Beneath Lisbeth's favourite tree, an ancient apple-tree so gnarled and rugged that it seemed to have spent all its days tying itself into all manner of impossible knots--in the shade of this tree, I say, there was a rustic seat and table, upon which was a work-basket, a book, and a handkerchief. It was a large, decidedly masculine handkerchief, and as my eyes encountered it, by some unfortunate chance I noticed a monogram embroidered in one corner--an extremely neat, precise monogram, with the letters "F.S." I recognised it at once as the property of Mr. Selwyn.
Ordinarily I should have thought nothing of it, but to-day it was different; for there are times in one's life when the most foolish things become pregnant of infinite possibilities; when the veriest trifles assume overwhelming proportions, filling and blotting out the universe.
So it was now, and as I stared down at the handkerchief, the Doubt within me grew suddenly into Certainty.
I was pacing restlessly up and down when I saw Lisbeth approaching; her cheeks seemed more flushed than usual, and her hand trembled as she gave it to me.
"Why, whatever is the matter with you?" she said; "you look so--so strange, Dick."
"I received a letter from the Duchess this morning."
"Did you?"
"Yes; in which she tells me your Aunt has threatened to----"
"Cut me off with a shilling," nodded Lisbeth, crossing over to the table.
"Yes," I said again.