ourse, to have her
usual quarters, and Mrs. De Peyster was to have the room adjoining
Matilda's, that formerly was occupied by Mrs. De Peyster's second
maid.

"Say, that was certainly one close shave," Mr. Pyecroft whispered at
the door of her room. "Perhaps we'd better beat it from here. If that
Judge ever places me! And you, if those people ever get a fair look
at your face, they'll see your likeness to Mrs. De Peyster and they'll
guess what our game is--sure! You'll promise to be careful?"

Mrs. De Peyster promised.

Fifteen minutes later, having been undressed by Matilda, she was
lying in the dark on a narrow bed, hard, very hard, as hard as Mrs.
Gilbert's folding contrivance--and once more, after this her second
move, she was studying the items of her situation.

She had daily to mix with, strive to avoid, Jack and Mary. And Jack
had casually remarked that Judge Harvey would be frequently dropping
in.

And there was that bland, incorrigible Pyecroft, whom she seemed to
have become hopelessly tied to; Pyecroft, irresistibly insisting that
she should swindle herself, and whom she saw no way of denying.

Suppose Pyecroft should find out? He might.

Suppose Jack and Mary should find out? They might.

Suppose Judge Harvey should find out? He might.

And suppose all this business of her not going to Europe, but
staying in her shuttered house--her flight from home--her humiliating
experiences in an ordinary boarding-house where she passed as a
housekeeper--her being forced into a plan to rob herself--suppose Mrs.
Allistair should find out? And Mrs. Allistair, she well knew, might
somehow stumble upon all this; for she remembered how Mrs. Allistair
had tried, and perhaps was still trying, to get some piquant bit
of evidence against her in that Duke de Crecy affair. And if Mrs.
Allistair did find out--

What a scandal!

And since her fate had become so inextricably tied up with the fates
of others, and since the exposure of others might involve the exposure
of her, there were yet further sources of danger. For--

There was that awful reporter watching the house, after Jack!

There were the police, after Pyecroft!

She shuddered. This was only the seventh day since her inspired idea
had been born within her. And it was only that very day that she had
landed at Cherbourg. Three months must pass before Olivetta, in
the role of Mrs. De Peyster, would return, and she could be herself
again--if they could ever,