I turned my indignant eyes from him. And my eyes met, across the court, the eyes of another woman who wears the name of Lovelace! Heavens! There was my Aunt Anastasia, sitting bolt upright in the gallery and listening to the case. Her face was whiter than Million's, and her lips were an almost imperceptible line across it! How did she know? How had she come there? I didn't at that moment realise the truth--namely, that the Scotland Yard officials had been busy with their inquiries, not only at what Miss Million calls the Hotel "Sizzle," but also at what used to be my home at No. 45 Laburnum Grove, Putney, S.W. Poor Aunt Anastasia, hearing that her niece was "wanted by the police" for robbery, must have received a shock forty times worse than that of my letter informing her that I had become our ex-servant's maid! But, as I say, here she was in court ... seeing the pair of us in the dock, listening to the account of the circumstances that really did look black against us. Oh, that unfortunate flight of Miss Million's into Sussex! That still more unfortunate flight of her maid's after her, leaving no address! Aunt Anastasia, in pale horror, was listening to it all. That was the last straw. It seemed to me nothing after that when, from where I stood tense in the dock, I recognised in the blurred pink speckle of faces against the grimy walls of the court the face of another person that I knew. A blonde, manly face, grave as that of the young American, but with a less unself-conscious gravity. The face of Mr. Reginald Brace, the manager of Miss Million's bank, who wants to be the manager of me--no! I mustn't make these cheap jokes about the steady and sterling and utterly English character of the young man who loves me and who wishes--still wishes!--to marry me. For he has behaved in a way that ought to take any wish to make jokes about him away from any girl! He has been so splendid--so "decent"! You know, when bail was asked for, he stepped forward--he who is usually so deliberate in his movements!--quite as quickly as the Honourable Jim. How he--the Honourable Jim--had £300 to dispose of at a moment's notice is one of these mysteries that I suppose I never shall solve. Still, he is one of the sureties for us, and my Mr. Brace is another. The third is Miss Vi Vassity, who produced, "to dazzle the old boy," a rustling sheaf of notes and a sliding, gleaming handful of sovereigns from the gold mesh bag, as well as her blue cheque-book and a smile that was a perfect guarantee of opulence. Let me see, what came next? We were "released," of course, and I remember standing on the pavement outside the doors of that detestable place, I still holding Miss Million mechanically by the arm and finding ourselves the centre of a group of our friends.