to me herself.”

“For God’s sake, tell me the truth!  Don’t deceive me!  Do you really mean it?  Have you really seen my——­”

She stopped, shuddering in some horrible inward repulsion from head to foot.

“I really have,” rejoined Mr. Parmalee.  “I know the—­the party in question like a book.  She told me her story, she gave me her picture herself, of her own free will, and she told me where to find you.  She is in London now, all safe, and waiting—­a little out of patience, though, by this time, I dare say.”

“Waiting!” Lady Kingsland gasped the word in white terror.  “Waiting for what?”

“To see you, my lady.”

There was a blank pause.  My lady covered her face with both hands, and again that convulsive shudder shook her from head to foot.

“She is very penitent, my lady,” Mr. Parmalee said, in a softer tone.  “She is very poor, and ill and heart-broken.  Even you, my lady, might pity and forgive her if you saw her now.”

“For Heaven’s sake, hush!  I don’t want to hear.  Tell me how you met her first.  I never heard your name until that day in the library.”

“No more you didn’t,” said the artist.  “You see, my lady, it was pure chance-work from first to last.  I was coming over here on a little speculation of my own in the photographic line, and being low in pocket and pretty well used to rough it, I was coming in the steerage.  There was a pretty hard crowd of us—­Dutch and Irish and all sorts mixed up there—­an’ among ’em one that looked as much out of her element as a fish out of water.  Any one could tell with half an eye she’d been a lady, in spite of her shabby duds and starved, haggard face.  She was alone.  Not a soul knew her, not a soul cared for her, and half-way across she fell sick and had like to died.”