Her prospects being thus settled, to her own satisfaction, Mrs. Westerfield was at liberty to make her arrangements for the desertion of poor little Syd.

The person on whose assistance she could rely was an unmarried elder sister, distinguished as proprietor of a cheap girls’ school in one of the suburbs of London.  This lady—­known to local fame as Miss Wigger—­had already proposed to take Syd into training as a pupil teacher.  “I’ll force the child on,” Miss Wigger promised, “till she can earn her board and lodging by taking my lowest class.  When she gets older she will replace my regular governess, and I shall save the salary.”

With this proposal waiting for a reply, Mrs. Westerfield had only to inform her sister that it was accepted.  “Come here,” she wrote, “on Friday next, at any time before two o’clock, and Syd shall be ready for you.  P.S.—­I am to be married again on Thursday, and start for America with my husband and my boy by next Saturday’s steamer.”

The letter was posted; and the mother’s anxious mind was, to use her own phrase, relieved of another worry.

As the hour of eight drew near on Wednesday evening, Mrs. Westerfield’s anxiety forced her to find relief in action of some kind.  She opened the door of her sitting-room and listened on the stairs.  It still wanted for a few minutes to eight o’clock, when there was a ring at the house-bell.  She ran down to open the door.  The servant happened to be in the hall, and answered the bell.  The next moment, the door was suddenly closed again.

“Anybody there?” Mrs. Westerfield asked.

“No, ma’am.”

This seemed strange.  Had the old wretch deceived her, after all?  “Look in the letter-box,” she called out.  The servant obeyed, and found a letter.  Mrs. Westerfield tore it open, standing on the stairs.  It contained half a sheet of common note-paper.  The interpretation of the cipher was written on it in these words: 

“Remember Number 12, Purbeck Road, St. John’s Wood.  Go to the summer-house in the back garden.  Count to the fourth plank in the floor, reckoning from the side wall on the right as you enter the summer-house.  Prize up the plank.  Look under the mould and rubbish.  Find the diamonds.”

Not a word of explanation accompanied these lines.  Neither had the original cipher been returned.  The strange old man had earned his money, and had not attended to receive it—­had not even sent word where or how it might be paid!  Had he delivered his letter himself?  He (or his messenger) had gone before the house-door could be opened!

A sudden suspicion of him turned her cold.  Had he stolen the diamonds?  She was on the point of sending for a cab, and driving it to his lodgings, when James came in, eager to know if the interpretation had arrived.

Keeping her suspicions to herself, she merely informed him that the interpretation was in her hands.  He at once asked to see it.  She refused to show it to him until he had made her his wife.  “Put a chisel in your pocket, when we go to church, to-morrow morning,” was the one hint she gave him.  As thoroughly worthy of each other as ever, the betrothed lovers distrusted each other to the last.