"Don't ask me—it's my secret. Or rather it's hers."
"Ah, but you promised to let me know if you succeeded."
"Who can tell? It's too soon to speak of success."
"Why so—if he's gone away?"
"He may come back."
"What will that matter if she won't take him?"
"Very true—she won't."
"Ah, what did you do to her?" I demanded, very curious.
Mrs. Rushbrook looked at me with strange, smiling eyes. "I played a bold game."
"Did you offer her money?"
"I offered her yours."
"Mine? I have none. The bargain won't hold."
"I offered her mine, then."
"You might be serious—you promised to tell me," I repeated.
"Surely not. All I said was that if my attempt didn't succeed I wouldn't tell you."
"That's an equivocation. If there was no promise and it was so disagreeable, why did you make the attempt?"
"It was disagreeable to me, but it was agreeable to you. And now, though you goaded me on, you don't seem delighted."
"Ah, I'm too curious—I wonder too much!"
"Well, be patient,' said Mrs. Rushbrook, "and with time everything will probably be clear to you."
I endeavoured to conform to this injunction, and my patience was so far rewarded that a month later I began to have a suspicion of the note that Mrs. Rushbrook had sounded. I quite gave up Mrs. Goldie's house, but Montaut was in and out of it enough to give me occa-
