Christine kept silence only by an effort. Rob had been no saint, but neither was his mother perfect. Shortly after her arrival her hostess had suggested that they should drive into Monte Carlo to make some purchases. “There's a milliner I've heard of who's having a bankrupt sale of stock. I'm told there are really some good bargains to be got.” Christine and she drove down to where they were received by a very pale young woman, with dark shadows under her eyes, who looked as though a square meal would be a novelty. The hats were very moderately priced, indeed. Mrs. Erskine decided on a couple, and then began to dispute the price. Christine marvelled as she listened. It was a shabby scene, heightened by the air of triumph with which the Scotswoman turned to Christine when they were again in the car. “They were bargains anyway, but I felt quite sure that I could get them still cheaper.” “She looked very sad, and so young,” Christine said soberly. “It takes capital to succeed in Monte Carlo,” was Mrs. Erskine's rejoinder. Something in her companion's face arrested her attention, “You mustn't think me hard”—Christine did—“but I consider it wrong to spend a larger sum than necessary upon myself. Three-quarters of my income is needed for my charities, and the remaining quarter I consider I should stretch as far as possible.” Christine said nothing for a few minutes. “It must be very nice to be able to give away so much,” she said musingly, “but for that, I don't see that wealth has much to offer. Which is as well”—she turned to Mrs. Erskine with a smile—“as I am never likely to have much of it.” Judging by Mrs. Erskine's face, she did not share Christine's philosophical point of view in the least. “A gipsy woman read my hand when I was a tiny tot and said that I should die a wealthy woman, and years later I had the same thing told me—that I should die possessed of great wealth.” They drove home in silence. Christine turned over in her mind what she had just learnt as to her hostess's division of her money. At first she was a little sceptical as to its literal truth, but after a week in the villa she took this suspicion back. Mrs. Erskine did live apparently on the scale of one thousand a year. Apart from the villa and its furnishings, which she had evidently purchased years ago, and the motor-car and meals which all the household shared, she spent but little on herself. Of anything that could help John Carter Christine learnt nothing. Mrs. Erskine, though she had never heard of him before his arrest, now proclaimed his guilt as firmly as though he had already been tried and convicted. There was only one startling fact, after close on a fortnight, which the villa had revealed to Christine, and that was that Mrs. Erskine was afraid of something. She herself openly alluded to the fact, when discussing a case in the paper, that she slept with a loaded revolver under her pillow.