said with absent gentleness. "Keep your mind on your work.
I'll look out for your best interests. Be sure of that." He came near
to her, his hat in his hand, ready to go. "Try to forget all about it,
will you?"

"Oh, I can't do that. I feel sort of--burnt. Betty thinking--that! But
I'll do my work just the same, of course."

She sighed heavily and sat, the unnoticed hand clasped in its fellow.

When he had gone she called nervously for her maid. She had a hitherto
unknown dread of being alone. But when Mathilde, chosen by Betty, came
with her furtive step and treacherous eyes, Joan invented some duty
for her. It occurred to her that Mathilde might be one of Betty's
witnesses. For some time the girl's watchfulness and intrusions had
become irritatingly noticeable. And Morena was Joan's only frequent
and informal visitor.

"Mathilde thinks I am--_that_!" Joan said to herself; and afterwards,
with a burst of weeping, "And, of course, that is what I am." Her past
sin pressed upon her and she trembled, remembering Pierre's wistful,
seeking face. If he should find her now, he would find her branded,
indeed--now he could never believe that she had indeed been innocent
of guilt in the matter of Holliwell. Her father had first put a mark
upon her. Since then the world had only deepened his revenge.

There followed a sleepless, dry, and aching night.

CHAPTER X

THE SPIDER

"Hullo. Is this Mrs. Morena?"

Betty held the receiver languidly. Her face had grown very thin and
her eyes were patient. They were staring now absently through the
front window of Woodward Kane's sitting-room at a day of driving April
rain.

"Yes. This is Mrs. Morena."

The next speech changed her into a flushed and palpitating girl.

"Mr. Gael wishes to know, madam,"--the man-servant recited his lesson
automatically,--"if you have seen the exhibition of Foster's
water-colors, Fifty-eighth Street and Fifth Avenue. He wants to know
if you will be there this afternoon at five o'clock. No. 88 in the
inner room is the picture he would especially like you to notice,
madam."

Betty's hand and voice were trembling.

"No. I haven't seen it." She hesitated, looking at the downpour. "Tell
him, please, that I will be there."

Her voice trailed off doubtfully.

The man at the other end clipped out a "Very well, madam," and hung
up.

Betty was puzzled. Why had Prosper sent her this message, made this
appointment by his servant? Perhaps beca