Claire was no longer addressing the lady at her side. "Why do you ask?" she responded. "Do I look pale?" "Not at all; not the least in the world; I've never seen you more composed," returned Mrs. Diggs, with enormous mendacity, hoping that her charitable lie would bear reassuring and tranquilizing results. It did, as soon became apparent. Claire's condition was that in which we grasp at straws. Perhaps she grew several shades less pale on hearing that she was not so. "I must leave the room," she said, pronouncing the words with the edges of her lips. "I must leave immediately." "Are you unwell?" "No--yes--it isn't that. I must go. Could I do it without--without--?" She paused here; she had not enough clearness of thought, just then, to finish her sentence coherently. "Without causing remark?" gently broke in Mrs. Diggs. "Why, of course you could, my dear. Are you not hostess? A hundred things might call you away for a little while. No one would dream of thinking it in the least strange. Why on earth should one?" There was a light nonchalance about this answer that Mrs. Diggs by no means felt. She knew that something had gone terribly wrong. Her rejoinder had been a stroke of impromptu tact, just as her recent glib falsehood had been. Its effect upon Claire was immediate. Her friend was doing her thinking for her, so to speak, and was doing it with a rapid, unhesitating _aplomb_. "You don't know what has happened, do you?" she now said. Mrs. Diggs at once felt the helpless disability of mind and nerves which this last faltered question implied. "Give me your note," she said. "Slip it under the table. You will not be seen." Claire obeyed. Mrs. Diggs had long ago learned how and why her friend had left home, before that episode began of her residence with the Bergemanns. She read the note like lightning, and digested its contents with an almost equal speed. The sprawl of its writing was uncouth enough, but not illegible. For a slight space horrified sympathy kept her silent. Then she said, with a coolness and placidity that did her fine credit, considering the cause in which she employed them:-- "I would go at once. You can keep everything quiet. Of course you can. I will follow you shortly. I will make a perfect excuse for you. You are feeling a little unwell--that is all. No one has noticed; take my word for that; I am simply _certain_ of it. When you return--which I promise you that you shall do quite soon--scarcely a comment will have been made on your absence. Go, by all means. Go at once, as I said." 'Some of her color has come back,' at the same time passed through poor Mrs. Diggs's anxious and agitated thoughts. 'I knew she wouldn't faint; it isn't _in_ her. She will see that I'm right, in a minute. Her wits will begin to work. She will go.'