the window curtain, just in time to escape discovery, as she
looked up at the house. She next appeared in the yard, hurrying
back. I waited a while, trying to compose myself in case I met
any one on the stairs. There was little danger of a meeting at
that hour. The General was at his club; the servants were at
their tea. I reached my own room without being seen by any one,
and locked myself in.

What had my aunt been doing for forty minutes in Michael's room?
And why had she opened the window?

I spare you my reflections on these perplexing questions. A
convenient headache saved me from the ordeal of meeting Lady
Claudia at the dinner-table. I passed a restless and miserable
night; conscious that I had found my way blindly, as it were, to
some terrible secret which might have its influence on my whole
future life, and not knowing what to think, or what to do next.
Even then, I shrank instinctively from speaking to my uncle. This
was not wonderful. But I felt afraid to speak to Michael--and
that perplexed and alarmed me. Consideration for Lady Claudia was
certainly not the motive that kept me silent, after what I had
seen.

The next morning my pale face abundantly justified the assertion
that I was still ill.

My aunt, always doing her maternal duty toward me, came herself
to inquire after my health before I was out of my room. So
certain was she of not having been observed on the previous
day--or so prodigious was her power of controlling herself--that