She closed her eyes. It was just as well. She could get back a little strength--she could try to arrange coherently what she meant to say. No: it was not unfair to the girl. She ought to be taken care of. And, besides, there was no such thing as "unfair." All was fair in--Well, she was righting for her life. All was fair when one was fighting for one's life--that was what she meant. Meantime, to lie quite still and draw long, even breaths--telling oneself at each breath: "I am quite well, I am quite strong--" seemed best. There was a sound, a dull plop, the hiss and fizzle of a spurting syphon, then: "Drink this: that's right. I've got you." A strong arm round her shoulders--something buzzing and spitting in a glass under her nose. "Drink it up, there's a good child." She drank. A long breath. "Now the rest." She was obedient. "Now shut your eyes and don't bother. When you're better we'll talk." Silence--save for the fierce scratching of a pen. "I'm better," announced Lady St. Craye as the pen paused for the folding of the third letter. The short skirted woman came and sat on the edge of the divan, very upright. "Well then. You oughtn't to be out, you poor little thing." The words brought the tears to the eyes of one weak with the self-pitying weakness of convalescence. "I wanted--" "Are you a friend of Betty's?" "Yes--no--I don't know." "A hated rival perhaps," said the elder woman cheerfully. "You didn't come to do her a good turn, anyhow, did you?" "I--I don't know." Again this was all that would come. "I do, though. Well, which of us is to begin? You see, child, the difficulty is that we neither of us know how much the other knows and we don't want to give ourselves away. It's so awkward to talk when it's like that." "I think I know more than you do. I--you needn't think I want to hurt her. I should have liked her awfully, if it hadn't been--" "If it hadn't been for the man. Yes, I see. Who was he?" Lady St. Craye felt absolutely defenceless. Besides, what did it matter? "Mr. Vernon," she said. "Ah, now we're getting to the horses! My dear child, don't look so guilty. You're not the first; you won't be the last--especially with eyes the colour his are. And so you hate Betty?" "No, I don't. I should like to tell you all about it--all the truth." "You can't," said Miss Desmond, "no woman can. But I'll give you credit for trying to, if you'll go straight ahead. But first of all--how long is it since you saw her?" "Nearly a month." "Well; she's disappeared. Her father and I got here last night. She's gone away and left no address. She was living with a Madame Gautier and--" "Madame Gautier died last October," said Lady St. Craye--"the twenty-fifth." "I had a letter from her brother--it got me in Bombay. But I couldn't believe it. And who has Betty been living with?"