Lady Mount-Rhyswicke maintained silence for a time, while her companion waited, his heart pounding with dreadful apprehensions. Finally she gave a short, hard laugh and said: “I saw your face by the corner light. Been havin' a hard day of it?” The fear of breaking down kept him from answering. He gulped painfully once or twice, and turned his face away from her. Light enough from a streetlamp shone in for her to see. “I was rather afraid you'd refuse,” she said seriously. “Really, I wonder you were willin' to come!” “I was--I was afraid not to.” He choked out the confession with the recklessness of final despair. “So?” she said, with another short laugh. Then she resumed her even, tired monotone: “Your little friend Cooley's note this morning gave us all a rather fair notion as to what you must be thinkin' of us. He seems to have found a sort of walkin' 'Who's-Who-on-the-Continent' since last night. Pity for some people he didn't find it before! I don't think I'm sympathetic with your little Cooley. I 'guess,' as you Yankees say, 'he can stand it.' But”--her voice suddenly became louder--“I'm not in the business of robbin' babies and orphans, no, my dear friends, nor of helpin' anybody else to rob them either!--Here you are!” She thrust into his hand a small packet, securely wrapped in paper and fastened with rubber bands. “There's your block of express checks for six hundred dollars and your I O U to Sneyd with it. Take better care of it next time.” He had been tremulous enough, but at that his whole body began to shake violently. “_What_!” he quavered. “I say, take better care of it next time,” she said, dropping again into her monotone. “I didn't have such an easy time gettin' it back from them as you might think. I've got rather a sore wrist, in fact.” She paused at an inarticulate sound from him.