out, and Janet had no idea when she was likely to return. Rita had
much ado to prevent herself from bursting into tears. She scribbled a
few lines, without quite knowing what she was writing, sealed the paper
in an envelope, and left it on Margaret's table.

Of returning to Prince's Gate and dressing for the evening she had only
a hazy impression. The hammer-beats in her head were depriving her of
reasoning power, and she felt cold, numbed, although a big fire blazed
in her room. Then as she sat before her mirror, drearily wondering if
her face really looked as drawn and haggard as the image in the glass,
or if definite delusions were beginning, Nina came in and spoke to her.
Some moments elapsed before Rita could grasp the meaning of the girl's
words.

"Sir Lucien Pyne has rung up, Madam, and wishes to speak to you."

Sir Lucien! Sir Lucien had come back? Rita experienced a swift return of
feverish energy. Half dressed as she was, and without pausing to take a
wrap, she ran out to the telephone.

Never had a man's voice sounded so sweet as that of Sir Lucien when he
spoke across the wires. He was at Albemarle Street, and Rita, wasting
no time in explanations, begged him to await her there. In another ten
minutes she had completed her toilette and had sent Nina to 'phone for a
cab. (One of the minor details of his wife's behavior which latterly had
aroused Irvin's distrust was her frequent employment of public vehicles
in preference to either of the cars.)

Quentin Gray she had quite forgotten, until, as she was about to leave:

"Is there any message for Mr. Gray, Madam?" inquired Nina naively.

"Oh!" cried Rita. "Of course! Quick! Give me some paper and a pencil."

She wrote a hasty note, merely asking Gray to proceed to the restaurant,
where she promised to join him, left it in charge of the maid, and
hurried off to Albemarle Street.

Mareno, the silent, yellow-faced servant who had driven the car on the
night of Rita's first visit to Limehouse, admitted her. He showed her
immediately into the lofty study, where Sir Lucien awaited.

"Oh, Lucy--Lucy!" she cried, almost before the door had closed behind
Mareno. "I am desperate--desperate!"

Sir Lucien placed a chair for her. His face looked very drawn and grim.
But Rita was in too highly strung a condition to observe this fact, or
indeed to observe anything.

"Tell me," he said gently.

And in a torrent of disconnected, barely coherent language, the tortur