They were women not used to any such struggle, and feeling in the depths of their hearts that to struggle so for any reason was a shame to them; and every moment as it passed brought this consciousness more near to Mary, who in the first shock was capable of anything. Perhaps her hold loosened, perhaps Letitia felt the magnetic effect of that relaxation even before it was palpable. All at once she flung out her arm which Mary held, and threw something which was in it into the dull small fire which smouldered in the grate, and which was kept there, notwithstanding the warmth of the July nights, for the uses of the sick room. There was a faint clang of glass against the bars, and then the two figures separated altogether and stood apart, still gazing at each other with panting breath. Letitia had felt that if she ever got free from the grasp that held her--if ever she could throw off the hand that was like velvet yet closed on her like iron, there was but one thing to do, to fly, to get help, to make everybody understand that Lady Frogmore, mad as she had once been before, had burst in on her and tried to kill her. But now that she had freed herself she did not take to flight as she intended. She drew away a step nearer the door, that she might retain that alternative--and kept the most watchful eye upon her antagonist, ready in a moment to fly. But she did not do so. Her breath began to come more easily. Perhaps she was relieved that the attempt had failed--which at once relaxed the tragic tension of her nerves; at all events her heart gave a leap of satisfaction that there was no proof against her. The milk spilt on the floor had soaked into the carpet--the vial was fused into liquid metal, which could betray no one, in the fire. She had gone through a terrible moment but it was over. She fell back upon the wall and supported herself against it, propping up the shoulders which still heaved with the storm that was passed--and then she said in something like her usual voice-- “What is this all about, Lady Frogmore?” Mary had grown restless like Letitia. The first impulse of passion and excitement failed in her, it was so unusual to her gentle bosom. She looked at this woman who stood defiant, staring at her, with a look of wonder and doubt. “If I have done you any wrong--” she began with a quaver in her voice; and then paused. “You know,” she began again, “that I have not done you wrong. You stole into the room in the dark, you put something in his drink. Oh,” cried Mary, clasping her hands, “if I had not come at that moment, if God had not sent me, my boy might have been murdered. How dare you stand and face me there? Go, go!” She stamped her foot upon the floor. “Go! Don’t come near my child again.” “Your child,” Letitia said, with a smile of scorn. “You who never had one! You have said so a hundred times.”