“You have never once asked who I am,” she said, almost reproachfully I thought, “nor how I came to be shut up in such a place—­with such a man.”

“Why, as to that,” I answered, “I make it a general rule to avoid awkward subjects when I can, and never to ask questions that it will be difficult to answer.”

“I should find not the least difficulty in answering either,” said she.

“Besides,” I continued, “it is no affair of mine, after all.”

“Oh!” said she, turning away from me; and then, very slowly:  “No, I suppose not.”

“Certainly not,” I added; “how should it be?”

“How indeed!” said she, over her shoulder.  And then I saw that she was angry, and wondered.

“And yet,” I went on, after a lapse of silence, “I think I could have answered both questions the moment I saw you at your casement.”

“Oh!” said she—­this time in a tone of surprise, and her anger all gone again, for I saw that she was smiling; and again I wondered.

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Then,” said she, seeing I was silent, “whom do you suppose me?”

“You are, to the best of my belief, the Lady Helen Dunstan.”  My companion stood still, and regarded me for a moment in wide-eyed astonishment.

“And how, air, pray, did you learn all this?” she demanded, with the dimple once more peeping at me slyly from the corner of her pretty mouth.

“By the very simple method of adding two and two together,” I answered; “moreover, no longer ago than yesterday I broke bread with a certain Mr. Beverley—­”

I heard her breath come in a sudden gasp, and next moment she was peering up into my face while her hands beat upon my breast with soft, quick little taps.

“Beverley!” she whispered.  “Beverley!—­no, no—­why, they told me—­Sir Harry told me that Peregrine lay dying—­at Tonbridge.”

“Then Sir Harry Mortimer lied to you,” said I, “for no longer ago than yesterday afternoon I sat in a ditch eating bread and cheese with a Mr. Peregrine Beverley.”

“Oh!—­are you sure—­are you sure?”

“Quite sure.  And, as we ate, he told me many things, and among them of a life of wasted opportunities—­of foolish riot, and prodigal extravagance, and of its logical consequence—­want.”

“My poor Perry!” she murmured.

“He spoke also of his love for a very beautiful and good woman, and its hopelessness.”

“My dear, dear Perry!” said she again.

“And yet,” said I, “all this is admittedly his own fault, and, as I think Heraclitus says:  ’Suffering is the inevitable consequence of Sin, or Folly.’”

“And he is well?” she asked; “quite—­quite well?”

“He is,” said I.

“Thank God!” she whispered.  “Tell me,” she went on, “is he so very, very poor—­is he much altered?  I have not seen him for a whole, long year.”

“Why, a year is apt to change a man,” I answered.  “Adversity is a hard school, but, sometimes, a very good one.”