"Not mad, Mrs Spencer, but very sane, as I will show you in a few seconds. As I told you, I recognised you that night at the Southleigh dinner-party, in spite of the pains you had taken to camouflage yourself. But I waited for corroborative evidence. The detective who arrested your so-called brother, George Burton, has seen you and is prepared to swear to your identity as Norah Burton." Then suddenly she gave way, fell on her knees before him, and stretched out appealing hands. "Oh, you are very clever; I see you have found it all out. But you will be merciful, you will not drive an unhappy woman to despair, just when she has got into safe harbour. Will you be kind enough to listen to my miserable history?" "I will listen to anything you have got to say." "My childhood and girlhood were most wretched and unhappy. At a time when most girls are tasting the sweets and joys of life, I had to live by my wits. I fell under the influence of a good-natured, but very wicked man." "In other words, George Burton?" queried Hugh. "In other words, George Burton," she repeated in the low, strangled voice that did not move Hugh very much. "I was starving when he met me and took me up. He was genuinely sorry for me. Mind you, I knew nothing of his nefarious schemes. He hid those very carefully away from me." "But you were his decoy, if not his confederate, in the gambling-saloon in Paris?" "His decoy, perhaps, unconsciously, but never his confederate." "And when did Tommie Esmond appear on the scene?" queried Hugh. "Oh, much later. George got into low water and had not enough for himself. I then hunted up my uncle, who received me with open arms." Hugh was developing the instincts of a cross-examiner. "And Tommie Esmond, I suppose, introduced you to the card-sharping crew at the Elsinore flat, and you were launched as the cousin of Mrs L'Estrange, who presided over this delectable establishment?" "I was a distant cousin of Mrs L'Estrange on my dear mother's side," was the answer. She was lying terribly, he felt assured. But he had a card or two up his sleeve yet. Still, it was wise to see how far she would go. "And when did you part with the so-called brother, George Burton?" "Oh, very shortly after he came out of prison. I had one interview with him; I could not do less after his kindness to me. And in the meantime I had hunted up poor old Tommie Esmond." "And what did you do after that night at Blankfield? I think you cleared out the next day. I heard you had paid everything up." "Thank Heaven, yes. There was just a little money left. My life after that was a nightmare. Amongst other humiliations, I was a waitress in a tea-shop." A smile of vanity broke over the charming face. "The wages were very small, but I got a lot of tips." Perhaps in this particular instance she was not lying, if it was true that she had been in a tea-shop at all.