Northern Weekly Gazette. — 1910-09-10 (Stockton-on-Tees, Cleveland, England)

CHAPTER 111.  When Edith Robinson saw those two faces, the one a newspaper print of the murdered woman., and the other a photograph in the poweesiondaf her fiance, she was horrified. She had come light-heartedly into the room she had undertaken the labour of setting Cyril's papers straight with a gleefulness that hiid a Spice of misohief in it. And now she Was face to face with tragedy. What was the meanring of it? Wha.t was Cyril's knowledge of the dead Woman?  She aroPPed the photograph on to the tabae, and stood irresolute, crushing the newspaper in her hand. What should she do? She was uncertain. Her first implilgo wais to seek Cyril, confront him with the photograph and the paper, arid ask him to explain. T4ecii she shrank from the ordeal. It was such a horrible accusation to bring a4..ra.inot the man to whom she was betrothed. To demand an exPlanation would be to accuse him. That was clear. It supposed him----,whst P What did she fear? What did 'she think ? The woman was  )i2ll/4  'd  "Not in his room? Then he must have gone  out.,,  "Possibly." 'That at least is easily discovered. She raised her tortoise-shelled lorgnette and stared at the little heap of paper ashes as though to suggest that there lay something not so easily elucidated. "Ring the bell, Edith_ John will know."  She made no movement towards the little bellpush, but stood staring into the' fire' knitting her brows. Of wthat, if John did happen to know, would "all about Cyril" consist? Would it link that smiling photograph face and tho, one now blotted out by the fire? Lady Burnett permitted herself to a little wellbred pettishness. Edith, please ring the bell." "I don't want to see Cyril," Edith answered. Sihe spoke reeolutely. It was this sudden ring of resolution in her voice that first suggested to Lady Burnett that the heiress might not be sul tractable as she thought. Hitherto she had seemed a little overawed, quite visib.ly impereesed by the importance 4f the famEy.  "You have quarrelled? That is foolish; Edith. Possibly human—but foolish. Lowers quarrels--"  " We are not lovers, Lady Burnett." "Oh, my dear, I should hope not. Excess of affection argues poverty- of family." Lady Burnett was foundering, and was conscious of it. She tried to hide it in an unusual touch of motherliness—a quality that sat oddly upon her. "You must not be piqued, my dear child. Cyril is odd in his manner—l think he is worried— but there is no doubt as to his attaahment. We are all fond of you, my dear." "Thank you, Lady Burnett," she stared into the fire, wrinkling her forehead aver those strange words. Cyril was worried. Worried about what? Since when? "We have not quarrelled," she oontinued, in a level voice. "Even I cannot quarrel with the uneeem. He is strangely intangible to-day. His movements are known to no one, unless it be John. I have not quarrelled with him—l do not want to quarrel with him. So I will not ring the hell, L•ady Burnett." "Pique, child. if you Eke him ?" "Mat is always a possibility when a woman meets a man. I shall ride over The Oaks.' " "When ?" Lady Burnett spoke sharply. This mood of Edith's seemed more serious than she expected. "Now. I shall lunch with dad. I want a canter. I feel compressed. I shall be back for tea." Her tone was quite decided. "An old cure for pique. Forgive Cyril, my dear. Say to yourself with every stride of your horse, "He is worried, poor boy." "Shall I' add the reason, Lady Burnett ?" "What do you mean 11" Her ladyship stared at her.  You malfess you will quaJTol  "As muoh as I usually do." " Which is nothing. One of your delightful qualitios is a want of seriousness. I will t. phone to the stables. I suppose Miles had better go with you ?" "I don't want anyone. It is wily six miles to "The Oaks." I ride at home untrammelled by grooms. Ido not believe in them as a alfeguard. If they are okl they are incapable: if they are yount7, they are frequently too capable." "I must insist," Lady Burnett q.id with a smile.  E]