ally too terrible to think of."

"But, my dear girl, it must be faced," he said, "if we don't get the
money. Can't you work Sir Henry for a bit more, say another thousand.
Make an excuse that you have bills to pay in London--dressmakers,
jewellers, milliners--any good story will surely do. He gives you
anything you ask for."

She shook her head and sighed. "I fear I've imposed upon his good-nature
far too much already," she answered. "I know I'm extravagant; I'm sorry,
but can't help it. Born in me, I suppose. A few months ago he found out
that I'd been paying Mellish a hundred pounds each time to decorate Park
Street with flowers for my Wednesday evenings, and he created an awful
scene. He's getting horribly stingy of late."

"Yes; but the flowers were a bit expensive, weren't they?" he remarked.

"Not at all. Lady Fortrose, the wife of the soap-man, pays two hundred
and fifty pounds for flowers for her house every Thursday in the season;
and mine looked quite as good as hers. I think Mellish is much cheaper
than anybody else. And, just because I went to a cheap man, Henry was
horrible. He said all sorts of weird things about my reckless
extravagance and the suffering poor--as though I had anything to do with
them. The genuine poor are really people like you and me."

"I know," he said philosophically, lighting another cigarette. "But all
this is beside the point. We want money, and money we must have in order
to avoid exposure. You--"

"I was a fool to have had anything to do with that other little affair,"
she interrupted.

"It was not only myself who arranged it. Remember, it was you who
suggested it, because it seemed so easy, and because you had an old
score to pay off."

"The woman was sacrificed, and at the same time an enemy learnt our
secret."

"I couldn't help it," he protested. "You let your woman's vindictiveness
overstep your natural caution, my dear girl. If you'd taken my advice
there would have been no suspicion."

Lady Heyburn was silent. She sat regarding the toe of her patent-leather
shoe fixedly, in deep reflection. She was powerless to protest, she was
so entirely in this man's hands. "Well," she asked at last, stirring
uneasily in her chair, "and suppose we are not able to raise the money,
what do you anticipate will be the result?"

"A rapid reprisal," was his answer. "People like them don't
hesitate--they act."

"Yes, I see," she remarked in a blank voice. "They have nothing to lo