Beatrice said "H'm" in a meditative manner, and then, more briskly, "Please ring the bell." Lionel obeyed, and waited in some distress. Suppose Mizzi were to excuse herself by relating the incident in which he had been a partner! Would he be cast into darkness on the instant? What a Nemesis for how trivial a misdemeanor! He heard the bell ring again, as the impatient Beatrice pressed the electric button, and sweat broke out upon his forehead. A crisis was imminent. Still a third time the relentless tinkle sounded, and he was without plan, excuse, or counterplot. He woke from his anguish to hear the lady speak. "She must have gone out, I suppose ... but we must make sure ... perhaps ... will you come?" He followed her, grateful for the respite, and at a loss for the meaning. They went into the hall, and thence to the kitchen. No one was there. In silence they knocked on the bedroom door, but received no answer. Beatrice opened the door and peered within. She switched on the electric light and they advanced. In the center of the floor stood a portmanteau, strapped and labeled. Lionel lifted the label and read the inscription aloud. It was to a warehouse in Camden Town. "She has gone!" said the lady in a whisper of tragedy. "_She has gone!_" "And a good riddance, too!" returned Lionel with a vast cheerfulness. "But she might at least have laid supper first." "You do not understand," said Beatrice tensely. "This is no ordinary desertion. It means, I fear, that she has joined my enemies." Lionel's good breeding was not proof against the suddenness of this. He sat down abruptly on a convenient chair and laughed. "No, no!" he cried. "That will not do, madam. That is--forgive me--too crude, unworthy of your talents. Reflect! Your servant runs off in a petulant fit, and lo! you exclaim that she has been suborned by the Ottoman Empire! That is sheer melodrama." Beatrice gave a smile that was grave and reproachful. "You forget," she said gently, "that I am an actress." The sweetness of the reproof, the ironical self-criticism, convinced him of her sincerity more than any rhetoric could have done. "I beg your pardon," he said humbly, taking her hand; "tell me more." "She has deserted me," said Beatrice quietly. "With her I made my one great mistake--natural, but irreparable. I thought her true, and one day, when I was in need of a woman's sympathy and help, I told her all ... all, even to the hiding-place of the treaty. It is too late for regrets or fears. Now we must act." CHAPTER VI THE HISTORY OF HENRY BROWN