At Prue’s sudden apparition a couple of servitors interposed to stop her and Lord Beachcombe, in a voice hoarse with rage, shouted, "Who are these people? What the devil do they want? Turn them out—" Prue’s silvery laugh rang out. "Not so fast!" she cried, flinging back her hood. "I have business of the utmost importance with Lord Beachcombe," and she swept him a mockingly ceremonious curtsey. No lady of the court, not even the great Duchess Sarah herself, was better known than the beautiful "Widow Brooke." The sight of her familiar face seemed to paralyze every one present. The lackeys fell back abashed, Robin gazed at her speechless, and Beachcombe’s sallow face flushed with a purple that suffused even his eyeballs. "Viscountess Brooke!" he stammered. "What in the name—" "You are surprised?" she interrupted. "To be sure, my visit is somewhat untimely." She came close to him and lowered her voice almost to a whisper. "Did you find what you expected when you searched Captain de Cliffe?" she inquired insinuatingly. "How do you know I searched him?" demanded Beachcombe. "Why, when one sees a man with his hands tied behind him and his pockets inside out, it is not unreasonable to suppose that he has been searched. Yet I’ll venture to say, Lord Beachcombe, that whatever you found, it was not what you were looking for!" "How can you know anything about that?" he replied, with dawning suspicion. "Perhaps you know what it was and where it may be found? If so, you must be aware that it has no value except to me—" "And Captain de Cliffe," she interposed. "_Captain de Cliffe!_" he repeated, with a bitter and disdainful emphasis. "What would you have me call him?" she bent forward and in a whisper suggested, "Robert—Earl Beachcombe?—is that better?" The blood ebbed from his face, leaving it ghastly with fear and fury. He cast a hasty glance toward the group of men surrounding Robin, and although they were quite out of earshot, he fiercely motioned them to a greater distance. Then he pulled himself together sufficiently to force a sardonic laugh. "Was it to play comedy that your ladyship honored me with this nocturnal visit?" he sneered. "Not altogether," she replied. "I came to prevent your harming Captain de Cliffe, and, incidentally, yourself. Now tell me—in confidence—not having found the documents you sought, what do you propose to do with your prisoner?" "I propose," said Beachcombe slowly, "to hand him over to justice. I believe the—documents—to be lost. At any rate, I am willing to hazard the risk of their recovery in order that this man may receive his deserts as a traitor and a malefactor. After he has been hanged, there will be plenty of time for me to deal with a claim that has no longer a claimant." "And you really hate him enough to prefer his death to your own safety?" Prue could not repress a shudder at the cold ferocity of his tone.