“Thank God! They know nothing as yet!” cried the Lady of Lakemere, as she called Mary Kelly to her side. It seemed to the agitated woman that the iron jaws of fate had closed just behind her, and in her grateful heart she saw her only champion, Hugh Conyers—strong, brave, true, silent and tender. Her loyal and silent knight! The words of honest Dan Daly came back to her now. A rosy blush flamed upon her cheeks as she fled away from the tender-hearted Mary Kelly’s watchful eyes. “Some day he shall know all, he shall know my whole heart.” And when the telegraph messenger, just then arriving, had departed, she fell back in a happy swoon of delight, for she had read the words which filled her with sweet surcease of sorrow: “Coming Saturday; Touraine. Love from Sara and Romaine.” It was nearly midnight when Justine Duprez’s broken sobs concluded her last hastily constructed tissue of lies. The schoolboy guard had inadvertently yielded up to her the news of Harold Vreeland’s death in a moment of youthful pride. And she was scheming to free herself now of the inconvenient steel jewelry which had so broken her spirit. It was a _sauve qui peut_! When faced by Conyers, with Martha Wilmot at his side, in the presence of her sternly silent mistress, Justine caught at the last straw. She knew all the weaknesses of her mistress’ womanly heart. “I know why poor Monsieur Vreeland killed himself. He loved my mistress madly, and he feared that the rich Senator Alynton was going to marry her. He had bribed me to tell him all about Senator Alynton’s visits and of the love-making. He was surely half-mad when he married that heartless woman. “Poor Vreeland! He suffered from a hopeless love! He feared that Alynton would marry my mistress, and he feared, too, that he would then be discharged from the Wall Street business.” Mrs. Willoughby was trembling in a silent rage. She dared not face a new whirlwind of gossip, and so, the sly Frenchwoman had saved herself. “But, you stole your mistress’ letter and gave it to him,” coldly broke in Conyers. He realized, too, that the story of Senator Alynton’s love-making would desperately compromise Mrs. Willoughby, and the maid could easily poison the public mind. “I did not!” stoutly ejaculated the lying Frenchwoman. “Vreeland bribed the German doctor—that cowardly scoundrel Alberg—to have this very woman here steal the love-letter, and she secretly gave it to Alberg, and then he gave it to Vreeland. They are both liars! “I was afraid of Vreeland. He threatened to have me discharged,” sobbed Justine. “And I know that my mistress was very near to loving him at one time. The whole truth will come out at my trial. I am innocent. I shall demand the aid of the French Consul.” Conyers and Elaine shuddered at this threat of noisy publicity. “You met him at your rooms,” angrily broke in Conyers, who now saw Elaine’s agony. The girl had skillfully hidden her face in her hands. It was her last chance.