And if he hadn't stolen the jewels, what else was that "private matter" which he had been so anxious to keep quiet that he was resigned to purchase Sally's silence even at the cost of making love to her? And if not he, who had been the thief whose identity Mrs. Gosnold was so anxious to conceal that she had invented her silly scheme for extracting an anonymous confession?--her statement to the contrary notwithstanding that Lyttleton had not stolen the jewels and that she knew positively who had! The man was a favourite of Mrs. Gosnold's; she had proved it too often by open indulgence of his nonsense. He amused her. And it seemed that in this milieu the virtue of being amusing outweighed all vices. Why else had Mrs. Gosnold refused to listen to the story Sally was so anxious to tell her about her precious Don Lyttleton? She must have known, then, that Sally was under suspicion. Miss Pride had known it, or she would not have found the courage to accuse the girl under the guise of fortune-telling; and what Mercedes knew her dear Abigail unfailingly was made a party to. And knowing all this, still she had sought to protect the man at the girl's expense. And all the while pretending to favour and protect the latter! Now, doubtless, the truth of the matter would never come out. In panic terror Sally envisaged the barred window of the spinster's prophecy. To this, then, had discontent with her lowly lot in life brought her, to the threshold of a felon's cell. Surely she was well paid out for her foolishness. . . . After some time she found that she had left her chair and was ranging wildly to and fro between the door and window. She halted, and the mirror of her dressing-table mocked her with the counterfeit presentment of herself, pallid and distraught in all the petty prettiness of her borrowed finery. In a sudden seizure of passion she fairly tore the frock from her body, wrecking it beyond repair. Then, calmed somewhat by reaction from this transport, she reflected that presently they would be coming to drag her off to jail, and she must be dressed and ready. Turning to her wardrobe, she selected its soberest garments--the blue serge tailleur advised by Mrs. Standish--and donned them. This done, she packed a hand-bag with a few necessities, sat down, and waited. The minutes of that vigil dragged like hours. She began to realise that it was growing very late. The guests of the fete had all departed. The music had long since been silenced. Looking from her window, she saw the terrace and gardens cold and empty in the moonlight. And at this sight temptation to folly assailed her and the counsels of despair prevailed.