"Well, then, I must depend upon myself. But you are not going to say anything--for some reason you are too frightened to say anything." "And all the wedding presents, the diamonds and the like?" Richford asked feebly. "The wedding presents will go back to the senders. There is a plain clothes policeman keeping guard over them now--your diamonds are amongst the lot. I will see that they are safely sent to you. And I do not know that I need say any more." Beatrice had reached the corridor by this time. She was passing Richford with her head in the air. It came to him suddenly that he had lost everything, that he was baffled and beaten. In a sudden spasm of rage he caught the girl by the shoulders in a savage grip. She gave a little moan of pain as she looked around for assistance. It came quite unexpectedly. At the same moment Mark Ventmore was coming from his room. He took in the situation at a glance. With one bound he was by Richford's side, and he had wrenched his hands away. With a snarl Richford turned upon the man whom he knew to be his successful rival, and aimed a blow at him. Then Mark's fist shot out, and Richford crashed to the ground with a livid red spot on his forehead. Sick and dizzy he scrambled to his feet. "You are more than a match for me that way," he panted. "But there are other ways, my friend, of wiping that blow out. Look to yourself." There was a deadly menace in the threat, so that Beatrice shuddered as she watched the retreating figure. She knew perfectly well that that blow would not be forgotten. Mark laughed as he heard, then his face changed and he sighed. "What does it all mean, Beatrice?" he asked. "For that man to lay hands upon you and so soon after you are--but I cannot bring myself to say the word." "He was not altogether without excuse, Mark," Beatrice said. "We have come to an understanding. Never shall I stay under the same roof with Stephen Richford." "Well, thank God for that," Mark said fervently. "Something unexpected has happened!" In a few words Beatrice told the story to which Mark listened with vivid interest. An expression of the deepest disgust came over his face as Beatrice finished her story and handed over the telegram. At the same time the feeling nearest her heart was one of relief. "It was the act of a scoundrel, darling," he said. "And yet things might have been worse. For instance, you might not have found that telegram. But since you have done so, the game is all in your hands. You are quite right to defy that fellow and refuse to live with him. He dare not oppose you, Beatrice. Thank Heaven, I shall be able to think of you as pure and free from contamination. But what are you going to do?"