‘There are the lights of my house,’ he murmured, pointing to a glimmer among the trees, ‘and here is the cottage which I am going to enter.’

We turned a corner in the lane as he spoke, and there was the building close beside us. A yellow bar falling across the black foreground showed that the door was not quite closed, and one window in the upper story was brightly illuminated. As we looked we saw a dark blur moving across the blind.

‘There is that creature,’ cried Grant Munro; ‘you can see for yourselves that someone is there. Now follow me, and we shall soon know all.’

We approached the door, but suddenly a woman appeared out of the shadow and stood in the golden track of the lamp-light. I could not see her face in the darkness, but her arms were thrown out in an attitude of entreaty.

‘For God’s sake, don’t, Jack!’ she cried. ‘I had a presentiment that you would come this evening. Think better of it, dear! Trust me again, and you will never have cause to regret it.’

‘I have trusted you too long, Effie!’ he cried, sternly. ‘Leave go of me! I must pass you. My friends and I are going to settle this matter once and for ever.’ He pushed her to one side and we followed closely after him. As he threw the door open an elderly woman ran out in front of him and tried to bar his passage, but he thrust her back, and an instant afterwards we were all upon the stairs. Grant Munro rushed into the lighted room at the top, and we entered it at his heels.

It was a cosy, well-furnished apartment, with two candles burning upon the table and two upon the mantelpiece. In the corner, stooping over a desk, there sat what appeared to be a little girl. Her face was turned away as we entered, but we could see that she was dressed in a red frock, and that she had long white gloves on. As she whisked round to us I gave a cry of surprise and horror. The face which she turned towards us was of the strangest livid tint, and the features were absolutely devoid of any expression. An instant later the mystery was explained. Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind the child’s ear, a mask peeled off from her countenance, and there was a little coal-black negress with all her white teeth flashing in amusement at our amazed faces. I burst out laughing out of sympathy with her merriment, but Grant Munro stood staring, with his hand clutching at his throat.

‘My God!’ he cried, ‘what can be the meaning of this?’

‘I will tell you the meaning of it,’ cried the lady, sweeping into the room with a proud, set face. ‘You have forced me against my own judgment to tell you, and now we must both make the best of it. My husband died at Atlanta. My child survived.’

‘Your child!’

She drew a large silver locket from her bosom. ‘You have never seen this open.’

‘I understood that it did not open.’

She touched a spring, and the front hinged back. There was a portrait within of a man, strikingly handsome and intelligent, but bearing unmistakable signs upon his features of his African descent.

‘That is John Hebron, of Atlanta,’ said the lady, ‘and a nobler man never walked the earth. I cut myself off from my race in order to wed him; but never once while he lived did I for one instant regret it. It was our misfortune that our only child took after his people rather than mine. It is often so in such matches, and little Lucy is darker far than ever her father was. But, dark or fair, she is my own dear little girlie, and her mother’s pet.’ The little creature ran across at the words and nestled up against the lady’s dress.

‘When I left her in America,’ she continued, ‘it was only because her health was weak, and the change might have done her harm. She was given to the care of a faithful Scotchwoman who had once been