"Yes." Beatrice, with white lips, recognised the necklace at once as that stolen by Maud Paslow. "But where did you get it?" "Why do you ask that?" questioned Lady Watson sharply. "It is the Obi necklace. You got it from Maud Orchard--from Vivian's wife." "I--that is--what do you mean?" stammered Lady Watson, growing pale under her rouge. "It is mine--mine. Mr. Alpenny gave it to me." "No. You are in this plot too. You know about the murder. I shall tell the police, I shall----" Beatrice, hardly knowing what she did, was about to rush from the room when Lady Watson stopped her. "Wait," she said in a cracked scream; "if you denounce me, you ruin--your mother!" CHAPTER XXI LADY WATSON'S STORY "My mother!" Beatrice stopped short at the door, and caught hold of a chair to support herself. The shock of this discovery came upon her with overwhelming force. "Impossible!" "It is true," said Lady Watson, advancing towards her with outstretched arms. "I am your most unhappy mother." The girl suffered the little woman to embrace her, but did not return the caress. "My mother!" she repeated again faintly; "it is impossible, Lady Watson." "Don't call me Lady Watson. I am your mother. I should not have told you: I promised Durban that I would not. But Nature is too, too strong," cried Lady Watson theatrically; "my heart spoke, and I responded. Darling! darling!" She embraced Beatrice still more affectionately, and guided her to a low armchair, into which the bewildered girl sank unresistingly. Was Lady Watson in earnest? Was she really her mother? Were these violent demonstrations genuine? Beatrice could not tell. The whole thing seemed to be beyond the bounds of possibility. What of the supposed mother who was buried in Hurstable churchyard? Revolving these things in a much-puzzled brain, Beatrice sat silently staring at the artificial little woman who claimed so sacred a relationship. Lady Watson, seeing the girl's coldness--as she thought it was--squeezed out a few serviceable tears. "Oh, cruel, cruel!" she wept. "My own child--the baby that I carried in my arms--to act like this! It is wicked, it is incredible." "Mother!" said Beatrice blankly. "Are you really and truly my mother?" "Of course I am," snapped the elder woman, drying her tears. "How often do you wish me to repeat it? I am not in the habit of calling other people's children my children. Can't you say something more affectionate, you cold-hearted girl?" "It is all so strange--so new," gasped Beatrice. "Tell me how it came about that I never knew this until now." "It's Durban's fault," said Lady Watson sullenly. "Durban always hated me, though I'm sure I was always kind to him--the beast!" "Durban is a good man," said Beatrice quickly.