“I am here now to tell you that it is impossible.”

“Very well, mamma.  Then things must go on, and we must bide our time.”

“It is proper that I should tell you that he has disgraced himself.”

“Never!  I will not admit it.  You do not know the circumstances,” exclaimed Florence.

“It is most impertinent in you to pretend that you know them better than I do,” said her mother, indignantly.

“The story was told to me by himself.”

“Yes; and therefore told untruly.”

“I grieve that you should think so of him, mamma; but I cannot help it.  Where you have got your information I cannot tell.  But that mine has been accurately told to me I feel certain.”

“At any rate, my duty is to look after you and to keep you from harm.  I can only do my duty to the best of my ability.  Mr. Annesley is, to my thinking, a most objectionable young man, and he will, I believe, be in the hands of the police before long.  Evidence will have to be given, in which your name will, unfortunately, be mentioned.”

“Why my name?”

“It is not probable that he will keep it a secret, when cross-questioned, as to his having divulged the story to some one.  He will declare that he has told it to you.  When that time shall come it will be well that we should be out of the country.  I propose to start from here on this day week.”

“Uncle Magnus will not be able to have us then.”

“We must loiter away our time on the road.  I look upon it as quite imperative that we shall both be out of England within eight days’ time of this.”

“But where will you go?”

“Never mind.  I do not know that I have as yet quite made up my mind.  But you may understand that we shall start from Cheltenham this day week.  Baker will go with us, and I shall leave the other two servants in charge of the house.  I cannot tell you anything farther as yet,—­except that I will never consent to your marriage with Mr. Henry Annesley.  You had better know that for certain, and then there will be less cause for unhappiness between us.”  So saying, the angry ghost with the night-cap on stalked out of the room.

It need hardly be explained that Mrs. Mountjoy’s information respecting the scene in London had come to her from Augustus Scarborough.  When he told her that Annesley had been the last in London to see his brother Mountjoy, and had described the nature of the scene that had occurred between them, he had no doubt forgotten that he himself had subsequently seen his brother.  In the story, as he had told it, there was no need to mention himself,—­no necessity for such a character in making up the tragedy of that night.  No doubt, according to his idea, the two had been alone together.  Harry had struck the blow by which his brother had been injured, and had then left him in the street.  Mountjoy had subsequently disappeared, and Harry had told to no one that such an encounter had taken place.  This