ore odious light on Marie Louise. She was not merely a
nice clean spy, but a wanton.

Polly groaned: "Tell that to Scotland Yard! I'd never believe it."

"Scotland Yard knows it without my telling," said Lady Clifton-Wyatt.

"But how did Marie Louise come to escape and get to America?"

"Because England did not want to shoot a woman, especially not a
young woman of a certain prettiness. So they let her go, when she
swore that she would never return to England. But they did not trust
her. She is under observation now! Your home is watched, my dear Mrs.
Widdicombe, and I dare say there is a man on guard outside now, my
dear Mrs. Prothero."

This sent a chill along every spine. Marie Louise was frightened out
of her own brief bravado.

There was a lull in the trial while everybody reveled in horror. Then
Mrs. Prothero spoke in a judicial tone.

"And now, Miss Webling, please tell us your side of all this. What
have you to say in your own behalf?"

Marie Louise's mouth suddenly turned dry as bark; her tongue was like
a dead leaf. She was inarticulate with remembrance of her oath to
Verrinder. She just managed to whisper:

"Nothing!"

It sounded like an autumn leaf rasping across a stone. Polly cried out
in agony:

"Marie Louise!"

Marie Louise shook her head and could neither think nor speak. There
was a hush of waiting. It was broken by the voices of the men
strolling in together. They were utterly unwelcome. They stopped and
stared at the women all staring at Marie Louise.

Seeing Davidge about to ask what the tableau stood for, she found
voice to say:

"Mr. Davidge, would you be so good as to take me home--to Mrs.
Widdicombe's, that is. I--I am a little faint."

"Delighted! I mean--I'm sorry--I'd be glad," he stammered, eager to be
at her service, yet embarrassed by the sudden appeal.

"You'll pardon me, Mrs. Prothero, for running away!"

"Of course," said Mrs. Prothero, still dazed.

He bowed to her, and all round. Marie Louise nodded and whispered,
"Good night!" and moved toward the door waveringly. Davidge's heart
leaped with pity for her.

Lady Clifton-Wyatt checked him as he hurried past her.

"Oh, Mr. Davidge, I'm stopping at the Shoreham. Won't you drop in and
have a cup of tea with me to-morrow at hahf pahst fah?"

"Thank you! Yes!"

CHAPTER VII

The intended victim of Lady Clifton-Wyatt's little lynching-bee walked
away, holding her head high. But she felt the noose still a