He made his way to Clytie with a new assurance; inexplicably to him, some innate power, long in reserve, had risen to meet the emergency. He was exhilarated, as with a victory. She looked up at him puzzled. "I wonder if you know what has happened this time?" he said. "Oh, if I only did! Something has—you have changed, somehow." "Is it an improvement?" "You know, it is my theory that you’re going to—" She gave up her explanation—her lips quivered. "Well, yes! You have been embarrassed?" "I suppose it was good for my vanity." "Then you have heard something unpleasant." "The truth often is." "Was it true?" He laughed it off. "It was nothing I mightn’t have known." "Then it is for you to make it false, isn’t it?" "If I can." "I think there is nothing you couldn’t do if you tried." "There is nothing I couldn’t do if I had your help," he answered. For answer, she took the little gold heart-shaped bottle from its mesh-work and handed it to him. "You must learn—but perhaps this may help you. Will you keep it?" He took it and thanked her with his eyes. Then, their dialogue being interrupted, he moved off. He wandered about, speaking to one and another for a few moments, gradually drifting toward the hall. As he stood just outside the reception-room he glanced up the broad stairs carelessly, thinking of the two ladies to whom he had spoken. He smiled to himself, wondering if they had yet come down. While he was watching, he saw a woman at the top of the stairs, looking over the rail. A second glance showed her to be a servant. She descended slowly, and, in a moment, beckoned stealthily. He paid no attention. She came nearer, and, finally, seeing no one with him, called out to him in a whisper. It was Lucie, Mrs. Maxwell’s maid. The moment Granthope recognized her, he walked into the parlors again, as if he had not noticed her. Soon after that he paid his farewell amenities to his hostess and went up to where he had left his hat and coat. Lucie was in the upper hall waiting for him. "Mr. Granthope," she whispered, "may I speak to you a moment? I have something." "Not now," he said, passing on. She plucked at his sleeve. "I’ve got a great story," she insisted. He shook his head. "Shall I come down to your office?" "Be quiet!" he said under his breath, and went in for his things. She was waiting for him when he emerged. "I’ll come down as soon as I can get off," she continued. He shrugged his shoulders without looking at her, and went down-stairs, and out. *CHAPTER VII* *THE WEAVING OF THE WEB* Madam Spoll was sitting in her study on Eddy Street, awaiting her victim, when Francis Granthope, immaculate as usual, appeared in her doorway, having been admitted by Spoll. She was in front of the glass, pinning on a lace collar.