“Well, you and your friend Felix have placed me in a very pleasant position, haven’t you?” asked Lady Heyburn of Flockart, who had just entered the green-and-white morning-room at Park Street.  “I hope now that you’re satisfied with your blunder!”

The man addressed, in a well-cut suit of grey, a fancy vest, and patent-leather boots, still carrying his hat and stick in his hand, turned to her in surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked.  “I arrived from Paris at five this morning, and I’ve brought you good news.”

“Nonsense!” cried the woman, starting from her chair in anger.  “You can’t deceive me any longer.”

“Krail has discovered the whole game.  The syndicate held a meeting at the office in Paris.  He and I watched the arrivals.  We now know who they are, and exactly what they are doing.  By Jove! we never dreamed that your husband, blind though he is, is head of such a smart and influential group.  Why, they’re the first in Europe.”

“What does that matter?  Krail wants money, so do we; but even with all your wonderful schemes we get none!”

“Wait, my dear Winnie, remain patient, and we shall obtain plenty.”

It was indeed strange for a woman within that smart town-house, and with her electric brougham at the door, to complain of poverty.  The house had been a centre of political activity in the days before Sir Henry met with that terrible affliction.  The room in which the pair stood had been the scene of many a private and momentous conference, and in the big drawing-room upstairs many a Cabinet Minister had bent over the hand of the fair Lady Heyburn.

Into the newly decorated room, with its original Adams ceiling, its dead-white panelling and antique overmantel, shone the morning sun, weak and yellow as it always is in London in the spring-time.

Lady Heyburn, dressed in a smart walking-gown of grey, pushed her fluffy fair hair from her brow, while upon her face was an expression which told of combined fear and anger.

Her visitor was surprised.  After that watchful afternoon in the Boulevard des Capucines, he had sat in a corner of the Cafe Terminus listening to Krail, who rubbed his hands with delight and declared that he now held the most powerful group in Europe in the hollow of his hand.

For the past six years or so gigantic coups had been secured by that unassuming and apparently third-rate financial house of Lenard et Morellet.  From a struggling firm they had within a year grown into one whose wealth seemed inexhaustible, and whose balances at the Credit Lyonnais, the Societe Generale, and the Comptoir d’Escompte were possibly the largest of any of the customers of those great corporations.  The financial world of Europe had wondered.  It was a mystery who was behind Lenard et Morellet, the pair of steady-going, highly respectable business men who lived in unostentatious comfort, the former at Enghien, just outside Paris, and the latter out in the country at Melum.  The mystery was so well and so carefully preserved that not even the bankers themselves could obtain knowledge of the truth.

Krail had, however, after nearly two years of clever watching and ingenious subterfuge, succeeded, by placing the group in a “hole” in calling them together.  That they met, and often, was undoubted.  But where they met, and how, was still a complete mystery.

As Flockart had sat that previous afternoon listening to Krail’s unscrupulous and self-confident proposals, he had remained in silent wonder at the man’s audacious attitude.  Nothing deterred him, nothing daunted him.

Flockart had returned that night from Paris, gone to his chambers in Half-Moon Street, breakfasted, dressed, and had now called upon her ladyship in order to impart to her the good news.  Yet, instead of welcoming him, she only treated him with resentment and scorn.  He knew the quick flash of those eyes, he had seen it before on other occasions.  This was not the first time they had quarrelled, yet he, keen-witted and cunning, had always held her powerless to elude him, had always compelled her to give him the sums he so constantly demanded.  That morning, however, she was distinctly resentful, distinctly defiant.

For an instant he turned from her, biting his lip in annoyance.  When facing her again, he smiled, asking, “Tell me, Winnie, what does all this mean?”

“Mean!” echoed the Baronet’s wife.  “Mean!  How can you ask me that question?  Look at me ­a ruined woman!  And you ­”

“Speak out!” he cried.  “What has happened?”

“You surely know what has happened.  You have treated me like the cur you are ­and that is speaking plainly.  You’ve sacrificed me in order to save yourself.”

“From what?”

“From exposure.  To me, ruin is not a matter of days, but of hours.”

“You’re speaking in enigmas.  I don’t understand you,” he cried impatiently.  “Krail and I have at last been successful.  We know now the true source of your husband’s huge income, and in order to prevent exposure he must pay ­and pay us well too.”

“Yes,” she laughed hysterically.  “You tell me all this after you’ve blundered.”

“Blundered!  How?” he asked, surprised at her demeanour.

“What’s the use of beating about the bush?” asked her ladyship.  “The girl is back at Glencardine.  She knows everything, thanks to your foolish self-confidence.”

“Back at Glencardine!” gasped Flockart.  “But she dare not speak.  By heaven! if she does ­then ­then ­”

“And what, pray, can you do?” inquired the woman harshly.  “It is I who have to suffer, I who am crushed, humiliated, ruined, while you and your precious friend shield yourselves behind your cloaks of honesty.  You are Sir Henry’s friend.  He believes you as such ­you!” And she laughed the hollow laugh of a woman who was staring death in the face.  She was haggard and drawn, and her hands trembled with nervousness which she strove in vain to repress.  Lady Heyburn was desperate.

“He still believes in me, eh?” asked the man, thinking deeply, for his clever brain was already active to devise some means of escape from what appeared to be a distinctly awkward dilemma.  He had never calculated the chances of Gabrielle’s return to her father’s side.  He had believed that impossible.

“I understand that my husband will hear no word against you,” replied the tall, fair-haired woman.  “But when I speak he will listen, depend upon it.”

“You dare!” he cried, turning upon her in threatening attitude.  “You dare utter a single word against me, and, by Heaven!  I’ll tell what I know.  The country shall ring with a scandal ­the shame of your attitude towards the girl, and a crime for which you will be arraigned, with me, before an assize-court.  Remember!”

The woman shrank from him.  Her face had blanched.  She saw that he was equally as determined as she was desperate.  James Flockart always kept his threats.  He was by no means a man to trifle with.

For a moment she was thoughtful, then she laughed defiantly in his face.  “Speak!  Say what you will.  But if you do, you suffer with me.”

“You say that exposure is imminent,” he remarked.  “How did the girl manage to return to Glencardine?”

“With Walter’s aid.  He went down to Woodnewton.  What passed between them I have no idea.  I only returned the day before yesterday from the South.  All I know is that the girl is back with her father, and that he knows much more than he ought to know.”

“Murie could not have assisted her,” Flockart declared decisively.  “The old man suspects him of taking those Russian papers from the safe.”

“How do you know he hasn’t cleared himself of the suspicion?  He may have done.  The old man dotes upon the girl.”

“I know all that.”

“And she may have turned upon you, and told the truth about the safe incident.  That’s more than likely.”

“She dare not utter a word.”

“You’re far too self-confident.  It is your failing.”

“And when, pray, has it failed?  Tell me.”

“Never, until the present moment.  Your bluff is perfect, yet there are moments when it cannot aid you, depend upon it.  She told me one night long ago, in my own room, when she had disobeyed, defied, and annoyed me, that she would never rest until Sir Henry knew the truth, and that she would place before him proofs of the other affair.  She has long intended to do this; and now, thanks to your attitude of passive inertness, she has accomplished her intentions.”

“What!” he gasped in distinct alarm, “has she told her father the truth?”

“A telegram I received from Sir Henry late last night makes it only too plain that he knows something,” responded the unhappy woman, staring straight before her.  “It is your fault ­your fault!” she went on, turning suddenly upon her companion again.  “I warned you of the danger long ago.”

Flockart stood motionless.  The announcement which the woman had made staggered him.

Felix Krail had come to him in Paris, and after some hesitation, and with some reluctance, had described how he had followed the girl along the Nene bank and thrown her into the deepest part of the river, knowing that she would be hampered by her skirts and that she could not swim.  “She will not trouble us further.  Never fear!” he had said.  “It will be thought a case of suicide through love.  Her mental depression is the common talk of the neighbourhood.”

And yet the girl was safe and now home again at Glencardine!  He reflected upon the ugly facts of “the other affair” to which her ladyship sometimes referred, and his face went ashen pale.

Just at the moment when success had come to them after all their ingenuity and all their endeavours ­just at a moment when they could demand and obtain what terms they liked from Sir Henry to preserve the secret of the financial combine ­came this catastrophe.

“Felix was a fool to have left his work only half-done,” he remarked aloud, as though speaking to himself.

“What work?” asked the hollow-eyed woman eagerly.  But he did not satisfy her.  To explain would only increase her alarm and render her even more desperate than she was.

“Did I not tell you often that, from her, we had all to fear?” cried the woman frantically.  “But you would not listen.  And now I am ­I’m face to face with the inevitable.  Disaster is before me.  No power can avert it.  The girl will have a bitter and terrible revenge.”

“No,” he cried quickly, with fierce determination.  “No, I’ll save you, Winnie.  The girl shall not speak.  I’ll go up to Glencardine to-night and face it out.  You will come with me.”

“I!” gasped the shrinking woman.  “Ah, no.  I ­I couldn’t.  I dare not face him.  You know too well I dare not!”