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