This explanation was not received.  And before the morning was over, Rose Cameron was remanded to her cell in the police station-house to wait until she could be taken back to Scotland for trial.

When she reached her cell, she gave herself up to a passion of hysterical weeping and sobbing.

She was interrupted by a visit from her friendly housekeeper.

“My poor, dear, injured lady, I was here early this morning to see you, but could not get in,” said the woman, after the first exciting greetings were over.

“Sit ye down.  Dinna staund, and tire yersel’,” said the poor creature, glad to see any familiar face.

“Oh, my good young lady, you were always very kind to me.  And I never can believe as you’ve had anything to do with what you are accused of,” said the good woman, weeping.

“And sae I hadna.  I dinna ken onything anent it.  As for yon braw boxie, I ne’er set een on it, na, nor the fine ring, till the policeman pu’ed it doon frae the tap o’ the window curtain.  And the fine watch, they fund on me, and said belongit to Sir Lemuel Levison; that watch waur gied to me by a gude freend,” said Rose, wiping the great tears from her stormy eyes.

“I will believe it, my good young lady.  I can very well believe it.  I see how you have been imposed upon by bad people; but do you keep a stiff upper lip, madam, and don’t be in no ways cast down, and your innercence will come like pure gold from the furniss, as the saying is.  And now, my dear young lady, I have some news for you, as will help to divert your mind from your troubles, I hope,” said the well-meaning woman, soothingly.

“Is it about Johnnie Scott?  Is it about my gude mon?” eagerly inquired Rose.

“No, my dear young lady, it is not about him.  You remember the marriage that was broken off, for the time between the young Marquis of Arondelle and the heiress of Lone?”

“Yes! broken off by the murder of the bride’s feyther, the nicht before the wedding day—­the murder o’ Sir Lemuel Levison, wi’ whilk I now staund accusit.  Ou, aye, I mind it!  I am na likely to forget it!” sharply answered Rose Cameron.

“Well, my dear young lady, the marriage is on again.”

“Eh!” exclaimed Rose Cameron, springing up.

“Yes, my dear young lady.  You know I always take time to look over the morning papers that are left at the house for you, and this morning I read that a grand marriage would take place at St. George’s, Hanover Square, between the young Duke of Hereward—­he who was Marquis of Arondelle before his father’s death—­and the heiress of the late Sir Lemuel Levison.  And how, after the ceremony, there would be a breakfast at the bride’s house, and then how the happy pair would set out for their wedding tower.”

While the well-meaning housekeeper was speaking, Rose Cameron was staring at her in dumb amazement.

“I brought the paper in my pocket, ma’am, thinking, under all the circumstances, it would interest you and help to make you forget your own troubles.  Would you like to read it for yourself?”