Hugh shuddered. The woman was depraved to the core. She could leave her house in Eaton Place, where she had been installed by her devoted and trustful husband, and journey down to some obscure eating-house in the City to meet this criminal who lived upon her bounty. Well, the chain of evidence was complete. Bryant would swear to the identification, and Parkinson would swear that Mrs Guy Spencer, once Norah Burton, had met George Burton clandestinely four times in a fortnight, and had supplied him with money. CHAPTER NINETEEN. It was in his blackest and most grim mood that Hugh Murchison walked to Eaton Place, for the purpose of paying an afternoon call upon Mrs Spencer. He had not been near her since the night of the dinner, had only left cards. And, very fortunately, he had not come across Guy in the interval. On that particular night he had reproached himself with indiscretion. He had availed himself of Fairfax's information to tax her with meeting Tommie Esmond at Charing Cross Station on the morning of his flight to the Continent. And at the moment that he had made that dramatic announcement, the drawing-room door had opened to admit the unsuspecting husband. Hugh had left shortly after dinner, on the plea of another engagement. Had Mrs Spencer tried to take the wind out of his sails by volunteering some plausible explanation about her meeting with Esmond? She was a clever young woman; she might try to forestall him. On the other hand, she might sit tight till he forced her hand. Anyway, he was going to force it to-day, armed with the new evidence that had been furnished to him. Mrs Spencer was not looking well. Her eyes had lost their brightness, her once charming smile was forced and mechanical. She rose as he was announced, and advanced to him with outstretched hands, with an exaggerated air of cordiality. "I thought you had forgotten us." She seated herself on the Chesterfield and motioned him to sit beside her. "Major Murchison, I fear I was a little rude to you the other night, you remember, just before Guy came in." She clasped her hands nervously together. "I do trust we are going to be friends." Hugh looked at her grimly. He had no compassion for this shameless adventuress who had driven the poor foolish Pomfret to his grave, who had ensnared Guy Spencer, a man of stronger fibre, but equally powerless in the hands of an unscrupulous woman. "Mrs Spencer--to call you by one of the many names by which you are known--we were not friends the last time I was at this house. To-day we are bitter enemies." "What do you mean?" she faltered. "You are speaking in riddles. Why should you, the old friend of my husband, be the bitter enemy of his innocent wife?" "His innocent wife!" repeated Hugh sternly. "Dare you look me in the face and say that my name, even if you fail to recognise me after these years, does not recall to you certain tragic episodes at Blankfield?"