he world at least will
believe me guilty."

"It shan't come into court," she proclaimed confidently. "I shall talk to
Dane. I have some influence with the police authorities here. I shall
point out how ridiculous it all is. What's the use of formulating a
charge that they can never, never prove?"

"Unless," he reminded her hesitatingly, "Beatrice--"

"Beatrice! You're not afraid of her?"

"I am afraid of no one or anything," he declared, "when you are here! But
Beatrice has been behaving strangely ever since she arrived. She has a
sudden fancy for remembering that in a sense we were once engaged."

"Beatrice," Elizabeth announced, "must be satisfied with her twenty
thousand pounds. I know what you are trying to say--she wants you. She
shan't have you, Philip! We'll find her some one else. We'll be kind to
her--I don't mind that. Very soon we'll find her plenty of friends. But
as for you, Philip--well, she just shan't have you, and that's all there
is about it."

He took her suddenly into his arms. In that moment he was the lover she
had craved for--strong, passionate, and reckless.

"All the love that my heart has ever known," he cried, "is yours,
Elizabeth! Every thought and every hope is yours. You are my life. You
saved me--you made me what I am. The play is yours, my brain is yours,
there isn't a thought or a dream or a wish that isn't for you--of
you--yours!"

He kissed her as he had never dreamed of kissing any woman. It was the
one supreme moment of their life and their love. Time passed
uncounted....

Then interruption came, suddenly and tragically. Without knock or ring,
the door was flung open and slammed again. Beatrice stood there, still in
her shabby clothes, her veil pushed back, gloveless and breathless. Her
clenched hand flew out towards Philip as though she would have struck
him.

"You liar!" she shrieked. "You've had my money! You've spent it! You've
stolen it! Thief! Murderer!"

She paused, struggling for breath, tore her hat from her head and threw
it on the table. Her face was like the face of a virago, her eyes blazed,
her cheeks were as pale as death save for one hectic spot of colour.

"You are talking nonsense, Beatrice," he expostulated.

"Don't lie to me!" she shouted. "You can lie in the dock when you stand
there and tell them you never murdered Douglas Romilly! That makes you
cringe, doesn't it? I don't want to make a scene, but the woman you're in
love with had better hear