Of course, she saw through the whole thing, beautifully planned and acted, she confessed--the assumption of guileless interest and angelic sympathy; the delicate, unobtrusive attentions; the child-like, personal confidences; the casual, illuminating glimpses of family history; the carefully prepared, dramatic point of the necklace, so artlessly introduced in the firelight; and the casual unconscious carelessness of the carefully studied pose by the hearth. Yes, it was very well done; and a less acute observer might very well have been taken in by these wiles. Her old suspicion had been correct. Here were jewels of price, snatched probably from some unsuspecting fellow-traveller in the _Train de Luxe_, skilfully concealed upon the body, and covered by an innocent bearing and a pathetic smile, artfully calculated to disarm suspicion. And to dispose of this plunder without danger, she, Ermengarde Allonby, was to be used--she was to be the cat's-paw, and incur the risk of selling stolen goods. "A matter of delicacy," "Reasons for not appearing to be personally concerned," etc.--excellent reasons, a matter of the greatest delicacy, in good truth. What an escape! Arthur should know of this. She had confided to Miss Somers her dark misgivings as to the Anarchist's interest in herself, to the intense and ill-concealed amusement of that lady, who was doubtless aware that her possessions, and not herself, were the object of his interest in her. Here she was, she reflected, when the lights were out and the house wrapped in silence, alone in a foreign country, utterly at the mercy of this unscrupulous and dangerously attractive young woman, who had made a dead set at her from the first, within an ace of being made her accomplice, practically in the same room with her; for the door of communication was unlocked, and the key had mysteriously disappeared. The police might at any time pounce upon them. She might be robbed to any extent--that is, had she happened to have possessed anything worth stealing--she might be implicated in robberies; stolen property might be secreted among her things to throw the police off the scent; she might be entangled in a conspiracy, mixed up with that dreadful Anarchist--anything--a frightful situation to be in, dangerous beyond imagination. Yet, after all, more amusing than the conventionalities and social amenities of Kensington, more thrilling even than that first wild experience of real life in the Casino Gardens. And through all she had a sneaking kindness for this woman of mystery. Perhaps her sins were not entirely her fault; no doubt society had sinned against her and forced her into courses of a regrettable nature. Regrettable is a beautiful word. It was of absolutely incalculable value to us during the last Boer War, through which, indeed, we should never have come without it.