"A thief!" Bertie Carteret turned white to the lips as he read. They called his wife a thief. He sat for an hour before he moved. Should he go to Cyril Blakeney, fling the foul slander in his face? What should he do? "Move carefully, or I show this." Esmé had the photograph which could brand Estelle before the world. He feared it, feared his wife. She came in now, dressed to go out. "Esmé," he said hoarsely, "Esmé, do you know why people dropped you?" "I have never known," she answered coldly. "Come, Bertie, are you more sensible to-day? Get out of my life and I'll let your girl's reputation be." She was his wife, bore his name. He told her then, quickly, his brain reeling. "They say that!" she cried wildly. "Denise let that lie pass. Denise knew, and let them say I _stole_." There was no guilt in Esmé's storming, but a madness of rage, of blind, futile fury. "Did you sell diamonds?" he asked. "Esmé, tell me the truth, and I'll see the slander buried. You are my wife." "I did. I sold them," she flung out. "They have the evidence. But Denise gave them to me; she gave me money to buy silence. So that, too--that too! all for one thing. A thief to the world--a fallen woman to you. A thief! Oh, God! a thief!" Her hands were at her throat; she gasped a little. "Oh! I have borne enough," she raged wildly. "And now Denise shall suffer. Tell as much truth as will clear me, and give me back my own. You don't believe it, Bertie?" There was wild appeal in her tortured eyes. "Before heaven, no, Esmé," he rang out. "And your belief is as false. Before to-morrow you shall know what I am, and what I've done, and judge me then. I am going to find Denise. I'll send for you." "What is there between you?" he asked. "What?" "You'll know to-morrow." There were tears now in her eyes; just at the door she turned, held out her hands. "Forgive a sinner, Boy," she faltered, "though not the sinner you dream of." In all her bravery and paint she was very pitiful. Before Bertie could answer she had slipped away. She had gone to the Blakeneys; there was something between the two women. Then Marie, trim, moving deftly, came in. "Monsieur," she said. "Well?" He hated the woman who held the photograph and had shown it. "Monsieur, I would follow Madame. She was distraught, wild! There is some secret, Monsieur, between her and Milady Blakeney. Always notes to the club, and notes by special messenger for Madame, though it is that they do not speak. And, Monsieur, I leave to-day. I go to be married. I will speak. Has Monsieur never suspected anything? Before I left Madame, Madame was enceinte. I know, I could not be mistaken. The two Madames then disappear--alone. Has Monsieur never seen?" "What?" almost shouted Bertie. He got his hands on the maid's shoulder, unconsciously he shook her. "_How like Milady Blakeney's son is to Madame here_," hissed Marie; "that when he was ill Madame sat here as one distraught. Ah! gently, Monsieur."