A woman enters obedient to the summons. She is a woman with a plump, artificial-looking figure, her hair is yellow, and her eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows are dark. An unmistakable sign of powder and rouge affords to her cheeks an appearance of pinkness, which all women who decorate themselves in this manner verily believe looks natural and becoming. Alas! if they could only see themselves as others see them! She is overdressed is this woman, with plenty of rings on her fingers and jewellery about her, and her whole air unmistakably stamps her for what she is. “Well?” inquires Mr. Trackem in an impatient voice, as she comes in. “How you dawdle, Victoire! Were they there?” “Yes,” she replies at once. “I saw the duke, and a strange gentleman, and the girl Maggie, all go into the house.” “Did you follow and hear what Eric said?” again asks Mr. Trackem. He never stops the work upon which he is engaged, in spite of his anxiety to hear what she has to say. “How could I?” she answers peevishly. “I’m not a fairy who can become invisible at will. I saw them go in, that’s all, and then I hurried back here.” “Curse him!” is all Mr. Trackem vouchsafes in reply, but he works away harder than ever. Hanging over the back of a chair close to his table is a great-coat, and on the seat lies a pot hat, pair of gloves, and walking-stick. On the ground below the chair stands a small black business bag. Into this bag Mr. Trackem ever and anon commits a paper from out the heap that he is destroying. There is a long pause. Then Victoire speaks. “What are you going to do? I suppose you won’t be safe here now?” she inquires. “Safe!” he laughs angrily, “rather not. I suppose they’ll have the bloodhounds on me before an hour’s out. No, Victoire, I must cut it.” “And what’s to become of me?” she asks, somewhat aghast. “You’ll leave me some money, Trackem, and let me know where you are going to?” “Money! I’ve deuced little left of that now; and as for telling you where I’m going to, I’m not such a fool. Why, you’d blurt it out any moment,” and Mr. Trackem laughs sneeringly. “But what’s to become of me?” she again inquires. “Damned if I know!” he replies impatiently. “I don’t suppose you’ll have much trouble in making a living along with some one else, same way as you’ve made it here. You don’t suppose I can saddle myself with you now, and drag you about wherever I go? What a fool you are, Victoire!” “Then you are going to throw me up?” she asks in a low voice. “Haven’t I told you I can’t drag you about all over the place?” he answers savagely. “But you’ll leave me a little money, won’t you?” she says, with a half sob. “I haven’t got a farthing, Trackem.”