"My dear Sir Geoffrey, you have mistaken your vocation," she laughed. "With such an imagination you ought to have been, not a member of Parliament, but a poet! I am quite interested in this romance; surely there is more of it?" "Considerably more," he went on, lowering his voice and drawing his chair closer to her. "There are those who saw the beautiful shepherdess in close conversation with a masker in red, at the ball; and who now know that he was no other than Robin Freemantle in the borrowed plumes of Beachcombe. You have enemies, fair Prudence—men you have jilted and women you have excelled in wit and beauty—and by some of these you were seen, in company with the Red Domino, very near the queen’s tiring-room, from which the necklace was stolen. Can you wonder that when a story is bruited about that Lady Prudence Brooke, in dead of night, was discovered with the necklace in her possession, in the place where Robin Freemantle was looked for, these good people should compare notes about her ladyship’s latest exploit, and place their own construction upon it?" "And you, Sir Geoffrey?" she asked, her thoughtful eyes upon his, "what construction do you place upon this curious rodomontade?" "Oh!" he laughed softly; "I hold all the clews, so it seems less of a rodomontade to me than, perhaps, to others. I alone know of the little ceremony in Newgate, which explains all." "Oh! it explains all, does it?" she repeated reflectively. "I should be glad to hear the explanation, now you have propounded the conundrum." "’Tis simple enough. When Barbara Sweeting told the story of the necklace, you instantly jumped at the same conclusion as the rest of us—namely, that Robin Freemantle, secure in his disguise, had made the use of his opportunity that a robber naturally would, and had stolen the most valuable thing he could lay his hands on—" "Oh! then you don’t give me the credit of the robbery?" she exclaimed with a pout. "It would have added so much to the interest of the romance if I—" "You? Oh! Lady Prudence, can you ask me such a question?" he interrupted, in a tone of vehement reproach. "I only give you credit for hastening to warn your—_husband_ of his danger and carrying away the incriminating proof of his guilt; and I admire your courage and generosity though I deplore its object." "Have you quite finished this romantic story, Sir Geoffrey?" queried Prue, dismissing his personal opinion with a disdainful toss of her fan. "The preface only, but the rest will wait," he replied, with a sinister smile. "Then perhaps you would like to hear what really happened? It would be useless for me to deny—even if I wished—that I spoke with Captain Freemantle, at the ball—" "Quite so," Sir Geoffrey agreed blandly.