not altogether fictitious, and within a few days after the returned
letter reached him he was back at Stoke Newington. He went
immediately to the address in Pentonville which he found on the
envelope, but was very shortly informed by Mrs Cork that 'she knew
nothing whatever about them.' He walked round Myddelton Square,
hopeless, for he had no clue whatever.

What had happened to him would scarcely, perhaps, have caused some
young men much uneasiness, but with Frank the case was altogether
different. There was a chance of discovery, and if his crime should
come to light his whole future life would be ruined. He pictured his
excommunication, his father's agony, and it was only when it seemed
possible that the water might close over the ghastly thing thrown in
it, and no ripple reveal what lay underneath, that he was able to
breathe again. Immediately he asked himself, however, IF he could
live with his father and wear a mask, and never betray his dreadful
secret. So he wandered homeward in the most miserable of all
conditions; he was paralysed by the intricacy of the coil which
enveloped and grasped him.

That evening it happened that there was a musical party at his
father's house; and, of course, he was expected to assist. It would
have suited his mood better if he could have been in his own room, or
out in the streets, but absence would have been inconsistent with his
disguise, and might have led to betrayal. Consequently he was
present, and the gaiety of the company and the excitement of his
favourite exercise, brought about for a time forgetfulness of his
trouble. Amongst the performers was a distant cousin, Cecilia
Morland, a young woman rather tall and fully developed; not
strikingly beautiful, but with a lovely reddish-brown tint on her