came back
to her now laden with vague but terrible significance ... she would
not doubt him, only--why did he look as if it was true?

'Dear Mr. Ashburn,' said Mrs. Featherstone, 'we know what your answer
will be, but I think--I'm afraid--you ought to say something.'

He turned his ghastly face and haggard eyes to her and at the same
instant withdrew his hand from Mabel's. 'What would you have me say?'
he asked hoarsely. 'I can't deny it ... it is not my book ... from
beginning to end it was written by another.'

And, as he spoke the words, Vincent Holroyd entered the room.

His recent attack of faintness had left him so weak that for some time
he was obliged to remain in a little alcove on the staircase and rest
himself on one of the divans there.

His head was perfectly clear, however, and he had already perfected a
plan by which Mabel would be spared the worst of that which threatened
her. It was simple, and, as far as he could see, quite impossible to
disprove--he would let it be understood that Mark and he had written
the book in collaboration, and that he had desired his own share of
the work to be kept secret.

Mark could not refuse, for Mabel's sake, to second him in this
statement--it was actually true even, for--as Vincent thought with a
grim kind of humour--there was a good deal of Mark's work in the book
as it stood now. He grew feverishly impatient to see Mark and put his
plan into action--there must be time yet, Caffyn could not have been
such a villain as to open Mabel's eyes to the real case! He felt
strong again now; he would go and assure himself this was so. He rose
and, following the direction he had seen Mark take, entered the Gold
Room--only to hear an admission after which no defence seemed
possible.

He stood there just behind Mark, trying to take in what had happened.
There was Mrs. Featherstone struggling to conceal her chagrin and
dismay at the sudden downfall of her dramatic ambition; Mark standing
apart with bent head and hands behind him like a man facing a firing
party; Mabel struck speechless and motionless by the shock; and Caffyn
with the air of one who has fulfilled an unpalatable duty. Vincent
knew it all now--he had come too late!

Mrs. Featherstone made a movement towards him. 'Oh, Mr. Holroyd,' she
said, with a very strained smile, 'you mustn't come in, please:
we're--we're talking over our little play--state secrets, you know!'

Caffyn's smile meant mischief as he said: