mething, too, of her respectful manner. A note of impertinence became
audible.

"Very happy, I'm sure," she said.

"The motor-car delivered the message at midnight," Lady Splay resumed,
"and--this is what I ask your attention to, Jenny--the editor, in order
to obtain corroboration of the message before he inserted it in his
paper, rang up Rackham Park."

Lady Splay paused for Jenny's comment, but none was uttered then. Jenny
was listening with a concentration of all her thoughts. Here was a new
fact of which she was ignorant, creeping into the affair. Whither did it
lead? Did it strike her weapon from her hand? Upset her fine plan of
avenging her dear mistress's most unhappy life? She would not believe
it.

"He rang up Rackham Park--mark the time, Jenny--at a few minutes after
twelve," said Lady Splay impressively, and Jenny's uneasiness was
markedly increased.

"Fancy that!" she returned flippantly. "But I don't see, my lady, what
that has to do with me."

"You will see, Jenny," Lady Splay continued with gentleness. "He got an
answer."

Jenny turned that announcement over in her mind.

"An answer, did he?"

"Yes, Jenny, and an answer in a woman's voice."

A startled cry broke from the lips of Jenny Prask. Her cheeks blanched
and horror stared suddenly from her eyes. She understood whose voice it
must have been which answered the question from London. Before her, too,
the pitiful vision of the lonely woman waiting for the shrill summons of
the telephone bell to close the door of life upon her, rose clear; and
such a flood of grief and compassion welled up in her as choked her
utterance.

"Oh!" she whispered, moaning.

"Whose voice was it, Jenny?"

At the question Jenny rallied. All the more dearly because of that
vision, should Joan Whitworth pay, the shining armour of her young
beauty be pierced, her pride be humbled, her indifference turned to
shame.

"I can't think, my lady--unless it was Miss Whitworth's."

"I asked you to mark the time, Jenny. A few minutes after midnight. Miss
Whitworth was at that moment in the supper-room at Harrel. She was seen
there. The woman's voice which answered was either Mrs. Croyle's or
yours."

Nothing could have been quieter or gentler than Millie Splay's
utterance. But it was like a searing iron to the shoulders of Jenny
Prask.

"Mine!" The word was launched in a cry of incredulous anger. "It wasn't
mine. Oh, as if I would do such a thing! The idea! Well, I n