her uncle there, and she will in all probability never come back to
England."

Hugh drew a sigh of relief. "That's all right then! It's all right,
little girl; it is all right. I believe things are going to be brighter
for you now."

"Thanks to you, Hugh!"

"You know there is nothing in this world--" He looked down at the lovely
face, alive with gratitude and happiness. His dreams were ended, the
"might-have-been" would never be, but he knew that there was peace in
that little breast at last.




CHAPTER III

JOAN MEREDYTH, TYPIST


Mr. Philip Slotman touched the electric buzzer on his desk and then
watched the door. He was an unpleasant--looking man, strangely corpulent
as to body, considering his face was cast in lean and narrow mould, the
nose large, prominent and hooked, the lips full, fleshy, and of
cherry--like redness, the eyes small, mean, close together and deep set.
The over--corpulent body was attired lavishly. It was dressed in a fancy
waistcoat, a morning coat, elegantly striped trousers of lavender hue
and small pointed--toed, patent--leather boots, with bright tan uppers.