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“My dear child! But this is a most valuable thing. Who gave you this?”

“The—it—I mean it was a birthday present once.”

Pamela, suddenly confused, scarlet to the roots of her hair, was the picture of guilt. Inwardly she upbraided herself for her want of ready speech. It would have been so simple to say “My godmother,” instead of “The Duchess of Thanet,” which had trembled on the tip of her tongue. But to hesitate and stutter like this—it was ridiculous. Of course Mrs. Taylor would think she was trying to conceal something.

Mrs. Taylor did not know what to think. She was not an especially suspicious woman, but some of the “sad cases” brought to her notice occasionally turned out to be anything but “deserving,” and now—this agitated, unknown girl, with her pretty face, her extravagant story, and jewellery such as Annie had never dreamt of possessing———! Perhaps she may be excused for the doubt which crept into her soul and clouded the gaze which she had fixed on Pamela.

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to be inquisitive,” she said coldly. Six months ago, the frigid tone, the doubting eyes, would have conveyed little to Pamela—she certainly could not have interpreted them aright; now she knew—her heart stood still as she realised their meaning. Without a word she took the little box and went away to her room, so shocked and ashamed that there was no room for anger in her shrinking soul. The tangle of thoughts came crowding back; again the spectres thronged about her. Hour after hour she lay motionless in the darkness, yet could not sleep. The whole face of life was changed, and there was nothing left to cling to.