"We all got on the wrong train and we all stayed the night at this hotel"
"Yes—and——"
Peggy pressed home her questions. She would not understand. "What else?" she said.
"We all stayed the night at this hotel," Lord Ellerdine remarked.
"Did we?" Peggy asked.
"Yes," he said—"no! Oh! But it is best to be prepared."
"I see," Peggy said at last. "What a dull creature I am! Dear me! how stupid I didn't see it before! You have all made it up to put me right. You and Alice didn't go to Switzerland—you came on to Paris. You and Alice didn't get to Chalons and come on here by the slow train—you stayed here all night. I see. Now, that's so kind and thoughtful of you all! But for whom is this delightful story?"
"Dicky's scruples," Collingwood said hurriedly.
"I see. Dicky wanted it, did he?" Peggy replied. "Well, Dicky, I hope your moral sensibilities are quite satisfied. We all got on the wrong train and we all stayed the night at this hotel."
"Quite so," Ellerdine said quickly; "just a short, straight, simple tale, ready for any emergency."
"And what emergency do you expect?"
"Dearest Peggy, none at all," Lady Attwill said, with a note of anxious affection in her voice.
"I see. I understand. But don't you think the tale will need a lot of corroboration?"
"But only if someone questions it."
"Oh!" Peggy said, and there was a world of meaning in the exclamation.
"You see," Lord Ellerdine went on anxiously—"you see, it's all right, Peggy. We have left nothing to chance."
Lady Attwill nodded. "Nothing at all," she said, echoing her friend.
Peggy looked at them each in turn. Her sweet and youthful face bore little trace of what she had gone through the night before; and though her head was throbbing and her nerves were all jangling and raw, her freshness and purity of countenance remained absolutely unimpaired. Beside her Alice Attwill suddenly seemed to have grown old.
She looked at them each in turn with grave contemplation—lastly at Collingwood. "And what do you think about it, Colling?" she asked at length. "Don't you think that we are a precious set of fools? No—that's unkind of me. Not you, Alice. Not you, Dicky. I am the precious fool. Fool! Why, I should have been in cap and bells! A thing to make the whole world laugh. For only the fool will ask for an explanation—the wise, if they ask, will look on the explanation as the better part of the joke. But tell me, Dicky, why is the explanation necessary?"
"Oh! Come, Peggy, come. Confound it!" Lord Ellerdine blundered out. "It looks so deuced bad."
Peggy made a grimace at him. "Candid!" she said. "Now that was frank. 'It looks so deuced bad.' That's it. Looks! But only looks. What do you think, Colling? Can't we tell the truth? Is there anything to hide?"
"Nothing," Collingwood said.
"There," Peggy went on; "there's nothing to hide."
"Oh, we all know that," Lord Ellerdine said hastily.
Peggy's rising temper almost got the better of her. "Then why the explanation—the 'short, straight, simple tale'? Why not the truth?"
She clenched her hands, and an angry light burned in her eyes. "Oh! I'll leave you for a moment. I must go out. This place is stifling! We ought all to be out in the air. We'll grow mouldy in here—plotting. Alice, I'll put on my hat. Colling, you must invent another tale to satisfy Dicky's scruples. Think it over."
She tore out of the room into her own and shut the door with a rather vicious slam.
"Well, I'm jiggered!" Lord Ellerdine said.
Lady Attwill nodded with a slight tightening of the lips. "I told you she was upset," she answered.
Collingwood rose from the table and went towards his own room.
"Well, Dicky," he said, "I have done the best I can to satisfy you. I'll get my hat and take Peggy for a walk and talk it over." And he also left the room.
"Well," Ellerdine remarked, "this comes of thinking of your friends." He went to the fireplace and gazed rather gloomily at the glowing logs. "May the devil take me if I ever care a damn again what folks think of 'em," he went on.
Alice Attwill went up to the window. "Dicky, it is very strange," she said. "I have never seen Peggy in that nasty mood before."
"I've a jolly good mind to think the worst has happened," the man remarked.
She shrugged her shoulders. "Well, anyway, Colling is not in Peggy's good books," she said, and, pulling one of the large windows open, she stepped out upon the balcony.
Lord Ellerdine was left alone. His face was grave and perplexed; but seeing the Matin lying on the sofa, where Lady Attwill had dropped it before breakfast, he went up, sat down, and was soon immersed in the news of the day.
There came a light tap upon the door leading into the corridor, which was flung open immediately afterwards. Jacques stood there holding the door open.
"Mr. Admaston," he said in a loud, clear voice.
CHAPTER V
A Thunderbolt crashing through the roof of the hotel could not have startled Lord Ellerdine more than the waiter's announcement:
"Mr. Admaston."
He dropped the paper, sprang to his feet as if someone had struck him, while his face grew absolutely white and the little mouth became a round "O" of consternation and alarm.
George Admaston walked slowly into the room.
He was a big man of about forty years of age, very quiet in manner, and with a strong, resolute face. The eyes were grey and steadfast, and wore that look which some people mistake for abstraction, but which is anything but that. They had the expression of one who thinks often and much. The finely chiselled mouth was set somewhat grimly, and there was great force and assertiveness about the slightly forward thrust of the massive chin. He was dressed in quiet grey tweeds, carried a bowler hat in his hand and a light coat over his arm.
"Hello, Ellerdine!" he said. "What are you doing here?"
The voice was deep and mellow, informed with weight and gravity, though pleasantly musical.
Lord Ellerdine looked hurriedly round the room. It might have been thought he was seeking an avenue of escape.
There was no one to help him, however, and he began to stutter horribly, while his eyes wore the look of a startled hare. "Here?" he gasped out. "Oh!" His eyes fell upon the breakfast-table, and an inspiration came to him. "Oh," he stuttered, "just had breakfast, don't you know."
"Early for you, isn't it?" said the big man, looking the wretched object before him full in the face.
"It is rather early," Lord Ellerdine replied. "Been travelling all——"
"All what?" Admaston asked quickly.
The other was in despair. He realised what he had done. He looked hopelessly round the room for Alice Attwill.
"Where's Lady Attwill gone?" he gasped.
Never relaxing his gaze for a single instant, and standing in the middle of the room without advancing further, Admaston continued: "Is she here?"
"Oh yes," replied Lord Ellerdine. "She's here. In fact, we're all here."
"Where's my wife?"
"In her room. Changing her gown. She's going for a walk."
"But I thought you went to Switzerland," Admaston went on.
"Did you really?" Ellerdine answered, with a ghastly assumption of ingratiating affability, though his hands were shaking, his mouth worked, and beads of perspiration were plainly rolling down his face.
Again came the grave, persistent voice: "Yes. That was the plan, wasn't it?"
"Oh! Yes—of course. But we all got on the wrong train."
"What?" Admaston said sharply, and a new note in his voice made the ex-diplomatist jump from the floor.
"We all got on the wrong train," he repeated.
"Who are we?"
"Collingwood and Peggy——"
"And what train did you and Lady Attwill get on?"
"The wrong one. Stupid mistake, wasn't it?"
"Very," Admaston answered.
Lord Ellerdine brightened a little. He thought he was carrying things very well now. "Yes," he said, "and so we all stayed the night at this hotel."
"Indeed!" Admaston replied.
The other put his shaking hands into his trousers pockets. "Oh yes! all," he said. "The proprieties were most carefully observed, Admaston."
"Now, that is very interesting," Admaston remarked; and if the other had been a member of the Lower House instead of the Upper, which he never entered, he would have known what that bland suavity of voice portended when the Cabinet Minister rose to speak.
Lord Ellerdine nodded. "Yes," he said. "But what the deuce are you doing here in Paris?"
"Oh! a whim."
"Didn't expect to find us here," the wretched fool continued—"did you?"
"There's something on?" Admaston answered, going towards the window and talking as he went. "Racing or something, isn't there?"
"Yes," Lord Ellerdine said. "Auteuil. Going out?"
Lady Attwill appeared at the window. "Oh! Alice," Admaston said.
She smiled brightly, extending her little manicured hand, upon which diamonds and sapphires flashed and sparkled in the brilliant light of the sun. "How do you do, George?" she said. "Who ever expected to see you here?"
"I don't run over often," Admaston answered, just taking her hand and no more. "But I thought you were at St. Moritz?"
"St. Moritz? Oh!—no. We changed our minds and came on to Paris."
"Then you didn't get on the wrong train?" Admaston said with grim politeness.
The wretched Ellerdine, who had retreated to the breakfast-table and sank down upon a chair, heard this, and was about to lay his head in the bacon dish with alarm, when Lady Attwill's next words did a little to reassure him.
"Oh yes," she said easily, going into the centre of the room; "we all got on the wrong train, but we changed our minds when we discovered our mistake."
"Good thing you did it before it was too late."
"Did what?" she asked in a flat voice.
"Why, changed your minds before you could change on to the right train."
"Wasn't it!" she replied. "And, by the way, I saw an old friend of yours on the train, George."
"And who was that?" Admaston asked.
"Sir Peter Stoke," she answered.
"Really! But he must have been on the right train. He was going to the Conference at Geneva."
"Oh!" she replied, "I met him at Boulogne."
There was a pause, and when he spoke again Admaston's voice grew colder and colder with every sentence.
"Strange," he said, nodding his head with an appearance of thoughtfulness. "He wrote to me from Amiens, where he has been staying for the past week, that he was joining the train there; and Amiens is the first stop on the Swiss express, isn't it?"
Lady Attwill almost whispered her assent.
"And the Paris express doesn't stop at Amiens?"
It suddenly occurred to Lord Ellerdine that he was being left out of the conversation.
"No," he said brightly.
Admaston turned round to him.
"Funny that, being already at Amiens, where the Swiss express does stop, he should have gone to Boulogne to catch it!"
Even the diplomatist, who had imagined that things were going better, began to realise the game was almost up.
"Yes, damned funny of him, wasn't it?" he said feebly.
For a few moments there was an absolute silence in the room. Outside, the roar of the morning traffic, the tooting of motor horns, and all the gay welter of things which marks a Parisian morning in fine weather, only accentuated the silence in the richly furnished salon.
Admaston turned and walked twice up and down the room. Lord Ellerdine was still sitting, guilty and miserable of aspect, in his chair at the breakfast table. Lady Attwill stood quite still where she was, near the window. They were both waiting to hear what should come next. Suddenly Admaston spoke.
"You found Paris very full?" he said in his icy voice.
"Very," Alice Attwill replied; "so we were lucky to get in here."
"Here?" the big man asked.
"Yes; we all stayed the night at this hotel."
"You used to have a very fine old parrot," Admaston said.
There was spirit in the woman. She gave a little toss of her head. "Er—I have her still," she replied.
"Not stuffed, I hope," he said.
"No, indeed. Alive and kicking."
There was a rattle of a handle, and the door of Collingwood's room opened and he came into the room.
He gave one slight start, no more, and his manner immediately became easy and natural. "Hallo!" he said. "Admaston!"
The big man regarded him gravely, showing no emotion whatever.
"Well, Collingwood," he said very slowly and distinctly, "I thought I would just run over and see——" Then he stopped speaking.
"How did you know that we were here?" Collingwood said.
"From a friend," Admaston answered.
The fool had to have his say. "That's very funny, Admaston," he said. "We didn't know ourselves."
"You surprise me. Didn't you know you were going to St. Moritz?"
"Of course we didn't know," Lady Attwill said quickly.
"Then how on earth could your friend know?" Lord Ellerdine asked.
There was a complete pause. Nobody said a word, but Admaston was the centre and focus of the place. All eyes went to him, and then back and round to each other's. He stood there, however, calm and imperturbable, radiating, as it were, not only quiet strength and absolute determination, but also sending out rays of fear, of uneasiness and disturbance.
Lord Ellerdine broke the silence with his plaintive bleat, repeating his former sentence: "Then how on earth could your friend know?"
"That's what I want to know," said Admaston. "But why on earth are you all up so early?"
Collingwood's face had been growing sharp and hostile, his nostrils twitched a little; he seemed now to be definitely on the defensive, ready for the attack. What he said was this: "Mrs. Admaston wanted to go out early to see the people en route to Auteuil."
Admaston raised one firm, shapely hand and brought it down upon the back of the other with a slow movement that ended in a little "click" of noise. "Mrs.?" he said. "Why Mrs. Admaston? Why are you so ceremonious, Colling? Why not Peggy?"
Collingwood looked dangerous, sulky and dangerous.
"Don't know," he said shortly. "I thought perhaps you were offended."
"Offended?" the relentless voice continued—so cold, relentless, and full of purpose that it chilled them all as it echoed out into the room. "Is there any reason why I should be offended?"
"Certainly not," said Lord Ellerdine in a staccato bleat.
"Good gracious! What an idea!" Alice Attwill chimed in.
Admaston turned to the ex-diplomatist. "Ellerdine," he said, "you ought not to sit up so late. You look very shaky this morning, and your voice has a peculiarly uncertain sound."
"Do I look shaky, old man? That damned journey——"
"To Paris," Admaston said quickly.
"Yes, yes, to Paris."
Admaston went up to him, gazing down at him with calm, reflective eyes as a mastiff regards some terrified small dog. "Late suppers don't agree with you," he said.
"With me?" asked the fool, perplexed.
"With Dicky? Late suppers?" Lady Attwill interrupted.
There was again a momentary pause.
The thing was closing in. The conspirators knew well enough that they were being played with, with the cold ferocity of a cat with a mouse. They were brave still. They preserved their pitiful pretences, but to the heart of each of them a little icicle had come.
"It was after midnight before he had finished his supper?" Admaston said.
"When?" Ellerdine inquired.
"Last night," Admaston rapped out.
"Dicky?" Lady Attwill said. "Why, he didn't have any supper last night."
"Not a bally mouthful," said Lord Ellerdine, shaking his head mournfully.
"Collingwood told me," Admaston remarked, "that you had just finished supper, well after midnight."
"Well, that was a whopper," said Lady Attwill.
"He didn't know," Ellerdine spluttered in.
"Oh! I thought not," Admaston said. "But you all stayed here last night."
At that moment the sun, which had been filling the room with radiance, had become obscured by a floating cloud. The place was informed by a momentary greyness. It was only early spring, after all, and summer with its perpetual radiance, its perpetual heat, its air of summer, which will always make a room cheerful even when a thunderstorm approaches, had not yet arrived.
The room became as grey as the faces of the people who were in it, as grey and cold as the accusing voice which could not be silenced, which continued remorselessly. "But you all stayed here last night," Admaston repeated slowly, clearly, and with a definite, staccato voice.
Then there was an odd chiming of tone. The anxious musical contralto of Lady Attwill mingled with the more anxious, and definitely tremulous, bleat of the diplomatist.
"Oh yes. We were all here," they said together.
"But no supper?"
"No supper, George," Ellerdine said in a faint voice....
The door opened and Jacques of Ecclefechan entered.
He looked towards Lord Ellerdine. "Your man, my lord, to see you," he said in excellent Scotch-English.
A little wizened, elderly man with grey hair closely cropped to his head, and dressed in a decorous lounge suit of black, came drooping into the room.
His face was anxious, and at the same time pleased.
"I telephoned to Chalons, my lord," he said.
Lord Ellerdine jumped up as if he had suddenly sat down upon a pin.
"What?" he said.
"The railway people are sure they put your dispatch-box on the 2.43 with you and Lady Attwill."
Lord Ellerdine's face became the colour of brick. If his mouth had been larger it would have foamed at the corners. "Get out!" he spluttered.
The little man started back a step, his arms shot out in amazement, his face a mere mask of one.
"My lord!" he said.
"Get out!"
The poor fellow realised that there was obviously something very wrong. It was a situation he could only deal with in one way, and that was by being thoroughly polite.
"Yes, my lord," he said, in a voice from which he vainly tried to eliminate the amazement he felt.
Admaston turned sharply to the peer.
"What, Ellerdine?" he said. "Has your dispatch-box got on the wrong train, too? What a chapter of accidents!"
Again there was a horrible silence in the place.
It was broken by a sudden, loud cry.
Peggy had entered from her room, and had seen them all standing there—like figures in a tableau in the big hall at Madame Tussaud's.
"George!" she cried.
At that moment there was a singular change of poise among the tense, strained people who were there.
Lady Attwill, radiant and beautiful, strolled up to the piano.
Admaston remained where he was. Collingwood bent forward, almost in the attitude of a man about to spring.
"Well, Peggy. Going out?" Admaston asked.
"I was," Peggy answered; and if ever guilty fear was manifested in a human voice, the people in that room heard it now. It must be remembered that to people who have been upon the brink of crime or misbehaviour—even though they may have escaped it—the suspicion, when they are confronted with it, has much the same effect upon their attitude as if the thing had already been done. The nerves of the innocent have often proclaimed them guilty to the most indulgent eyes.
"I was going out," Peggy faltered.
"Wait a moment," Admaston said.
Peggy almost drooped together.
She was like an early lily of the valley suddenly withered by a sharp, cold wind—and all gardeners will tell one how sudden and complete that withering and collapse can be.
"Very well," the girl answered.
Admaston raised his right hand a little, while he was looking at her, grave and straight. Then his arm dropped to his side.
"Ellerdine tells me that you all got on the wrong train at Boulogne."
"Yes," Peggy answered. She looked anxiously, and indeed piteously, at the others, wondering what they had been saying, longing to be adequate, conscious of her own innocence, but dreadfully conscious of the appearance of her guilt.
Admaston—and nothing escaped him—saw the way her look flickered round the salon.
"You did?" he said in a voice of doom.
She did the fatal thing; she answered "Yes."
"Ellerdine also says," Admaston continued, "that he and Lady Attwill stayed here last night?"
The ex-diplomatist, who, though he was a perfect fool, was also a thorough gentleman, flushed up and spoke in a voice from which all the fear and bleating noise had gone.
"Of course we did, Admaston," he barked. "Why the devil—don't you believe us?"
But it was of no use; the resolute, ice-cold voice went on.
"And were you all at supper at midnight?"
Peggy broke in. "Why do you ask?" she said—and if ever there was pain and yearning in a human voice it was in hers at that moment.
"Because Collingwood told me that you were," Admaston answered, "and Ellerdine says he didn't have any supper. Lady Attwill corroborates Ellerdine's statement."
"Then why ask me? Don't you believe Colling?" Peggy said with a wail of despair.
"No, I don't," Admaston said shortly.
Collingwood drummed upon the carpet with his left foot.
"Admaston!" he said.
Admaston turned round to him, and his face became, for the first time, suffused with blood.
The quiet grey eyes blazed with anger; the big, capable face was transformed into a single accusation. The voice, at last, was directly accusing. It was wonderful in its pain, its suppressed horror, its certain purpose.
"I don't believe a single word I have heard since I have come into this room," he said.
Lord Ellerdine took a step towards the Minister. "By God! Admaston," he said.
Lady Attwill ran up to Lord Ellerdine and caught him by the arm.
"Dicky, keep quiet," she said in a frightened but very decisive voice.
"You have lied—you lied to me on the telephone last night."
Collingwood glared at him.
"Telephone!" Lord Ellerdine said, also turning to Collingwood. "Did Admaston speak to you last night—on the telephone?"
"Yes," Collingwood answered.
The diplomatist was genuinely distressed. "My dear fellow," he said, "why didn't you tell us?"
"Would that have saved you from saying that you all got on to the wrong train? Collingwood lied to me. You have lied to me. Lady Attwill—well—I beg your pardon...."
Collingwood took two steps towards Peggy.
"Why should you come catechising us?" he said to Admaston, and then he stepped up to him.
The two men stood in front of each other. Admaston, with a white fire of enragement in his face, still preserved his absolute calm of poise. His hands were clasped behind his back, his whole forceful personality seemed whetted for the aggression of the other.
Collingwood, on the other hand, was panther-like and alert. He almost crouched to spring at the other. He was a little younger, infinitely more débonnaire—probably not really so physically powerful, but at least lithe, brave, and ready for anything.
The two men stood there for a moment, when Peggy ran between them. "Oh! don't!" she cried, spreading out her arms—in front of Collingwood. She seemed to fear her husband's heavy and certain onslaught.
She protected Collingwood, not George Admaston. Doubtless her action showed her knowledge of the stronger man, her wish to protect the weaker from his attack. But it was certainly most unfortunate.
"Go!" she cried. "Please go!" And then, turning rapidly to Lord Ellerdine, "Dicky, take Alice away."
Lord Ellerdine was trembling exceedingly. He was not trembling from any physical fear. He would have joined in the row with perfect happiness. It would have suited him very well. He knew that he had cut a sorry figure on this occasion—and he was not accustomed to cutting sorry figures. He was not a clever man; nobody knew it better than himself. But he had always considered himself to be an honourable one.
Lady Attwill seemed perfectly composed. Her face did not alter in expression at all, but she caught hold of her friend by the arm and led him out of the room.
The last thing that was heard as the two departed was the plaintive voice of the ex-diplomatist: "I knew it—I knew it."
Admaston waited until the door was closed, and then he turned to Collingwood. "Why don't you go?" he said.
"What are you going to do?" Collingwood asked, facing him.
The two men were white with passion. "What the devil has that got to do with you?" Admaston said.
"A great deal. If you loved your wife as I love her you would understand what it has to do with me."
"I loved her—and trusted her implicitly," Admaston answered, and even in his passion his wife could detect a note of sorrow.
"Your presence here looks like it," Collingwood said quickly. "Why, how did you know she was here unless you had her watched? Loved and trusted her! Good God! man, you never knew she existed until another man wanted her!"
"You admit that you wanted her!" Admaston snarled out.
"Yes," the other answered, standing well up; "and much good may the admission do you. I wanted her, and I fought with all the weapons I dared employ, and I have failed. What fight have you made for her? It was her own purity that kept her sweet. It was that purity that I wanted, but I have lost her." He made a passionate gesture with his hands which showed how deeply he was moved—a gesture quite unlike the ordinary English habit.
"If you have any instincts of a gentleman, you have won," Admaston answered.
"What do you mean?"
Peggy, who stood there trembling, gave a wail of despair.
"George, you cannot mean——"
Admaston took no notice of her.
"Your methods have not been over nice," he said with biting scorn: "to betray your friend—to seduce his wife."
"That's a lie! I don't defend myself—but don't you dare to say a word against her. We were great friends. I loved her, and thought she loved me. But she doesn't; she loves you."
"Pretty love!" the big man said. "I have finished with it and with her."
Again there came a wild cry from the trembling woman. "George, for God's sake!"
Now for the first time a look of fear came into Collingwood's eyes. "You mean to cast her off?" he said—"to break her spirit? No—no—you dare not do it. You don't know what you are saying—you have no right...."
"That's for the court to decide," Admaston answered.
Peggy tried to step up to him, but he motioned her not to advance further.
"Court!" she wailed. "No, George, not that! I have done nothing, George, to forfeit your love!"
"Stop! You don't realise how much I know. I saw a letter at the house yesterday before four o'clock. It told me everything you intended to do—everything you have done. That letter brought me over after you. I sent a detective to Boulogne to meet you."
Peggy shook with fear. "That man?" she whispered to herself, with a light of horror in her eyes.
"Yes," Admaston said. "I sent him. He followed you to this hotel. He was here last night. He is in the hotel now. He has given me this report, and it leaves no doubt as to your guilt."
"My guilt! It is not true, George—I swear to you it is not true. I don't care what you have done, or what letters or reports you have received. I am your wife. I didn't love you at first—you knew that—I was honest, I told you all—but now...."
"You blind fool!" Collingwood snarled out in a fury of indignation, "don't you see what you are doing? You are playing my game, not your own. I have tried to win, I have treated her pretty badly, but I don't want to win her now. Don't you see, man, if you call in the court to break her wings you'll only drive her to me?"
"Don't you see, man, if you call in the court to break her wings, you'll only drive her to me!"
"Yes," Admaston answered with a bitter sneer, "I see—and you don't seem very anxious to go through with it."
Collingwood looked at him for a moment, trembling with the desire to fly at his throat. He restrained himself, however, with a tremendous effort, and with an inarticulate growl of rage turned and left the room.
Peggy came timidly towards her husband. "George, you are not going to send me away?" she said.
Admaston covered his face with his hands. "My God! Peggy, you lied to me," he said in a broken voice. "A lie—a lie on your lips! Oh, Peggy, Peggy, what have I done to you?"
"George, I did lie," she wailed—"yes, I did; but only that, only that! I am your wife! Believe me! believe me!"
"My wife! No—no! How am I to believe you? How am I to tell whether that's a lie or not?"
"It's the truth!" she reiterated, her voice shrill with pain. "I swear it! I am as much your wife as I was the day you married me."
Unable to stand longer, she sank down upon the sofa, sobbing terribly.
"You have broken me," the man said—"crushed me. Oh! I was mad to let you do it! I was a fool to leave you alone! But I trusted you. I laughed at the gossip. The ridicule only made my trust in you the greater. I worshipped you, adored you! My whole life was a prayer to you, my ambition to make you proud of me. My whole aim in life was to win you, by doing big things—for you. And now it is all turned to desecration—to be the mock of the crowd!"
"Forgive me, George," she sobbed, "forgive me! I'll come to you. I am humble, not you. I am struck down, crushed. But I'll be your slave. I am still your wife. I am still——"
He gazed at her searchingly. "You love Collingwood," he said in a hollow, empty voice.
"No, no! There was a time when I thought I did."
"You thought you did! When did you think it? Last night?"
"No, George, no! I love you! I knew that last night, if I never knew it before. I love you, George!"
"I don't believe you," he answered coldly. "You and he were together alone when I telephoned."
He spoke very deliberately now. "Was he," he asked—"was he with you when I telephoned at one o'clock?"
"Yes," Peggy answered, knowing well what the admission must convey. "Yes—but...."
"Alone together from ten o'clock?..."
"Yes," she said, still more faintly; "but...."
"Alone together from the time I telephoned?"
"No, no, George!—not after that; I swear it!"
"I know far too much to believe a word you say," he replied, and there was a note of absolute finality in his voice.
She saw that he had made up his mind—that she was doomed.
"I know too much to believe a word you say," he repeated. "You were alone with him. My God! Alone with him!"
In a moment or two Peggy looked up through a mist of tears. The room was empty.
Peggy was left alone.
CHAPTER VI
One morning upon a dull day in the late summer of the same year in which Mrs. Admaston had stayed at the Hôtel des Tuileries in Paris, Colonel Adams came down to breakfast at the Cocoa Tree Club. He ordered his grilled kidneys in the quaint, old-fashioned dining-room, with its rare sporting prints and air of sober comfort, and took up his morning paper. His eyes fell upon the cause list of the Royal Courts of Justice, and he sighed.
A few minutes afterwards Henry Passhe, whose leave from India had been extended for reasons of health, and who was also a member of the famous club in St. James's Street, entered and sat down by his friend.
"Well," he said, "do you still hold to your resolution, Adams?"
The colonel sighed, and put down his knife and fork. "I don't know, old chap," he said doubtfully. "It's different for you. You see, you don't know Mrs. Admaston. I know her quite well, and I really doubt whether it is the chivalrous thing to do, to go and stare at her, as if she was a sort of show. She'll be undergoing tortures all day, poor little thing!"
"Just as you like," Passhe answered. "I confess to great curiosity myself, and of course everyone who can possibly get in will be going, whether they are friends of Mrs. Admaston or of her husband. It's great good luck, my getting two seats like this; but don't come unless you like. I can easily find someone else who will be only too glad to drop in for an hour or two. That's all I want to do—just to see what's going on. You see it is the case of the century almost. I am not up in the statistics of this sort of thing, but I doubt if a Cabinet Minister, who is also one of the wealthiest men in England, has ever brought an action for divorce against his wife, who is not only as rich as he in her own right, but also is co-partner in one of the biggest financial houses in Europe. That's the way I look at it."
"Well, I'll come," the colonel said suddenly. "It can't do any harm, after all; and I am sure all my sympathies are with Mrs. Admaston, though of course...."
Passhe nodded. "But there is absolutely no doubt about it," he said, "of course. But naturally, old chap, the fact of our both being in the hotel in Paris at the very time it all happened gives the thing a special interest for us. When I go back to India everybody will be wanting to know all about it; and as I have got a chance to be present at part of the trial, I really can't forego it."
"That's settled, then," Adams replied, as the two men strolled into the big smoke-room, where the brown-cased Cocoa Tree is put with all its old associations of the past. They fidgeted about a little, smoked a cigarette, while they looked down into the busy St. James's Street from the great Georgian windows, looked at their watches, and then hailed a taxi-cab and were driven to the Law Courts.
Court II. in the Probate, Divorce, and Admiralty Division of the High Court of Justice was crowded almost to suffocation as the two men entered and found, with some difficulty, the seats which had been allotted to them. They settled themselves quietly in their places in the well of the court.
The President was writing something in the book before him, and seated below the judge was the associate, while the usher stood a few yards away.
Lots of people—and these the most fortunate—have never had occasion to visit a law court. It was so with Colonel Adams. This was the first time he had ever entered the great building at the junction of Fleet Street and the Strand, and he gazed round him with great interest.
He saw many faces that he knew. Immediately around him were the privileged of society sitting behind the solicitors; Admaston, Roderick Collingwood, the maid Pauline, and Lord Ellerdine.
In the second row the leading counsel sat.
Mr. Menzies, hawk-faced and saturnine of aspect, the horse-hair wig which framed his face only accentuating the hatchet-like alertness of his countenance. Sir Robert Fyffe, huge-framed, and with a face like the risen moon. Mr. M'Arthur, a youthful-looking man, handsome and débonnaire, but with something rather dangerous and threatening in his face.
Behind the leaders sat a row of junior counsel; and then Lady Attwill, other members of society, and the two friends who had driven from the Cocoa Tree Club.
The gallery at the back of the court was packed with people, and there was a curious hush and stillness over everything.
All eyes were directed to one point—to the witness-box, where Mrs. Admaston was standing.
At the moment when the two men entered both Mr. M'Arthur and Sir Robert Fyffe were standing up.
"I have noted your question, Mr. M'Arthur, and do not think it is admissible at this stage," the President was saying. "No doubt, if Sir Robert's cross-examination follows a certain line, you can return to the matter when you re-examine your witness."
Sir Robert Fyffe sat down.
"If your lordship pleases," he said
Mr. M'Arthur turned over the leaves of a notebook. He was Mrs. Admaston's leading counsel, and his examination continued:
"Now, Mrs. Admaston, let me be quite sure that you clearly understand the charges you have to meet. It is alleged that you arranged to miss the train at Boulogne in order to spend the evening in Paris with the co-respondent."
"That is not true," pierced through the dull, blanket-like silence of the court.
Few people enough have any experience of a court. They read long and large accounts of what goes on in the daily papers. Well-known descriptive writers endeavour to present a true picture of what they themselves have witnessed. And in the result almost every one whose experience of trials is taken almost entirely from the newspapers imagines that the scene of justice is some vast hall. It is all magnified and splendid in their thoughts. The reality is quite different.
A quite small room, panelled, badly lighted, thronged with people—this is the real theatre where the dramas of society are played in London town....
"It is alleged," Mr. M'Arthur, Peggy's own counsel, continued, "that, having reached Paris, you permitted Mr. Collingwood to engage rooms—connected the one with the other."
"I did not know that Mr. Collingwood's room opened out of mine," Mrs. Admaston said. "It seems the hotel was full."
Everyone in the court—one person only excepted—was looking at the slim young woman in the witness-box. She was very simply dressed. Her face was perfectly pale, but her self-possession was marvellous.
From their seats behind the junior counsel, Colonel Adams and Henry Passhe looked on with sympathetic interest.
Passhe—who was somewhat of a psychologist—remarked upon the extreme simplicity of Mrs. Admaston's dress to his friend. "I call it ostentatious," he said, "or something of a trick. When a woman has an income of eighty thousand pounds a year quite apart from her husband, it seems to me exaggerated humility to appear in the clothes that any little milliner might wear."
Colonel Adams shrugged his shoulders. He didn't in the least understand his friend's point of view....
"After you went to bed"—the handsome young-elderly Mr. M'Arthur continued,—"it is said that you permitted Mr. Collingwood to enter your room—you being at the time undressed—and to stay there a considerable time."
Peggy's little white-gloved hands rested upon the rail of the witness-box.
"I don't know about permitting," she said in a clear voice. "He came in because he heard the telephone. I think he thought that I had gone to bed, and that the call might be from our friends."
"At anyrate, he came in, and you permitted him to stay?"
"Yes, I suppose I did. I asked him to go, but we were great friends, and—well—I let him stay and smoke a cigarette."
The court was dead silent now; the keen face of the President regarded counsel and witness with an intent scrutiny.
The society people who were there looked at each other and held their breath. The junior counsel leant forward from their benches, keenly attentive to the efforts of the respondent's friend.
"It is alleged," Mr. M'Arthur continued, "that while you were alone together you were unfaithful to your husband."
"That is a lie." The voice was so poignant, so ringing, so instinct with indignation, that even the President looked up and watched the witness keenly. Mr. M'Arthur nodded to himself as if very pleased with the response he had elicited. He put his hands together and made a motion as though he was congratulating himself.
When he looked up again his face was perfectly bright and cheerful.
"I will put this generally," he said. "Have you ever, Mrs. Admaston—ever, on any occasion or in any place—been unfaithful to your husband?"
"Never—never—never!" Peggy replied....
She seemed no more the young and frivolous person she had been. Tense and strung up, her personality had become arresting and real—her voice seemed to carry conviction.
Mr. M'Arthur looked round the court—with a half glance at the President—and sat down.
As a matter of fact, he had the very gravest doubt as to the possible success of his case. That sleuth-hound, Sir Robert Fyffe, was against him, and the case itself was a thoroughly weak one. He, accomplished barrister, actor, and man of the world as he was, sat down with a quietly suggested air of triumph that impressed every one.
Sir Robert Fyffe rose.
Sir Robert Fyffe was the absolute leader in his own particular line. There was something so red-faced and jolly about him—such a suggestion of friendliness even when he was most deadly,—that the eminence he enjoyed was very well deserved. His voice was mellow; indeed, it was more than that, and had a suggestion of treacle.
He looked at Mrs. Admaston with a bland smile.
"You will, I am sure, admit, Mrs. Admaston, that the events of the 23rd March give ground for very grave suspicion."
Peggy Admaston did not seem at all distressed by this question. Her voice showed the pain that she was enduring, but all her answers to counsel were delivered clearly and openly. They had either a frank innocence about them, or else she was certainly one of the most accomplished actresses and liars of her time.
"Some persons are more suspicious than others," Peggy answered.
"And one would be more justly suspicious of some persons than of others?"
"Yes, perhaps so."
"And may I take it that you class yourself among those persons upon whom suspicion should not readily fall?"
Peggy nodded vigorously. "I think so," she said.
The great, round, red face of Sir Robert beamed upon her in the kindliest way. His voice—which carried right through the court—was still ingratiating and honey-sweet.
"You say," he said, "that your husband ought not to have allowed even these circumstances to make him suspect you?"
"He had always trusted me implicitly," she replied.
The accomplished counsel made a remark sotto voce. "Perhaps too implicitly," he said.
Mr. M'Arthur jumped up in a second and looked at the judge.
"My learned friend has no right to say that," he said.
The President, with his air of taking very little interest at all in the proceedings, raised his eyelids.
"I did not hear what he said," he remarked blandly.
"Never mind, Mr. M'Arthur; I don't mind Sir Robert," Peggy said from the witness-box very sweetly.
"I am sure we shall get on very well," Sir Robert replied. "Now, Mrs. Admaston, I suppose you were very annoyed at finding you were in the wrong train?"
"I was annoyed, I suppose," Peggy answered; "but not very seriously. You see, it really didn't matter very much."
Sir Robert nodded his great bewigged head. "I suppose not," he said. "Was it your fault?"
The girl's clear accents rang out into the court. "I don't think it was anybody's fault, except the fussy customs officer's."
"This fussiness could have been avoided by registering the luggage through—yes?"
"I suppose so," Peggy answered Sir Robert.
The big man leant forward with the most ingratiating face. "Can you," he asked, "suggest any reason why the luggage was not registered?"
"I believe it was the mistake of a porter at Charing Cross."
"The mistake of a porter, the fussiness of a custom-house officer—quite a chapter of accidents!" Sir Robert continued blandly.
Mrs. Admaston seemed to find something consoling in the voice of the great K.C.
"Wasn't it!" she said brightly.
There was no response in the manner or in the voice of Mr. Admaston's counsel.
"Was your luggage with Mr. Collingwood's at Charing Cross?" he asked—blandly still, but with a threatening hint of what was to come in his voice.
"All the luggage was together when I saw it."
"All? The luggage of the whole party?"
"Yes," Peggy replied.
"Was it labelled, Mrs. Admaston? I mean, apart from the railway labels?"
"Mine wasn't."
"Don't you generally label your luggage when you go abroad?" Sir Robert continued.
"I always do."
"Well, Mrs. Admaston, why did you not do so this time?"
"Well, you see," Peggy answered, "Mr. Collingwood, who is a great traveller, chaffed me about being such an old maid. He said it was quite unnecessary."
The big moon-faced counsel almost jumped—experienced as he was—at this remark.
"Oh!" he said, "Mr. Collingwood said that, did he?"
"It was lucky," Peggy replied; "wasn't it?"
Suddenly the President looked up. His kindly but austere face became surprised.
"Lucky?" he said.
Peggy turned towards the judge. "Yes, my lord," she said; "otherwise I should have reached Paris without any clothes."
The President nodded gravely. "Yes, I see," he said. "The boxes fortunately made the same mistake as you did."
Peggy laughed. "Yes, Sir John," she said, and as she did it there was a little ripple of amusement round the crowded court.
Of course, everybody knew that the judge who was trying this case had met the Admastons over and over again.
Every one there, with the exception of the people in the gallery, was a member of what is called society. Peggy, in her innocent simplicity, could not quite differentiate between Sir John Burroughes, who was trying the case of her innocence or guilt, and Mr. M'Arthur or Sir Robert Fyffe, K.C., M.P. She was bewildered. She had met all these men at dinner-parties or receptions. She still thought that this was all a kind of weird game. She did not realise that Sir Robert Fyffe was about to hunt her to the death of her reputation, or that Sir John Burroughes—the President—would give his judgment without fear or favour.
As a matter of fact, there was a little ripple of laughter right through the court when she addressed the President as "Sir John."
Sir Robert Fyffe continued his examination. "Very lucky, Mrs. Admaston," he said grimly. "And did Mr. Collingwood's luggage make the same mistake as yours?"
"Yes," Peggy answered.
"And the luggage belonging to Lord Ellerdine and Lady Attwill had the intelligence to go straight to Chalons?"
"Yes," Peggy answered again.
"Didn't it strike you as rather odd that your luggage should not have been registered?"
Peggy tried to recollect. "No, it didn't," she said. "It struck my maid as odd, I remember."
A keen note came into Sir Robert Fyffe's voice. The blandness and suavity seemed to have left it.
"It struck your maid as odd?" he said sharply.
"Maids who are devoted to us are often more suspicious than we are," Peggy answered. "Don't you think so, Sir Robert?"
The big red face turned full upon her for a moment. People who watched it carefully might have discerned a slight expression of compunction. He had known this little butterfly in private life, but now professional considerations overbore everything. He was Sir Robert Fyffe because he did his job—had always done his job.
"I am afraid I am not here to say what I think," he answered quickly.
Peggy realised the situation in a moment. She was fighting desperately, but nothing gave an index to the fact.
"Oh, we all know that, Sir Robert!" she said, and there was a slight murmur and ripple of laughter through the court.
The President raised his eyes above his glasses and stared gravely round.
Silence was restored.
"Your maid's luggage," said Sir Robert, "had the good fortune to reach Paris too?"
"Yes."
"Did Mr. Collingwood attend to the luggage at Charing Cross—the luggage of the whole party, I mean?"
"Yes, I think he did."
"Do you think, Mrs. Admaston, that you would remember the porter who made the mistake?"
Peggy seemed to be trying to remember something. "No," she said doubtfully. "I don't think I could."
"Do you remember having a conversation with him?" Sir Robert continued, his face as bland and confidential as any face could be.
"No, I don't remember."
"Your name was on your boxes in full, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, Mrs. Admaston, don't you remember having a talk with him about your husband?"
Peggy looked up brightly. Something seemed to have struck her.
"Oh yes," she said quickly. "Wasn't he a constituent?"
Sir Robert bowed sweetly. "I think he was," he said. "At anyrate, a great admirer." Then he turned round. "Will Mr. Stevens please stand up?"
Just behind the barristers and the seats in which the society people were sitting, a broad, short, and sturdy man rose from the pit of the court.
"Now," Sir Robert said to Mrs. Admaston, "do you recognise him?"
Peggy leant over the rail of the box with real interest—if it was not affectation.
"No," she said doubtfully; "I could not say for certain."
"But if Mr. Stevens can swear that he is the man with whom you had the conversation?"
"Oh! then he must be right, Sir Robert," Peggy answered.
Mr. Menzies rose in his place. "My client, Mr. Collingwood, recognises the man, m'lud—there is no doubt about it."
"Very well," the President answered quietly. "We shall have that later."
"So that is the porter who made the mistake," Sir Robert resumed in a voice full of meaning. "You can sit down, Mr. Stevens. Would you be surprised to hear that your luggage and Mr. Collingwood's was not registered, upon the express instructions of Mr. Collingwood, and that Lord Ellerdine's and Lady Attwill's luggage was registered through, also upon his instructions?"
Mr. M'Arthur rose. "My lord," he said, "this cannot be evidence against my client. Even if Mr. Collingwood was acting as her agent, such instructions were clearly outside his authority."
Sir Robert glanced round quickly. "One moment, Mr. M'Arthur," he said, in a voice full of meaning. "If it should turn out, Mrs. Admaston, that Mr. Collingwood gave express instructions that your luggage should not be registered—that, you say, was not according to your instructions?"
"It is incredible that he should have given such instructions," Peggy said.
"Incredible!" said Sir Robert Fyffe.
"Unless——" Peggy replied, then stopped short and bit her lip.
Every one in the court noticed that the judge had lifted his head and was looking keenly at her.
"Well? Unless what, Mrs. Admaston?" Sir Robert Fyffe asked quickly.
Peggy did not answer at all.
"Shall I finish it for you?" Sir Robert continued, with his famous little menacing gesture of the right hand. "Unless he had intended to give his friends the slip at Boulogne, and stay the night in Paris with you. Is that what you were going to say?"
"Yes, it was, for a moment," the girl answered, "until it struck me how absurd it was."
"It strikes you as absurd, does it?"
"Yes, it does rather," she replied.
"I suppose it would strike you as equally absurd that Mr. Collingwood had already engaged rooms at the Hôtel des Tuileries for himself and a lady, two days before you left London? Or do you think the rooms were engaged for some other lady?"
"I don't believe they were engaged at all before we arrived," came the answer quickly.
Sir Robert nodded his big head. "We shall hear, no doubt, from Mr. Collingwood. Am I to take it, then, that you had no knowledge of the fact that your luggage was not registered, and that you had no knowledge of the fact that Mr. Collingwood had already taken rooms for himself and a lady before you left London?"
"I had no knowledge whatever—none at all," Peggy replied with great emphasis.
"And I think you told my learned friend in examination-in-chief that you had no knowledge of the fact that both your bedroom and Mr. Collingwood's opened out of the same sitting-room?"
"That is so, Sir Robert."
"I think you telegraphed to Chalons when you got to Paris to tell Lord Ellerdine of your mistake?"
"Mr. Collingwood did so for me."
"And to your husband?"
"No; that was not necessary."
In some subtle, but very real fashion, the atmosphere of the court was becoming more and more charged with excitement. Everybody was sitting perfectly still. All eyes were directed to the slim figure of the girl in the witness-box. The hush was not broken by any sounds, save only that of the great counsel's voice with its deadly innuendo, its remorseless logic of fact, and the replies of the sweet-voiced girl.
"Why not?" Sir Robert asked, with a deep note of suggestion.
"I did not want to worry him with our silly mistakes," was the answer; and even as she gave it Peggy's heart sank like lead within her, realising how inadequate and feeble it sounded.
"Did you think that it would annoy your husband to think that you and Mr. Collingwood were alone in Paris?"
"Not a bit," she replied.
"Then why didn't you tell him? You had nothing to hide?"
"Nothing whatever."
There was a pause. Sir Robert's face still wore an expectant look. He was obviously waiting for a reply.
It came at length, and every person in the court as they heard it smiled, frowned, or sighed according to their several temperaments.
"I really don't know why I didn't tell him."
"Let me suggest a reason. You didn't tell because you didn't want him to know?"
"I don't think that is true," Peggy answered.
"Come, Mrs. Admaston; you heard the evidence of the detective?"
"Yes, I did."
"He has told the jury that when the telephone message came through from your husband you were in the room; that you stayed by and heard the co-respondent tell your husband that Lord Ellerdine was staying at the hotel—a deliberate lie; and that you refused to speak to your husband. Is that true?"
The answer, the miserable answer, came in the faintest of voices from the box:
"Yes."
And now there was every sign of what the newspapers call a "sensation" in court. Colonel Adams and Henry Passhe looked at each other significantly. "That's done for her," Passhe whispered to his friend. Ladies nudged each other. The reporters wrote furiously. The judge leaned forward a little more over his desk.
"Why did you connive at this lie?"
"I don't know. Really, I don't know."
"Why did you refuse to speak to your husband?"
Peggy was silently gazing downwards.
"You have told us that it would not have annoyed your husband to think that you and Mr. Collingwood were alone in Paris."
"Why should it have annoyed him," Peggy answered, "if it were an accident?"
"Exactly!" Sir Robert continued—"if it were an accident. I put it to you that the only fact which made you afraid to speak to your husband was because you knew it was not an accident, and that he had just cause for resentment."
"That is not true," Peggy said, with a little flicker of the spirit she had shown at first.
"I don't wish to be unfair," said Sir Robert Fyffe—and no man at the Bar was fairer than the famous counsel in his cross-examinations.
"You are not unfair, Sir Robert," Peggy said; "but, oh! it is all unfair."
Sir Robert gave a little sigh, which may or may not have been a genuine expression of feeling, but was probably sincere enough. His duty lay before him, however, and, like some sworn torturer of the Middle Ages, he must pursue it to the end.
"I must press you upon this point," he said. "What made you afraid to tell your husband that you were alone in Paris? What made you agree with Mr. Collingwood, Lord Ellerdine, and Lady Attwill to say that you had not been alone with Mr. Collingwood in Paris?"
"I cannot tell you," Peggy answered. "I was very upset, and really not quite myself."
"Not quite yourself?" followed upon the heels of her answer with lightning rapidity. "Very upset? What had happened to upset you?"
Peggy made a motion—an instinctive motion—as if to free herself from something, something that was slowly but surely tightening round her. Every one noticed it, every one understood it.
"Nothing," she said at length.
At this there was a ripple of laughter through the court, and cutting in upon it, before it had quite died away, the accusing voice was heard: "Nothing? If that is so, can you give any reason why Lord Ellerdine and Lady Attwill should have connived at this deception?"
"I suppose they thought they were shielding me."
"Shielding you!" Sir Robert cried in mock surprise. "From what? Tell me, Mrs. Admaston," he continued, as Peggy looked round the court helplessly—"tell me, do you think that Lord Ellerdine—he is an old friend?"
"Yes, a dear old friend," Peggy said, glad to be able to say something for a moment which did not tell against her.
"Do you think that Lord Ellerdine and Lady Attwill believed that you were in Paris, by accident?"
"How can I tell?" Peggy replied, not in the least seeing to what this was leading.
"Have you any doubt? Why do you think that Lord Ellerdine returned to Paris by the night train instead of letting you join them at Chalons, except that he thought something was very seriously wrong?"
"I have told you," Peggy replied, "that he thought he was shielding me."
"But you have not told me from what he thought he was shielding you. What was he to shield you from?"
"Nothing," Peggy said once more. And again there was a ripple of laughter throughout the court.
At this Sir Robert Fyffe allowed himself his first look at the jury, and a most significant one it was. Then he turned quickly to the witness-box. "Nothing!" he cried. "Then why did you invent—or connive at the invention of—this story?"
"Why did I?" the girl said helplessly. "I don't know. I thought it foolish. I saw that they had told a lying story to my husband, thinking to serve me, and I didn't want to give them away."
"You lied to your husband because you didn't wish to give your good-natured friends away. Is that really your reason, Mrs. Admaston?"
"Yes," she answered, "and I loathed myself for it."
"It was perhaps the first time that you had deceived your husband?" Sir Robert said blandly.
"Yes," came the answer with a pause, and very faintly given.
"You arrived at the hotel under the impression that your presence in Paris was due to a mistake?"
"Yes."
"You supped in your room with Mr. Collingwood?"
"Yes."
"And what time did you sup?"
"About 10 or 10.15."
"What did you do after supper? I suppose you finished about 11?"
"I suppose so," Peggy replied.
"Well—what did you do? The table, I think, was not cleared before you retired to bed—that is so, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"How did you spend the time between 11 and 12.30?"
"We were talking."
"No doubt you told the waiter not to clear away so that you should not be disturbed?"
"I really forget," Peggy said.
"At anyrate, you were not disturbed?"
"No."
"And spent a charming evening?"
"Yes."
"Unspoilt by any idea that your presence there was due to a deliberate and successful device to give your companions the slip?"
Helpless as she was in those skilled, remorseless hands, Peggy nevertheless flared up at this.
"To have had such an idea," she said, with a dignity which was strangely piteous under the circumstances, "would have been an insult to Mr. Collingwood."
"Always assuming," said Sir Robert, "that Mr. Collingwood made his plans without your knowledge."
"I don't believe that Mr. Collingwood made the plans you suggest."
"And nothing will shake your faith in Mr. Collingwood?" said Sir Robert with great suavity.
"My faith in him is not likely to be shaken by the hired evidence of detectives, railway porters, or hotel servants."
"You mustn't talk like that, Mrs. Admaston," the judge said gravely.
"When did it first seem to you that your presence in Paris was not due to a mistake?" Sir Robert went on.
"My maid hinted it to me while she was doing my hair before I went to bed."
"Your maid is an old and privileged servant?"
"She is far more than a servant. She is a devoted friend."
"You are sure of that?"
"Absolutely."
Sir Robert nodded to himself, and his nod sent a shiver of apprehension through the girl in the witness-box.