Falconer obeyed her; the door was opened with a quiet, sad-toned “Yes?” and Clemence stood on the threshold. She was looking very fragile and very white; the haggard look of suffering had left her, but it had taken with it in the passing all the physical strength from her face. Her eyes were heavy as with sleeplessness and tears, and from their depths there seemed to emanate the quiet grief which spoke in every line of her face. She held her baby in her arms, and her whole personality seemed to be touched by the mysterious influence of motherhood into a new dignity and beauty. To Falconer the change in her since he had seen her in Camden Town was so great as to give him a moment’s absolute shock; it was the same woman, and yet not the same. The difference lay, for him, rather in the evidences of long suffering which spoke so eloquently about that woman’s face and form, than in the work effected by that suffering; and the feeling that the sight of her stirred in him was one of pity; a man’s half indignant, half patronising pity for weakness and trust abused. But Falconer she did not seem to see. Instantly, as she opened the door, her eyes had passed to where Mrs. Romayne stood confronting her, her face absorbed, concentrated, hard as steel. A faint flush of colour flooded Clemence’s face; then she lowered her eyes, and stood with her head a little bent over her child, motionless. “You are my son’s wife?” The words came from Mrs. Romayne quick, terse, utterly untouched and unemotional, as though the situation in itself were absolutely devoid of meaning for her. “My husband’s name is Julian Romayne,” was the low answer. Mrs. Romayne made a quick, imperious gesture indicative of her desire to pass into the little room, on the threshold of which Clemence was standing. Clemence made way for her with quiet dignity, and then followed her in. Falconer hesitated an instant and took up his position in the doorway, holding himself in grave, attentive readiness until the moment when his presence should be required. The little room was scrupulously neat and clean. Facing him, a strangely incongruous figure amid such poor surroundings, but apparently as absolutely unconscious of them as of the child--at which she never glanced--stood Mrs. Romayne. Facing Mrs. Romayne stood Clemence, paler now than before, and with her head bent a little lower. Falconer could see that she trembled slightly. Mrs. Romayne began to speak instantly, in the same hard, rapid tone. “Where is my son?” she said. “You have been told, perhaps, to say you do not know--to keep his plans secret. You must give them up instantly to me. He has made a mistake, and only prompt action can redeem it. When did you see him last? What did he tell you?”