"But it's you we want to see," returned one, whose face she recalled from the earlier invasion. "There are new developments, and we'd like to have your comment. It's of public interest, Mrs. Atwood." Her anger flamed out against them. "What have I to do with your public?" she demanded. "I have nothing to say to it." "But you consented to an interview this morning," rejoined the spokesman for the group. "Why do you object to another?" "I consented to an interview!" "Here you are," he said, producing one of the more sensational newspapers. "'The beautiful wife of the well-known illustrator, Francis Craig Atwood, has been with the heart-broken little bride since early morning. Mrs. Atwood and Mrs. Chapman were schoolgirl chums whose friendship has endured to be a solace in this crushing hour. Mrs. Atwood brokenly expressed her horror at the catastrophe and added one or two touching details concerning the Chapmans' ideal married life. Their wedding--'" Jean seized the cub reporter's "story" and read it for herself. The drummer shone a paragon of refinement in the light of her friendship and Craig's, for Atwood was not neglected; two paragraphs, indeed, were given over to a résumé of his artistic career. Tears of mortification sprang to her eyes. "What an outrage!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Atwood has never seen these people, never set foot in this building! I myself met this unfortunate man but once in my life!" The group pricked up its ears. "We shall be very glad to publish your denial," assured the spokesman. "Oh, don't publish anything," she cried. "Drop us out of it altogether, I beg of you!" "But in the light of the new developments, it would be only just to you and Mr. Atwood," he persisted. "What developments?" "The revelations concerning Chapman's--er--irregular mode of life. His former wife--she lives in Jersey City--has laid certain information before the police. She seems to care for him still, after a fashion. She only heard this morning of his remarriage, though she met and talked with him day before yesterday." Jean's hand sought the wall. "What does she know?" "The police won't disclose. But they say her information, taken with another clew that's come into their hands, will lead shortly to an arrest. Shall we publish the denial, Mrs. Atwood?" "Yes," she answered; "yes." As she closed the door, Amy tottered down the hall. "I heard!" she gasped. "I heard all they said. The police--the police will come next! They've found out I'm not Fred's wife. I'll be shamed before everybody. They'll suspect me first of all. They'll find out everything. You heard what they said about a clew? When they get hold of a clew, they get everything! They'll take me to the Tombs--the Tombs! Hark!" The fretful bell rang again. "The police!" chattered Amy. "The police!" The same fear gripped Jean, but she mustered strength to push the girl into the bedroom and shut the door; and then, with sinking knees, went to answer the summons.