Cecil Jones’s concluding words had created a sort of subdued hubbub in the room. The amazement with which the onlookers learned that the dear old lady, whom they had all condescendingly pitied and rather liked, was the head of a gang of swindlers caused a new and strange excitement to ferment in the room. They looked at each other, they looked at Mrs. Van Santen, and were shocked to see in her usually mild eyes the ferocity of a wild beast at bay, as two constables came up to her, and, without attempting to touch her, kept her between them and stood on the watch one on each side. “Mrs. Van Santen! Isn’t it a mistake?” whispered some of the ladies present. But the voice of Cecil Jones cut short the whispers. “That is Catherine Burge, the woman who did fourteen years for insurance frauds,” was the answer which Jones gave to a man who was remonstrating against the indignity offered to the old lady. A murmur of dismay ran through the room, and passed on to the next, where all the rest of the guests were congregated in an eager group close to the door of the card-room. Arthur was in the middle of this group, and beside him was Cora Van Santen, the woman whom he looked upon as the loveliest and sweetest in the world. Cora was deathly pale, and her teeth were tightly set and her slender hands were clenched; but she had not said one word after the scream she had given when the police entered the house. Now, however, she suddenly asked a question. As half a dozen more constables came in single file into the room in which she was, entering by way of the French window, and at once taking up a position behind the group in the doorway, she said to Arthur, in a fierce undertone-- “Who let them in?” “I don’t know,” said Arthur, who felt sick and cold with excitement and the dread of hearing something which would reflect upon the woman he admired. Delia, who was also in the group, and who heard these words asked and answered, turned round and laughed harshly. She was looking altogether different from the charming, tactful, gracious creature who usually spent her time walking from one to another among the guests, smoothing the rough places and making herself popular with everyone. “Can’t you guess?” was all she said. And then she turned her head disdainfully away again, and resumed her strenuous watch of the proceedings in the adjoining room. By this time Cecil Jones had seen his orders carried out in the card-room, had muttered a low-voiced apology to one of the guests, a sporting man of some social standing, whom he recognized, and had then advanced towards the group in the doorway. Looking carefully among them, he said, addressing the constables who were standing behind them-- “There are two more here. That’s one of them,” and he glanced at Delia. “And”--he turned again,--“there’s the fifth and the last,” and he indicated Cora.