“I can save you a lot of trouble, Mrs. Inglethorne,” said Peter, putting down his pen. “Your children have been taken away to the workhouse.” She staggered back against the wall, her big mouth open wide. “W-why?” she stammered. “It is usual to take children to the workhouse when their parents are arrested and there are no other relatives to look after them,” he said. “Arrested?” she screamed. He nodded to the window, and she staggered past him and, pulling up the sash, looked out. Two men were standing on the opposite sidewalk, and one nodded as to an old friend. She recognized the detective sergeant who had arrested her husband. “They can’t touch me!” she screamed. “They can’t touch me! It’s my word against yours----” “Unfortunately you left a few bolts of silk behind in the cupboard,” answered Peter. Mrs. Inglethorne was in a state of collapse when the detectives came in to arrest her. The motor truck had been traced; the driver and a man who accompanied the car had been driven to the nearest police station, where the plunder was checked and exhibited in preparation for the charge which would follow. They either could not or would not, however, give any information concerning the child, and when Leslie went to Lambeth to interview Mrs. Inglethorne in her cell, she was no more successful. “Find her!” rapped the woman. “She’s in good hands, that’s where she is. I’m not saying anything. If you want her, find her! That’s my last word to you!” Leslie did not notify Peter that she was coming to Lambeth. Passing up Severall Street on her way home, she saw the light in the upstairs window and guessed that he was still working hard. A postman rapped at the door, and she waited a while until it was opened, as she guessed, by Peter, and almost turned back just to say a word to him. And if she overcame this deplorable weakness, it was not lightly done. “Leslie Maughan,” she said to herself, mounting the steps of Hungerford Bridge, “do you know what you are doing? Shall I tell you in the vulgarest terms? You’re chasing a married man! Leslie, that isn’t done! Not in the best society.” She was uncommonly weary when she dragged herself into her own sitting room, deciding to forgo the duty she had planned. This was a second call upon Greta Gurden. That afternoon there had been a consultation at Scotland Yard, but matters had not developed sufficiently to justify the issue even of a search warrant.