Isabel and the dog were at play together.  Among the varied accomplishments possessed by Tommie, the capacity to take his part at a game of hide-and-seek was one.  His playfellow for the time being put a shawl or a handkerchief over his head, so as to prevent him from seeing, and then hid among the furniture a pocketbook, or a cigar-case, or a purse, or anything else that happened to be at hand, leaving the dog to find it, with his keen sense of smell to guide him.  Doubly relieved by the fit and the bleeding, Tommie’s spirits had revived; and he and Isabel had just begun their game when Moody looked into the room, charged with his terrible errand.  “You’re burning, Tommie, you’re burning!” cried the girl, laughing and clapping her hands.  The next moment she happened to look round and saw Moody through the parted curtains.  His face warned her instantly that something serious had happened.  She advanced a few steps, her eyes resting on him in silent alarm.  He was himself too painfully agitated to speak.  Not a word was exchanged between Lady Lydiard and Mr. Troy in the next room.  In the complete stillness that prevailed, the dog was heard sniffing and fidgeting about the furniture.  Robert took Isabel by the hand and led her into the drawing-room.  “For God’s sake, spare her, my Lady!” he whispered.  The lawyer heard him.  “No,” said Mr. Troy.  “Be merciful, and tell her the truth!”

He spoke to a woman who stood in no need of his advice.  The inherent nobility in Lady Lydiard’s nature was aroused:  her great heart offered itself patiently to any sorrow, to any sacrifice.

Putting her arm round Isabel—­half caressing her, half supporting her—­Lady Lydiard accepted the whole responsibility and told the whole truth.

Reeling under the first shock, the poor girl recovered herself with admirable courage.  She raised her head, and eyed the lawyer without uttering a word.  In its artless consciousness of innocence the look was nothing less than sublime.  Addressing herself to Mr. Troy, Lady Lydiard pointed to Isabel.  “Do you see guilt there?” she asked.

Mr. Troy made no answer.  In the melancholy experience of humanity to which his profession condemned him, he had seen conscious guilt assume the face of innocence, and helpless innocence admit the disguise of guilt:  the keenest observation, in either case, failing completely to detect the truth.  Lady Lydiard misinterpreted his silence as expressing the sullen self-assertion of a heartless man.  She turned from him, in contempt, and held out her hand to Isabel.

“Mr. Troy is not satisfied yet,” she said bitterly.  “My love, take my hand, and look me in the face as your equal; I know no difference of rank at such a time as this.  Before God, who hears you, are you innocent of the theft of the bank-note?”

“Before God, who hears me,” Isabel answered, “I am innocent.”

Lady Lydiard looked once more at the lawyer, and waited to hear if he believed that.