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see that it is quite possible that he never saw the advertisements you put in. But you haven’t any proof that he died—and, you see, he didn’t.”

“My dear child, you are as difficult to convince as your Uncle Roger. I had no idea that you could be so unreasonable and obstinate. Anyone would think you wanted to believe that this man is Lord Trent, and were anxious to hand everything over to him.”

For a moment the room swam before Pamela’s eyes and Aunt Sophia’s fat, disapproving face and Archie’s puzzled eyes were far-off and misty. To give up Trent Stoke! Not to be Lady Trent! What would it all mean? She dared not let her thoughts go further then. She clutched the arms of her chair and said quietly:

“I shall write to Mr. Ratcliff, Aunt Sophia. He must be told.”

“You absurd child! You will do nothing of the sort. This is not a question for a lawyer; it is not a question at all. Why will you not see that?”

“I shall write to Mr. Ratcliff to-night. I don’t understand what—Mr. Ste. Croix meant by going away, but—I am not Lady Trent, and nothing belongs to me. I know that.”

Pamela got up, a slim, determined figure in white. (It was a fancy of hers to wear white always.) To-day her face was white as well, and the wide blue eyes had narrowed and darkened. She looked gravely at her aunt and cousin, then disappeared without another word. Archie gazed at Aunt Sophia in consternation. He was quite in the dark and rather worried.

“Rummy business, this,” he commented, as he took his leave. “Of course it’s all right—St. Croix is no end of a good chap—I’ll stake my life on that. Funny about the names being the same—what?”—and he was gone.