"Far enough off, as you say," Lady Janet agreed.
Once more Julian's inexhaustible kindness strove to obtain a hearing for the stranger who had been confided to his care.
"A little patience, Lady Janet," he pleaded.
"A little consideration, Horace, for a friendless woman."
"Thank you, sir," said Grace. "It is very kind of you to try and help me, but it is useless.
They won't even listen to me."
She attempted to rise from her chair as she pronounced the last words.
Julian gently laid his hand on her shoulder and obliged her to resume her seat.
"I will listen to you," he said.
"You referred me just now to the consul's letter.
The consul tells me you suspected some one of taking your papers and your clothes."
"I don't suspect," was the quick reply; "I am certain!
I tell you positively Mercy Merrick was the thief.
She was alone with me when I was struck down by the shell.
She was the only person who knew that I had letters of introduction about me.
She confessed to my face that she had been a bad woman—she had been in a prison—she had come out of a refuge—"
Julian stopped her there with one plain question, which threw a doubt on the whole story.
"The consul tells me you asked him to search for Mercy Merrick," he said.
"Is it not true that he caused inquiries to be made, and that no trace of any such person was to be heard of?"
"The consul took no pains to find her," Grace answered, angrily. "He was, like everybody else, in a conspiracy to neglect and misjudge me."
Lady Janet and Horace exchanged looks.
This time it was impossible for Julian to blame them.
The further the stranger's narrative advanced, the less worthy of serious attention he felt it to be.
The longer she spoke, the more disadvantageously she challenged comparison with the absent woman, whose name she so obstinately and so audaciously persisted in assuming as her own.
"Granting all that you have said," Julian resumed, with a last effort of patience, "what use could Mercy Merrick make of your letters and your clothes?"
"What use?" repeated Grace, amazed at his not seeing the position as she saw it. "My clothes were marked with my name.
One of my papers was a letter from my father, introducing me to Lady Janet.
A woman out of a refuge would be quite capable of presenting herself here in my place."
Spoken entirely at random, spoken without so much as a fragment of evidence to support them, those last words still had their effect.
They cast a reflection on Lady Janet's adopted daughter which was too outrageous to be borne.
Lady Janet rose instantly.
"Give me your arm, Horace," she said, turning to leave the room. "I have heard enough."
Horace respectfully offered his arm.
"Your ladyship is quite right," he answered. "A more monstrous story never was invented."
He spoke, in the warmth of his indignation, loud enough for Grace to hear him.
"What is there monstrous in it?" she asked, advancing a step toward him, defiantly.
Julian checked her.
He too—though he had only once seen Mercy—felt an angry sense of the insult offered to the beautiful creature who had interested him at his first sight of her.
"Silence!" he said, speaking sternly to Grace for the first time.
"You are offending—justly offending—Lady Janet.
You are talking worse than absurdly—you are talking offensively—when you speak of another woman presenting herself here in your place."
Grace's blood was up.
Stung by Julian's reproof, she turned on him a look which was almost a look of fury.
"Are you a clergyman?
Are you an educated man?" she asked.
"Have you never read of cases of false personation, in newspapers and books?
I blindly confided in Mercy Merrick before I found out what her character really was.
She left the cottage—I know it, from the surgeon who brought me to life again—firmly persuaded that the shell had killed me.
My papers and my clothes disappeared at the same time.
Is there nothing suspicious in these circumstances?