Just as she did this she heard Vassalla's foot, and knew he was returning. Pushing all the papers back, she ran noiselessly to the mirror, leaving the portfolio in the same disorder as she had found it, and was arranging her bonnet strings, when Vassalla, dressed to go out, entered the room putting on his gloves. "Your answer?" he said, sharply. Mrs. Verschoyle turned to him with a smiling face. "I am beaten. Yes." He looked at her suspiciously. "You mean it?" "On condition that you stop the bloodhound." "Agreed; and now let us go out." "Where is Carmela?" she asked, as he held the door open. "At Marlow with Sir Mark Trevor. Do you want to see her?" "No; that is, not at present," she answered, going down the stairs. "Where does the bloodhound live?" "Why do you want to know?" he asked, sharply. "You needn't tell me unless you like," said Mrs. Verschoyle, haughtily; "I only asked from idle curiosity." "I believe he is stopping at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden." "Oh!" carelessly, as they stepped out to the street, "this is my cab. Can I take you anywhere?" "No, thank you," said Matteo, helping her in. "Good-bye at present. I'll see you again soon." "I hope so," replied Mrs. Verschoyle; and Matteo walked away as the cab drove off. Mrs. Verschoyle lay back, and smiled. "You think you have won," she murmured, glancing at the stolen letter; "but there are always two to a game, my dear Matteo! You forget that!" CHAPTER XX. JULIAN ROPER REPORTS. Julian Roper, alias Signor Clement, had come to London in the same boat as Mrs. Verschoyle, and had made profitable use of his time by inflaming that lady's anger. On the morning after his arrival he went to Foster's chambers, in order to make his report, and there found his employer, Ronald Monteith, in anything but a joyful frame of mind. Poor Ronald was very much cast down by the news of Carmela's engagement to the Marchese, though Foster tried to console him to the best of his ability. "She is acting under compulsion, my dear boy," said Gerald. "Vassalla has been telling her that Mrs. Verschoyle is the assassin of her husband, and has demanded her hand as the price of his silence." "How does he know that Mrs. Verschoyle is guilty?" asked Ronald, fiercely. "We have proved nothing! She may be as innocent as you or I, for all we know!" "My dear lad," said Foster, shrugging his shoulders, "we can only go by circumstantial evidence in this case, and you must acknowledge, things do look very black against Mrs. Verschoyle!" "Oh, why did I ever start trying to find out the murderess of Leopold Verschoyle?" groaned Ronald, laying his head on the table. "Rather, why did you fall in love with Carmela Cotoner?" said Foster, not unkindly. "We'll talk no more of this," said Ronald, hastily rising to his feet, "till we see Roper, and hear what he has to say."