She looked at the envelope. It was plainly addressed--"Lord Francis Bethune." She had never glanced at the address till this moment. The contents were in code as hers had been, but it was the same code, and before she knew she had done so, she had read it. What did it mean? What _could_ it mean? Why should Elsa promise to meet him after the Speaker's Stairs--to-day--at Waterloo main entrance? Mary was not quick-witted, but after a few dazed moments she suddenly understood. Elsa was about to go away with Lord Francis. But what Elsa? Her heart beat so hard that she could hardly breathe. Could it be Elsa Grey? As we piece together all at once a puzzle that has been too simple for us, so Mary remembered in a flash Elsa's enigmatical face, and a certain ball where she had seen--only for a moment as she passed--- Lord Francis and Elsa sitting out together. Elsa had looked quite different then. It _was_ Elsa Grey. She knew it. Degraded creature, not fit to be an honest man's wife. Mary shook from head to foot under a climbing, devastating emotion, which seemed to rend her whole being. The rival was gone from her path. Jos would come back to her. As she stood stunned, half blind, trembling, a hansom dashed up to the door, and in a moment Lord Francis' voice was in the hall speaking to the footman. "Any letters or telegrams?" "One telegram on your writing-table, my lord." The servant went on to explain something, Lady Mary Carden, etc., but his master did not hear him. He was in the room in a second, and had closed the door behind him. Lord Francis' beautiful, thin, reckless face was pinched and haggard. He seemed possessed by some fierce passion which had hold of him and drove him before it as a storm holds and spins a leaf. Mary was frightened, paralysed. She had not known that men could be so moved. He did not even see her. He rushed to the writing-table, and swept his eye over it. Then he gave a sharp, low, hardly human cry of rage and anguish, and turned to ring the bell. As he turned he saw her. "I beg your pardon. I don't understand," he said hoarsely. "Why did my fool of a servant bring you in here?" Then he saw the open telegram in her hand, and his face changed. It became alert, cold, implacable. There was a deadly pause. From the room above came the acute, persistent stammer of the piano. He took the telegram from her nerveless hand, read it, and put it in his pocket. He picked up the envelope from the floor, and threw it into the waste-paper basket. Then he came close up to her, and looked her in the eyes. There was murder in his. "It was in cypher," he said. She was incapable of speech. "But you understood it? Answer me. By--did you understand it, or did you not?" "I did not." She got the words out. "You are lying. You did, you paid spy. Now listen to me. If you dare to say one word of this to any living soul I'll----" The door suddenly opened, and Lady Francis hurried in.