"You had better go," she said huskily, "go before I change my mind again. You will find some telegram forms in the silver case on the library table. Need I say any more than that? You can come back and show me what you have written." Mayfield bowed and departed without showing the faintest indication of his victory. Mary staggered across to the window, with her hands to her dry, hot head. A shadow seemed to rise from the gravel of the terrace, a shadow with a white face framed in grey hair, the form of Lady Dashwood, limping a little, but otherwise strong and resolute. "You have been there long?" Mary asked. "You have been listening." "Yes, yes," Lady Dashwood said in a strange thrilling whisper, "listening, and waiting for my chance. It is not too late yet, my child. Thank God, I am in time. You must not do it, you must not heed, for the sacrifice would be all in vain. Come, let me tell you what I mean. You are not used to dealing with scoundrels--I am!" CHAPTER XVI. THE UNFINISHED WORD Mary placed her hand to her head in utter bewilderment. The world seemed to have changed in the last few hours. Hitherto, life at Dashwood had progressed on oiled springs, calm and peaceful. There was the regular decently appointed day, with its routine of refined duties, the dinner and the pleasant contemplation of placid evenings. Mary had swung like a proud planet in the still atmosphere. And now everything had passed into the wildest topsy-turveydom. Even Lady Dashwood had altered. The quiet, self-contained woman, whose very restfulness had been one of her greatest charms! The sweet expression of her face had vanished; she looked aged and anxious, almost fierce. "What does it all mean?" Mary asked. "What has come to everything and everybody? It seems almost impossible to believe that here at Dashwood----" "Trouble comes; but trouble comes everywhere. It enters the palace as easily as the cottage, my child. And my fault, all of it. But come outside and talk to me. Mary, you must have nothing to do with that man!" "But how do you know?" Mary asked. "I--I am not yet certain myself. Who could have told you anything?" "But you are certain, child. You had made up your mind. The misery of your face tells me so. And you sent a note to that man. Would you have done so unless you had made up your mind to surrender?" Mary looked down, and the red of shame flamed into her face. Come what would, she could not turn to either side and escape humiliation.