Sick fear jumped to life again. If there was any difficulty with Esmé's allowance the whole story might come out; she might still be ruined, disgraced. But reflection brought comfort; there would be heaps of ways of managing the money. Denise put her arms round Cyril's neck and pleaded for silence for her friend; let the stigma of thief fall on another woman, and wondered why she had found so easy a way out. "I don't blame you, Den--don't cry." He held his wife closely. "But don't lie to me, girl! Don't! even to save other people. I must have truth. Must--and--will. The past's past; the future's mine, Denise, remember that." He held her away a little, so that he could see her face. "You took some money out to send this wretched woman to-day. Don't send it now. How much was it?" "It was not all for her, Cyril; she wanted--fifty," stammered Denise. "I got a lot--I was thinking of buying those ponies and the little trap for the boys as a surprise. You know, Edwardes' pair." It was a good lie this time; he had no suspicion. "Well, put your money back," he said kindly. "I'll get that. I'll put it in for you to-morrow ... send it for you." Denise Blakeney did not sleep that night; and next day, driving into the town, she lost a valuable ring; it was loose, must have slipped off in her glove. Esmé, opening the parcel, read a letter which surprised her. "You were mad to write, Esmé, mad! All kinds of things have happened, and I cannot tell you. Take these stones out to sell them. I've said I lost the ring. And don't go to Benhusan's." Sir Cyril, before he promised silence to his wife, had talked too openly to Amos Benhusan; said more than he had perhaps intended to. Mr Benhusan had not promised silence; he talked a little, discreetly, but he talked. Esmé bought her Paris frocks; paid something to Claire. Denise had sent her something valuable; but when the Blakeneys came to London, and she called, the "Not at home" was unmistakable. "When would her ladyship be in?" "Could not say, madam." The door respectfully pushed to. Sir Cyril, meeting her, passed her with a cold bow. Esmé rang up furiously. What was it? She must know. "Not here. I can't talk here." Denise's voice was hurried and strained. "Meet me at the club to-morrow--at eleven." Esmé kept her appointment punctually. "Down here, Esmé--down in this lounge." Denise hurried to a dim corner, poured out a badly-jointed tale. It was the letter. Cyril had caught sight of some of it, been furious; Esmé must keep away. It was the only plan. "And never come near the boy, never," wailed Denise, "never. After all, you never wanted him. You mustn't come to the Square. Cyril would suspect." A passion of anger rent Esmé. Not to see the little son she had sold. Not to spend the half-hours which sent her away yearning and wistful. Not to bring sweets to the unloved child; to try to be his friend.