“But she must know that the late Earl's intentions were not as Trowbridge would suggest,” Mr. Cranley mused. “Perhaps I shall call her to the Bar when I have my day in Court, and make her declare the Earl opposed to Trowbridge's schemes.”

“And now you would expose us to risk,” I told him. “We cannot know whether Madame has fallen in with Lord Harold or not. For assuredly she has visited Wilborough House. Her consent may already have been won; and fearing to alienate her business partner, she may publicly deny all knowledge of the late Earl's views.”

“I fear you are right,” Mr. Cranley said, as he rose with a heavy sigh; “and now, Miss Austen, I must bid you adieu. Tomorrow comes early, and we have a difficult day before us; I must prepare late into the night, in the event that I am called upon to present the defence.” The barrister's face was very weary; and in his countenance I read a little of my own despair.

“Have we any hope?” I said, faltering.

He hesitated, his eyes upon my face. “There is always hope. Did I not believe that, I should have quit the Bar altogether, and long before this.”

“Do not coddle me, Mr. Cranley; I am not a child.”

“Very well,” he rejoined. “There is very little hope, Miss Austen. But even that is reason to persevere.”

IT WAS A POOR SORT OF EVENING IN PORTMAN SQUARE; I dined with Mr. George Hearst — who is sunk in more than his usual melancholy in the wake of his brother's suicide — and the Delahoussayes. All were silent but for Fanny, who had heard herself admired at her seat in the Gallery, and could not contain herself; for the author of the compliment was a marquess, and the silly girl valued the opinion in a fashion commensurate with his rank. Did she earn the glances of a duke or two on the morrow, I should be forced to take my meals in my room.

When we had left Mr. Hearst to his solitary Port and his lonely cigar, and repaired, as ladies must, to take tea in the sitting-room, Fanny declared herself a trifle indisposed — as well she might be, with the burden I knew she carried — and tripped gaily to her room, visions of peers in ermine-trimmed robes no doubt lighting her way to bed. I seated myself over some needlework, the better to marshal my thoughts; for I had formed a dangerous resolution at dinner, and should never have a better opportunity to act upon it.

“Madame,” I said.

She looked up from her book with a coldness that must give one pause. “Yes, Miss Austen?”

“Have you any views as to today's events?”

Madame Delahoussaye's lips compressed and she returned to her book. “I do not think too little can be said upon the subject.”

“That is indeed unfortunate,” I rejoined, “for I had hoped you might shed some light on Lord Harold's extraordinary behaviour.”

“What can I know of Lord Harold that you do not? From your surprising display upon the witness stand, I should have thought you the man's intimate these several months at least.”

“What can you mean, Madame?”

The covers of her-volume came, together, with a snap. “That you had no business embroiling such a man in this affair,” Madame Delahoussaye declared, “and that your impudence is far beyond your station, my girl.” She rose with alacrity, as though to depart.

“But Lord Harold is embroiled in it of himself,” I said, feigning bewilderment.

“So you would have it.” Madame crossed to the sitting-room door and laid her hand upon the knob.

I sat back in my chair and surveyed such haste with amusement. “I wonder at your defending a man of whom you profess to know nothing, Madame.”

She turned her head as rapidly as an adder. “It is not Lord Harold I would defend, Miss Austen, but my dear Isobel; and I fear her friends are become her worst enemies.”

I snorted my contempt. “I rejoice to hear that protecting the Countess is now become your aim.”

“It is the dearest consideration of my heart,” she rejoined stonily, and took up again the doorknob.

I drew my needle swiftly through my canvas. “It was on her behalf, then, that you visited Lord Harold at Wilborough House but a few days ago?”

Her fingers dropped from the doorknob as though suddenly made nerveless. “I did no such thing. What use have I for such a man?”

“I wondered at it myself. You have always professed yourself his enemy. And so when my sister Eliza remarked upon your having met with him — she is, as you know, an intimate of the Duchess's — I could not satisfy my curiosity. But as you say you did not visit, she must have been mistaken. I dare say it was the card of some other Madame Delahoussaye she saw.”

Madame did not honour me with a reply, but drew a shuddering breath, and for an instant I thought she might cross to where I sat and seize my throat in her two hands. But her self-mastery was admirable; she merely nodded frigidly, and swept from the room.

I liked her too little to care for her good opinion; I wished only to frighten her into some exposure, and was very well pleased with the effect of my questions.

I HAD NOT HAD A MOMENT'S REST ALL DAY — had not even sought my room to change before dinner, the interval between Mr. Cranley's departure and the bell having been too short. So I mounted the steps now in Madame Delahoussaye's wake with a sense of crushing weariness, fearful of the morrow and my own place in it — and found that, to my glad joy, a letter from my brother Frank awaited my eager eyes.