A look of trouble and perplexity passed into her face; her lips were parted to speak again when a door at the other end of the room opened sharply--not the door by which Falconer had entered, but a second, leading, presumably, into a bedroom--and Mrs. Romayne appeared. The rigidity of her self-control had given place, apparently, to a consuming fever. Her eyes were glittering, the dry skin seemed to be too tightly drawn across her sharpened features. There was no paint upon her now--no mask, less tangible but no less effective, of artificiality of expression. It was the very woman, stripped of all the trappings of her life, bearing the ravages of past struggles thick upon her, driven to bay, and braced to hold the struggle on which she was entering with the last breath in her body. She was still dressed for walking, and the contrast between the smart, somewhat youthful, apparel which she had always affected, and her face, was terrible to see. She came straight up to Falconer, utterly unconscious, apparently, as far as feeling and realisation constitute consciousness, of Clemence’s presence. “You have found him?” she said, and the words were less a question than an assertion. “Let us go at once. Stop, though!” she added abruptly, laying a burning hand on Falconer’s arm, as though in the haste and pressure of her own impulses she ascribed a similar impatience to him. “I had better know the facts first. What has he told you?” Falconer hesitated. His words, when he spoke, ignored her final question, and answered the idea which vibrated behind every word of her speech. He glanced at Clemence as he began to speak as though he wished his words to apply to her also. “I do not think,” he said, “that anything will be gained by your seeing him--except extreme distress for all concerned. I fear there is nothing to be done!” He had spoken very firmly, as though the moment had arrived, in his estimation, for that stand on manly judgement which he had involuntarily postponed for so long; and he paused as though to accentuate the weight of his words. Mrs. Romayne, with a gesture of irrepressible, tortured impatience, but otherwise with no recognition whatever of his having spoken, repeated her question: “What has he told you?” Clemence’s eyes, fixed upon Falconer’s face, dilated slightly, and then the shadow of a smile touched her parted lips. “I fear there is no doubt that it is a bad affair,” continued Falconer. “There are forged documents connected with it, and misappropriation of money fraudulently come by; and detection seems to be inevitable. His only hope of safety lies in flight.”