forgotten me.'

Clara regarded him in astonishment. His age seemed to be something
short of thirty; he had a long, grave, intelligent face, smiled
enigmatically, spoke in a rather slow voice. His silk hat, sober
necktie drawn through a gold ring, and dark morning-coat, made it
probable that he was 'in the City.'

'We used to know each other very well about five years ago,' he
pursued, pocketing his change carelessly. 'Don't you remember a Mr.
Scawthorne, who used to be a lodger with some friends of yours
called Rudd?'

On the instant memory revived in Clara. In her schooldays she often
spent a Sunday afternoon with Grace Rudd, and this Mr. Scawthorne
was generally at the tea-table. Mr. and Mrs. Rudd made much of him,
said that he held a most important post in a lawyer's office,
doubtless had private designs concerning him and their daughter.
Thus aided, she even recognised his features.

'And you knew me again after all this time?'

'Yours isn't an easy face to forget,' replied Mr. Scawthorne, with
the subdued polite smile which naturally accompanied his tone of
unemotional intimacy. 'To tell you the whole truth, however, I
happened to hear news of you a few days ago. I met Grace Rudd; she
told me you were here. Some old friend had told _her_'

Grace's name awoke keen interest in Clara. She was startled to hear
it, and did not venture to make the inquiry her mind at once