Julian’s faith in Mercy refused to let that darker side of the question find a place in his thoughts. It rested entirely with him to bring the officer into the house. He had prevented Lady Janet from making any mischievous use of his card by sending to the police station and warning them to attend to no message which they might receive unless the card produced bore his signature. Knowing the responsibility that he was taking on himself--knowing that Mercy had made no confession to him to which it was possible to appeal--he had signed his name without an instant’s hesitation: and there he stood now, looking at the woman whose better nature he was determined to vindicate, the only calm person in the room. Horace’s jealousy saw something suspiciously suggestive of a private understanding in Julian’s earnest attention and in Mercy’s downcast face. Having no excuse for open interference, he made an effort to part them. “You spoke just now,” he said to Julian, “of wishing to say a word in private to that person.” (He pointed to Grace.) “Shall we retire, or will you take her into the library?” “I refuse to have anything to say to him,” Grace burst out, before Julian could answer. “I happen to know that he is the last person to do me justice. He has been effectually hoodwinked. If I speak to anybody privately, it ought to be to you. You have the greatest interest of any of them in finding out the truth.” “What do you mean?” “Do you want to marry an outcast from the streets?” Horace took one step forward toward her. There was a look in his face which plainly betrayed that he was capable of turning her out of the house with his own hands. Lady Janet stopped him. “You were right in suggesting just now that Grace had better leave the room,” she said. “Let us all three go. Julian will remain here and give the man his directions when he arrives. Come.” No. By a strange contradiction it was Horace himself who now interfered to prevent Mercy from leaving the room. In the heat of his indignation he lost all sense of his own dignity; he descended to the level of a woman whose intellect he believed to be deranged. To the surprise of every one present, he stepped back and took from the table a jewel-case which he had placed there when he came into the room. It was the wedding present from his mother which he had brought to his betrothed wife. His outraged self-esteem seized the opportunity of vindicating Mercy by a public bestowal of the gift. “Wait!” he called out, sternly. “That wretch shall have her answer. She has sense enough to see and sense enough to hear. Let her see and hear!” He opened the jewel-case, and took from it a magnificent pearl necklace in an antique setting.