One morning upon a dull day in the late summer of the same year in which Mrs. Admaston had stayed at the HÔtel des Tuileries in Paris, Colonel Adams came down to breakfast at the Cocoa Tree Club. He ordered his grilled kidneys in the quaint, old-fashioned dining-room, with its rare sporting prints and air of sober comfort, and took up his morning paper. His eyes fell upon the cause list of the Royal Courts of Justice, and he sighed.

A few minutes afterwards Henry Passhe, whose leave from India had been extended for reasons of health, and who was also a member of the famous club in St. James's Street, entered and sat down by his friend.

"Well," he said, "do you still hold to your resolution, Adams?"

The colonel sighed, and put down his knife and fork. "I don't know, old chap," he said doubtfully. "It's different for you. You see, you don't know Mrs. Admaston. I know her quite well, and I really doubt whether it is the chivalrous thing to do, to go and stare at her, as if she was a sort of show. She'll be undergoing tortures all day, poor little thing!"

"Just as you like," Passhe answered. "I confess to great curiosity myself, and of course everyone who can possibly get in will be going, whether they are friends of Mrs. Admaston or of her husband. It's great good luck, my getting two seats like this; but don't come unless you like. I can easily find someone else who will be only too glad to drop in for an hour or two. That's all I want to do—just to see what's going on. You see it is the case of the century almost. I am not up in the statistics of this sort of thing, but I doubt if a Cabinet Minister, who is also one of the wealthiest men in England, has ever brought an action for divorce against his wife, who is not only as rich as he in her own right, but also is co-partner in one of the biggest financial houses in Europe. That's the way I look at it."

"Well, I'll come," the colonel said suddenly. "It can't do any harm, after all; and I am sure all my sympathies are with Mrs. Admaston, though of course...."

Passhe nodded. "But there is absolutely no doubt about it," he said, "of course. But naturally, old chap, the fact of our both being in the hotel in Paris at the very time it all happened gives the thing a special interest for us. When I go back to India everybody will be wanting to know all about it; and as I have got a chance to be present at part of the trial, I really can't forego it."

"That's settled, then," Adams replied, as the two men strolled into the big smoke-room, where the brown-cased Cocoa Tree is put with all its old associations of the past. They fidgeted about a little, smoked a cigarette, while they looked down into the busy St. James's Street from the great Georgian windows, looked at their watches, and then hailed a taxi-cab and were driven to the Law Courts.

Court II. in the Probate, Divorce, and Admiralty Division of the High Court of Justice was crowded almost to suffocation as the two men entered and found, with some difficulty, the seats which had been allotted to them. They settled themselves quietly in their places in the well of the court.

The President was writing something in the book before him, and seated below the judge was the associate, while the usher stood a few yards away.

Lots of people—and these the most fortunate—have never had occasion to visit a law court. It was so with Colonel Adams. This was the first time he had ever entered the great building at the junction of Fleet Street and the Strand, and he gazed round him with great interest.

He saw many faces that he knew. Immediately around him were the privileged of society sitting behind the solicitors; Admaston, Roderick Collingwood, the maid Pauline, and Lord Ellerdine.

In the second row the leading counsel sat.

Mr. Menzies, hawk-faced and saturnine of aspect, the horse-hair wig which framed his face only accentuating the hatchet-like alertness of his countenance. Sir Robert Fyffe, huge-framed, and with a face like the risen moon. Mr. M'Arthur, a youthful-looking man, handsome and dÉbonnaire, but with something rather dangerous and threatening in his face.

Behind the leaders sat a row of junior counsel; and then Lady Attwill, other members of society, and the two friends who had driven from the Cocoa Tree Club.

The gallery at the back of the court was packed with people, and there was a curious hush and stillness over everything.

All eyes were directed to one point—to the witness-box, where Mrs. Admaston was standing.

At the moment when the two men entered both Mr. M'Arthur and Sir Robert Fyffe were standing up.

"I have noted your question, Mr. M'Arthur, and do not think it is admissible at this stage," the President was saying. "No doubt, if Sir Robert's cross-examination follows a certain line, you can return to the matter when you re-examine your witness."

Sir Robert Fyffe sat down.

"If your lordship pleases," he said

Mr. M'Arthur turned over the leaves of a notebook. He was Mrs. Admaston's leading counsel, and his examination continued:

"Now, Mrs. Admaston, let me be quite sure that you clearly understand the charges you have to meet. It is alleged that you arranged to miss the train at Boulogne in order to spend the evening in Paris with the co-respondent."

"That is not true," pierced through the dull, blanket-like silence of the court.

Few people enough have any experience of a court. They read long and large accounts of what goes on in the daily papers. Well-known descriptive writers endeavour to present a true picture of what they themselves have witnessed. And in the result almost every one whose experience of trials is taken almost entirely from the newspapers imagines that the scene of justice is some vast hall. It is all magnified and splendid in their thoughts. The reality is quite different.

A quite small room, panelled, badly lighted, thronged with people—this is the real theatre where the dramas of society are played in London town....

"It is alleged," Mr. M'Arthur, Peggy's own counsel, continued, "that, having reached Paris, you permitted Mr. Collingwood to engage rooms—connected the one with the other."

"I did not know that Mr. Collingwood's room opened out of mine," Mrs. Admaston said. "It seems the hotel was full."

Everyone in the court—one person only excepted—was looking at the slim young woman in the witness-box. She was very simply dressed. Her face was perfectly pale, but her self-possession was marvellous.

From their seats behind the junior counsel, Colonel Adams and Henry Passhe looked on with sympathetic interest.

Passhe—who was somewhat of a psychologist—remarked upon the extreme simplicity of Mrs. Admaston's dress to his friend. "I call it ostentatious," he said, "or something of a trick. When a woman has an income of eighty thousand pounds a year quite apart from her husband, it seems to me exaggerated humility to appear in the clothes that any little milliner might wear."

Colonel Adams shrugged his shoulders. He didn't in the least understand his friend's point of view....

"After you went to bed"—the handsome young-elderly Mr. M'Arthur continued,—"it is said that you permitted Mr. Collingwood to enter your room—you being at the time undressed—and to stay there a considerable time."

Peggy's little white-gloved hands rested upon the rail of the witness-box.

"I don't know about permitting," she said in a clear voice. "He came in because he heard the telephone. I think he thought that I had gone to bed, and that the call might be from our friends."

"At anyrate, he came in, and you permitted him to stay?"

"Yes, I suppose I did. I asked him to go, but we were great friends, and—well—I let him stay and smoke a cigarette."

The court was dead silent now; the keen face of the President regarded counsel and witness with an intent scrutiny.

The society people who were there looked at each other and held their breath. The junior counsel leant forward from their benches, keenly attentive to the efforts of the respondent's friend.

"It is alleged," Mr. M'Arthur continued, "that while you were alone together you were unfaithful to your husband."

"That is a lie." The voice was so poignant, so ringing, so instinct with indignation, that even the President looked up and watched the witness keenly. Mr. M'Arthur nodded to himself as if very pleased with the response he had elicited. He put his hands together and made a motion as though he was congratulating himself.

When he looked up again his face was perfectly bright and cheerful.

"I will put this generally," he said. "Have you ever, Mrs. Admaston—ever, on any occasion or in any place—been unfaithful to your husband?"

"Never—never—never!" Peggy replied....

She seemed no more the young and frivolous person she had been. Tense and strung up, her personality had become arresting and real—her voice seemed to carry conviction.

Mr. M'Arthur looked round the court—with a half glance at the President—and sat down.

As a matter of fact, he had the very gravest doubt as to the possible success of his case. That sleuth-hound, Sir Robert Fyffe, was against him, and the case itself was a thoroughly weak one. He, accomplished barrister, actor, and man of the world as he was, sat down with a quietly suggested air of triumph that impressed every one.

Sir Robert Fyffe rose.

Sir Robert Fyffe was the absolute leader in his own particular line. There was something so red-faced and jolly about him—such a suggestion of friendliness even when he was most deadly,—that the eminence he enjoyed was very well deserved. His voice was mellow; indeed, it was more than that, and had a suggestion of treacle.

He looked at Mrs. Admaston with a bland smile.

"You will, I am sure, admit, Mrs. Admaston, that the events of the 23rd March give ground for very grave suspicion."

Peggy Admaston did not seem at all distressed by this question. Her voice showed the pain that she was enduring, but all her answers to counsel were delivered clearly and openly. They had either a frank innocence about them, or else she was certainly one of the most accomplished actresses and liars of her time.

"Some persons are more suspicious than others," Peggy answered.

"And one would be more justly suspicious of some persons than of others?"

"Yes, perhaps so."

"And may I take it that you class yourself among those persons upon whom suspicion should not readily fall?"

Peggy nodded vigorously. "I think so," she said.

The great, round, red face of Sir Robert beamed upon her in the kindliest way. His voice—which carried right through the court—was still ingratiating and honey-sweet.

"You say," he said, "that your husband ought not to have allowed even these circumstances to make him suspect you?"

"He had always trusted me implicitly," she replied.

The accomplished counsel made a remark sotto voce. "Perhaps too implicitly," he said.

Mr. M'Arthur jumped up in a second and looked at the judge.

"My learned friend has no right to say that," he said.

The President, with his air of taking very little interest at all in the proceedings, raised his eyelids.

"I did not hear what he said," he remarked blandly.

"Never mind, Mr. M'Arthur; I don't mind Sir Robert," Peggy said from the witness-box very sweetly.

"I am sure we shall get on very well," Sir Robert replied. "Now, Mrs. Admaston, I suppose you were very annoyed at finding you were in the wrong train?"

"I was annoyed, I suppose," Peggy answered; "but not very seriously. You see, it really didn't matter very much."

Sir Robert nodded his great bewigged head. "I suppose not," he said. "Was it your fault?"

The girl's clear accents rang out into the court. "I don't think it was anybody's fault, except the fussy customs officer's."

"This fussiness could have been avoided by registering the luggage through—yes?"

"I suppose so," Peggy answered Sir Robert.

The big man leant forward with the most ingratiating face. "Can you," he asked, "suggest any reason why the luggage was not registered?"

"I believe it was the mistake of a porter at Charing Cross."

"The mistake of a porter, the fussiness of a custom-house officer—quite a chapter of accidents!" Sir Robert continued blandly.

Mrs. Admaston seemed to find something consoling in the voice of the great K.C.

"Wasn't it!" she said brightly.

There was no response in the manner or in the voice of Mr. Admaston's counsel.

"Was your luggage with Mr. Collingwood's at Charing Cross?" he asked—blandly still, but with a threatening hint of what was to come in his voice.

"All the luggage was together when I saw it."

"All? The luggage of the whole party?"

"Yes," Peggy replied.

"Was it labelled, Mrs. Admaston? I mean, apart from the railway labels?"

"Mine wasn't."

"Don't you generally label your luggage when you go abroad?" Sir Robert continued.

"I always do."

"Well, Mrs. Admaston, why did you not do so this time?"

"Well, you see," Peggy answered, "Mr. Collingwood, who is a great traveller, chaffed me about being such an old maid. He said it was quite unnecessary."

The big moon-faced counsel almost jumped—experienced as he was—at this remark.

"Oh!" he said, "Mr. Collingwood said that, did he?"

"It was lucky," Peggy replied; "wasn't it?"

Suddenly the President looked up. His kindly but austere face became surprised.

"Lucky?" he said.

Peggy turned towards the judge. "Yes, my lord," she said; "otherwise I should have reached Paris without any clothes."

The President nodded gravely. "Yes, I see," he said. "The boxes fortunately made the same mistake as you did."

Peggy laughed. "Yes, Sir John," she said, and as she did it there was a little ripple of amusement round the crowded court.

Of course, everybody knew that the judge who was trying this case had met the Admastons over and over again.

Every one there, with the exception of the people in the gallery, was a member of what is called society. Peggy, in her innocent simplicity, could not quite differentiate between Sir John Burroughes, who was trying the case of her innocence or guilt, and Mr. M'Arthur or Sir Robert Fyffe, K.C., M.P. She was bewildered. She had met all these men at dinner-parties or receptions. She still thought that this was all a kind of weird game. She did not realise that Sir Robert Fyffe was about to hunt her to the death of her reputation, or that Sir John Burroughes—the President—would give his judgment without fear or favour.

As a matter of fact, there was a little ripple of laughter right through the court when she addressed the President as "Sir John."

Sir Robert Fyffe continued his examination. "Very lucky, Mrs. Admaston," he said grimly. "And did Mr. Collingwood's luggage make the same mistake as yours?"

"Yes," Peggy answered.

"And the luggage belonging to Lord Ellerdine and Lady Attwill had the intelligence to go straight to Chalons?"

"Yes," Peggy answered again.

"Didn't it strike you as rather odd that your luggage should not have been registered?"

Peggy tried to recollect. "No, it didn't," she said. "It struck my maid as odd, I remember."

A keen note came into Sir Robert Fyffe's voice. The blandness and suavity seemed to have left it.

"It struck your maid as odd?" he said sharply.

"Maids who are devoted to us are often more suspicious than we are," Peggy answered. "Don't you think so, Sir Robert?"

The big red face turned full upon her for a moment. People who watched it carefully might have discerned a slight expression of compunction. He had known this little butterfly in private life, but now professional considerations overbore everything. He was Sir Robert Fyffe because he did his job—had always done his job.

"I am afraid I am not here to say what I think," he answered quickly.

Peggy realised the situation in a moment. She was fighting desperately, but nothing gave an index to the fact.

"Oh, we all know that, Sir Robert!" she said, and there was a slight murmur and ripple of laughter through the court.

The President raised his eyes above his glasses and stared gravely round.

Silence was restored.

"Your maid's luggage," said Sir Robert, "had the good fortune to reach Paris too?"

"Yes."

"Did Mr. Collingwood attend to the luggage at Charing Cross—the luggage of the whole party, I mean?"

"Yes, I think he did."

"Do you think, Mrs. Admaston, that you would remember the porter who made the mistake?"

Peggy seemed to be trying to remember something. "No," she said doubtfully. "I don't think I could."

"Do you remember having a conversation with him?" Sir Robert continued, his face as bland and confidential as any face could be.

"No, I don't remember."

"Your name was on your boxes in full, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well, Mrs. Admaston, don't you remember having a talk with him about your husband?"

Peggy looked up brightly. Something seemed to have struck her.

"Oh yes," she said quickly. "Wasn't he a constituent?"

Sir Robert bowed sweetly. "I think he was," he said. "At anyrate, a great admirer." Then he turned round. "Will Mr. Stevens please stand up?"

Just behind the barristers and the seats in which the society people were sitting, a broad, short, and sturdy man rose from the pit of the court.

"Now," Sir Robert said to Mrs. Admaston, "do you recognise him?"

Peggy leant over the rail of the box with real interest—if it was not affectation.

"No," she said doubtfully; "I could not say for certain."

"But if Mr. Stevens can swear that he is the man with whom you had the conversation?"

"Oh! then he must be right, Sir Robert," Peggy answered.

Mr. Menzies rose in his place. "My client, Mr. Collingwood, recognises the man, m'lud—there is no doubt about it."

"Very well," the President answered quietly. "We shall have that later."

"So that is the porter who made the mistake," Sir Robert resumed in a voice full of meaning. "You can sit down, Mr. Stevens. Would you be surprised to hear that your luggage and Mr. Collingwood's was not registered, upon the express instructions of Mr. Collingwood, and that Lord Ellerdine's and Lady Attwill's luggage was registered through, also upon his instructions?"

Mr. M'Arthur rose. "My lord," he said, "this cannot be evidence against my client. Even if Mr. Collingwood was acting as her agent, such instructions were clearly outside his authority."

Sir Robert glanced round quickly. "One moment, Mr. M'Arthur," he said, in a voice full of meaning. "If it should turn out, Mrs. Admaston, that Mr. Collingwood gave express instructions that your luggage should not be registered—that, you say, was not according to your instructions?"

"It is incredible that he should have given such instructions," Peggy said.

"Incredible!" said Sir Robert Fyffe.

"Unless——" Peggy replied, then stopped short and bit her lip.

Every one in the court noticed that the judge had lifted his head and was looking keenly at her.

"Well? Unless what, Mrs. Admaston?" Sir Robert Fyffe asked quickly.

Peggy did not answer at all.

"Shall I finish it for you?" Sir Robert continued, with his famous little menacing gesture of the right hand. "Unless he had intended to give his friends the slip at Boulogne, and stay the night in Paris with you. Is that what you were going to say?"

"Yes, it was, for a moment," the girl answered, "until it struck me how absurd it was."

"It strikes you as absurd, does it?"

"Yes, it does rather," she replied.

"I suppose it would strike you as equally absurd that Mr. Collingwood had already engaged rooms at the HÔtel des Tuileries for himself and a lady, two days before you left London? Or do you think the rooms were engaged for some other lady?"

"I don't believe they were engaged at all before we arrived," came the answer quickly.

Sir Robert nodded his big head. "We shall hear, no doubt, from Mr. Collingwood. Am I to take it, then, that you had no knowledge of the fact that your luggage was not registered, and that you had no knowledge of the fact that Mr. Collingwood had already taken rooms for himself and a lady before you left London?"

"I had no knowledge whatever—none at all," Peggy replied with great emphasis.

"And I think you told my learned friend in examination-in-chief that you had no knowledge of the fact that both your bedroom and Mr. Collingwood's opened out of the same sitting-room?"

"That is so, Sir Robert."

"I think you telegraphed to Chalons when you got to Paris to tell Lord Ellerdine of your mistake?"

"Mr. Collingwood did so for me."

"And to your husband?"

"No; that was not necessary."

In some subtle, but very real fashion, the atmosphere of the court was becoming more and more charged with excitement. Everybody was sitting perfectly still. All eyes were directed to the slim figure of the girl in the witness-box. The hush was not broken by any sounds, save only that of the great counsel's voice with its deadly innuendo, its remorseless logic of fact, and the replies of the sweet-voiced girl.

"Why not?" Sir Robert asked, with a deep note of suggestion.

"I did not want to worry him with our silly mistakes," was the answer; and even as she gave it Peggy's heart sank like lead within her, realising how inadequate and feeble it sounded.

"Did you think that it would annoy your husband to think that you and Mr. Collingwood were alone in Paris?"

"Not a bit," she replied.

"Then why didn't you tell him? You had nothing to hide?"

"Nothing whatever."

There was a pause. Sir Robert's face still wore an expectant look. He was obviously waiting for a reply.

It came at length, and every person in the court as they heard it smiled, frowned, or sighed according to their several temperaments.

"I really don't know why I didn't tell him."

"Let me suggest a reason. You didn't tell because you didn't want him to know?"

"I don't think that is true," Peggy answered.

"Come, Mrs. Admaston; you heard the evidence of the detective?"

"Yes, I did."

"He has told the jury that when the telephone message came through from your husband you were in the room; that you stayed by and heard the co-respondent tell your husband that Lord Ellerdine was staying at the hotel—a deliberate lie; and that you refused to speak to your husband. Is that true?"

The answer, the miserable answer, came in the faintest of voices from the box:

"Yes."

And now there was every sign of what the newspapers call a "sensation" in court. Colonel Adams and Henry Passhe looked at each other significantly. "That's done for her," Passhe whispered to his friend. Ladies nudged each other. The reporters wrote furiously. The judge leaned forward a little more over his desk.

"Why did you connive at this lie?"

"I don't know. Really, I don't know."

"Why did you refuse to speak to your husband?"

Peggy was silently gazing downwards.

"You have told us that it would not have annoyed your husband to think that you and Mr. Collingwood were alone in Paris."

"Why should it have annoyed him," Peggy answered, "if it were an accident?"

"Exactly!" Sir Robert continued—"if it were an accident. I put it to you that the only fact which made you afraid to speak to your husband was because you knew it was not an accident, and that he had just cause for resentment."

"That is not true," Peggy said, with a little flicker of the spirit she had shown at first.

"I don't wish to be unfair," said Sir Robert Fyffe—and no man at the Bar was fairer than the famous counsel in his cross-examinations.

"You are not unfair, Sir Robert," Peggy said; "but, oh! it is all unfair."

Sir Robert gave a little sigh, which may or may not have been a genuine expression of feeling, but was probably sincere enough. His duty lay before him, however, and, like some sworn torturer of the Middle Ages, he must pursue it to the end.

"I must press you upon this point," he said. "What made you afraid to tell your husband that you were alone in Paris? What made you agree with Mr. Collingwood, Lord Ellerdine, and Lady Attwill to say that you had not been alone with Mr. Collingwood in Paris?"

"I cannot tell you," Peggy answered. "I was very upset, and really not quite myself."

"Not quite yourself?" followed upon the heels of her answer with lightning rapidity. "Very upset? What had happened to upset you?"

Peggy made a motion—an instinctive motion—as if to free herself from something, something that was slowly but surely tightening round her. Every one noticed it, every one understood it.

"Nothing," she said at length.

At this there was a ripple of laughter through the court, and cutting in upon it, before it had quite died away, the accusing voice was heard: "Nothing? If that is so, can you give any reason why Lord Ellerdine and Lady Attwill should have connived at this deception?"

"I suppose they thought they were shielding me."

"Shielding you!" Sir Robert cried in mock surprise. "From what? Tell me, Mrs. Admaston," he continued, as Peggy looked round the court helplessly—"tell me, do you think that Lord Ellerdine—he is an old friend?"

"Yes, a dear old friend," Peggy said, glad to be able to say something for a moment which did not tell against her.

"Do you think that Lord Ellerdine and Lady Attwill believed that you were in Paris, by accident?"

"How can I tell?" Peggy replied, not in the least seeing to what this was leading.

"Have you any doubt? Why do you think that Lord Ellerdine returned to Paris by the night train instead of letting you join them at Chalons, except that he thought something was very seriously wrong?"

"I have told you," Peggy replied, "that he thought he was shielding me."

"But you have not told me from what he thought he was shielding you. What was he to shield you from?"

"Nothing," Peggy said once more. And again there was a ripple of laughter throughout the court.

At this Sir Robert Fyffe allowed himself his first look at the jury, and a most significant one it was. Then he turned quickly to the witness-box. "Nothing!" he cried. "Then why did you invent—or connive at the invention of—this story?"

"Why did I?" the girl said helplessly. "I don't know. I thought it foolish. I saw that they had told a lying story to my husband, thinking to serve me, and I didn't want to give them away."

"You lied to your husband because you didn't wish to give your good-natured friends away. Is that really your reason, Mrs. Admaston?"

"Yes," she answered, "and I loathed myself for it."

"It was perhaps the first time that you had deceived your husband?" Sir Robert said blandly.

"Yes," came the answer with a pause, and very faintly given.

"You arrived at the hotel under the impression that your presence in Paris was due to a mistake?"

"Yes."

"You supped in your room with Mr. Collingwood?"

"Yes."

"And what time did you sup?"

"About 10 or 10.15."

"What did you do after supper? I suppose you finished about 11?"

"I suppose so," Peggy replied.

"Well—what did you do? The table, I think, was not cleared before you retired to bed—that is so, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"How did you spend the time between 11 and 12.30?"

"We were talking."

"No doubt you told the waiter not to clear away so that you should not be disturbed?"

"I really forget," Peggy said.

"At anyrate, you were not disturbed?"

"No."

"And spent a charming evening?"

"Yes."

"Unspoilt by any idea that your presence there was due to a deliberate and successful device to give your companions the slip?"

Helpless as she was in those skilled, remorseless hands, Peggy nevertheless flared up at this.

"To have had such an idea," she said, with a dignity which was strangely piteous under the circumstances, "would have been an insult to Mr. Collingwood."

"Always assuming," said Sir Robert, "that Mr. Collingwood made his plans without your knowledge."

"I don't believe that Mr. Collingwood made the plans you suggest."

"And nothing will shake your faith in Mr. Collingwood?" said Sir Robert with great suavity.

"My faith in him is not likely to be shaken by the hired evidence of detectives, railway porters, or hotel servants."

"You mustn't talk like that, Mrs. Admaston," the judge said gravely.

"When did it first seem to you that your presence in Paris was not due to a mistake?" Sir Robert went on.

"My maid hinted it to me while she was doing my hair before I went to bed."

"Your maid is an old and privileged servant?"

"She is far more than a servant. She is a devoted friend."

"You are sure of that?"

"Absolutely."

Sir Robert nodded to himself, and his nod sent a shiver of apprehension through the girl in the witness-box.

"The subject admits of no discussion?" he asked, and there was a suppressed eagerness in his voice.

"None," Peggy answered.

Sir Robert nodded again. "Very well," he said sotto voce. "You have told me that you were annoyed, but not seriously, at missing the train, and I suppose, Mrs. Admaston, I may add at finding yourself in Paris?"

The examination seemed to have fallen a little from its strained note.

"That is so," Peggy replied, slightly relieved.

"Did Mr. Collingwood seem much distressed at the turn of events?" asked Sir Robert.

And then—it might have been rising hysteria, or it might have been a totally innocent misapprehension of what was going on, but Peggy laughed.

Her laugh went rippling out into the court.

"He did not seem inconsolable," she said.

Her laughter was echoed by that of every one in the court; even Sir Robert's red and genial face relaxed into a smile.

"And I daresay," he said in quite a kindly voice,—"I daresay you would as soon be stranded in Paris with Mr. Collingwood as with any one?"

"Oh, much sooner," Peggy said. "He is a very charming companion."

"Perhaps," Sir Robert Fyffe answered, "I may allow myself to say the same of his companion?"

Peggy smiled brightly. "Well," she said, "it would not be the first time you had said so, Sir Robert."

"Nor will it be the last, Mrs. Admaston," the K.C. replied with a courtly bow, and a really charming smile upon his face.

Then suddenly he stood a little more upright, shifted the gown upon his shoulders, touched his wig, and looked at Peggy keenly. He was once more the keen advocate doing his duty, whatever it might cost him in personal emotion.

"But we must pass on," he said. "Very well. You finished supper at last, and about 12.30 you went to bed. Your maid joined you and you got undressed." Here Sir Robert put his pince-nez upon his nose, and leant over to see the ground-plan of the rooms of the HÔtel des Tuileries, which the solicitor on the bench before him held up for his inspection.

Sir Robert looked at the coloured plan for a moment with intense scrutiny. Then, having refreshed his memory, he turned his face once more to the witness-box.

"Mr. Collingwood," he continued, "had left you by the door leading into the passage, I suppose?"

"Yes," Peggy replied.

"You had no idea that he was occupying the room communicating with yours?"

"None."

"You then sent your maid to bed?"

"Yes."

"And it was shortly after that that the telephone bell rang—the call from Chalons?"

"Very shortly after," Peggy replied.

She seemed to be extremely interested in this conversation between herself and Sir Robert Fyffe—interested in it as if she were playing some game of which the issue would not matter. At this period of the famous cross-examination she seemed to be perfectly bright and unconcerned.

"And you went to answer it?" Sir Robert went on.

"Yes," she said.

Sir Robert clutched the bands of his gown and looked at her with the very keenest scrutiny.

"And will you tell my lord and the jury what happened?" he said.

"While I was speaking—I had my back to the door—I suddenly heard Mr. Collingwood's voice behind me."

Sir Robert started. "You were surprised—startled?" he said in an eager voice.

"I was," Peggy answered—"very."

The K.C.'s head was bent forward and was swaying slightly from side to side, as the head of a snake sways before it strikes. He was quite unconscious of the marked hostility of his attitude, but the game, the big, exciting game which he was playing, which he was paid so highly to play, and which had become the chief excitement of his life, had caught hold of him in all his nerves.

"Had he knocked?" he said.

"I didn't hear him," Peggy replied, "or of course I should not have let him come in."

"I see," Sir Robert replied. "You were hardly dressed to receive gentlemen visitors?"

"Well, hardly."

"You were angry, Mrs. Admaston?"

"I was angry," Peggy replied.

"Now! how did you show your anger?"

"By telling him to go back to his room."

"Did he go?"

"No."

And now laughter, loud and almost inextinguishable, filled the court. Every one was enjoying himself or herself enormously. There was a sort of atmosphere of French farce about the sombre court. Every one had, by now, forgotten that they had lunched and dined at the hospitable tables of Mr. and Mrs. Admaston. They were there for a show—they were out for blood—it was a bull-fight to these pleasant ladies and gentlemen.

Mr. Henry Passhe was obviously enjoying himself. He laughed as loudly as any one, until the warning "Hush!" of the usher suppressed the merriment. He looked towards his friend, but he saw that Colonel Adams's lean brown face was drawn and wrinkled up with pain. Then he himself—for he was a decent-minded man enough—felt a little ashamed of his jocularity, and he turned once more to an intent watching of this tragic spectacle.

"No doubt," Sir Robert said, "that made you more angry—yes?"

Mrs. Admaston did not answer, but Sir Robert persisted.

"Didn't it make you more angry?" he said.

Suddenly Peggy looked up, and her voice rippled with laughter—she was a butterfly, a thing of sunshine and shadow, but shadow never distressed her for very long.

"I never remain angry very long," she said.

Sir Robert took no notice of the way in which she answered. His big voice went on, tolling quietly like a distant bell.

"But you were angry?"

"I wanted him to go," Peggy replied impatiently.

"Quite so," said Sir Robert. "But you allowed him to stay?"

She heard once more that inexorable persistence, that bland, passionless, but remorseless voice.

The little flicker of gaiety and of respite was over. She braced herself once more to stand up against this relentless onslaught, and clutched the rail of the witness-box before her.

"We are very old friends, Sir Robert," she answered. "I saw no particular harm in it."

"If you saw no particular harm in it, why did you not care to speak to your husband when he rang up?"

"One may do perfectly harmless things," she replied, "and yet not care to tell every one about them."

"And this was one of those perfectly harmless things which you didn't care to tell every one, or even your husband, about?"

"There was no harm in it," Peggy replied, and her voice rang out with a dreadful sense of suppressed irritation and pain.

"So little that you permitted Mr. Collingwood to stay with you—for quite a long time?"

"Not very long," she answered.

"Until the telephone call from your husband?"

"I suppose so."

Sir Robert Fyffe began to seem very pleased with himself. There was no bitterness in his voice—only an extreme politeness. But by now he kept glancing carefully at the jury, watching them with lightning glances, and gathering all the information he possibly could from the expressions on their faces—their immobility or movements of interest.

"Up to that time," Sir Robert remarked—and his question had really the note of a casual inquiry—"up to that time had he shown any sign of going?"

"I don't think so."

The next query startled the whole court, not so much from its directness—though that was patent enough,—but by reason of the way in which it was rapped out.

It was said in a hard, threatening, staccato voice: "What were you both doing?"

The answer was rather reflective than otherwise. It showed no apprehension of the intention of the examiner.

"Sitting on the sofa—he was smoking, I think," Peggy said.

"Should I be right in saying that during most of this time he was making passionate love to you?"

All the reporters looked up, their pencils poised, their eyes avid of sensation.

"He was very fond of me," Mrs. Admaston replied.

"Passionately in love with you?"

There was a perceptible hesitation. "I think he was very fond of me."

Sir Robert's words came from him like the blows of a hammer upon a nail: "Have you any doubt that he was passionately in love with you?"

"He told me so."

"I put it to you that you knew it, and had known it for months?"

It was an odd contrast between the triumphant note which had crept into the great barrister's voice and the diminuendo of Peggy's.

There was no gaiety now. The forces were joined. The battle, which had been an affair of skirmishes before, was now in full cry.

"I only knew what he told me." The voice was quite desperate now.

"And when did he first tell you? The night you were in Paris? Is that when you say?"

"Yes," the answer came, and the President leant forward to be sure that he heard the admission aright.

The big, round, red face of Sir Robert Fyffe was now redder than ever. His eyes blinked as if the lids could hardly veil the silent fire which peered out from them.

"Do you swear that? Please be careful...."

"I think that was the first time."

"I suggest to you," said Sir Robert, turning towards the jury, the President, and then to Peggy—"I suggest to you, Mrs. Admaston, that he had been making passionate love to you for months."

There was an intense silence in the court.

The members of the jury were obviously excited. Different members showed it in different ways. There were men who struggled to give no indication of their feelings, and made effort at an entire lack of expression. Others showed evident and lively interest.

"I knew for some months that he was very fond of me."

"And did your husband know?" echoed out into the court.

"I suppose so," was the faint answer.

"Do you suggest that your husband would ever have permitted you to go away, even in the company of friends, with a man who had been abusing his friendship by making passionate love to his wife?"

There was no answer to that. No sound came from the witness-box—the whole court waited for the response.

Sir Robert was leaning forward now, his head shaking from side to side, his blood-hound face, his extremely vivid eyes, fixed upon Peggy's face. "Do you really ask the jury to believe that?" he said.

Still Peggy was silent. She seemed to have drooped into something like a faded flower. She said nothing. There was nothing for her to say.

And in the silence the calm, judicial voice of the President, full of commiseration—without prejudice one way or the other, nevertheless,—made its demand. "You must answer, Mrs. Admaston," said the judge.

"I don't think my husband knew how fond of me he was," Peggy said.

"If he had known," Sir Robert said, very gently now, and with a little quiver in his voice—"if he had known, don't you think, Mrs. Admaston, he would have been very angry to know how you were situated in Paris?"

Sentence after sentence was wrung from her by torture.

"I think perhaps he might not have liked it," she said in a fainting voice.

The bully came out in Sir Robert's voice. All along the line he was being tremendously successful....

"Perhaps! Would any man like it? Do you think, madam, that you were treating your husband fairly in encouraging this very charming gentleman's attentions?"

Very faint, very slow, very hesitating, and extremely weary, "I did not encourage them," the answer came.

"We shall see. Didn't it make you feel very embarrassed to find yourself sitting up in a strange hotel into the small hours of the morning, with this man making passionate love to you?"

There was a dead silence in the court. Once more the person on the rack had nothing to say.

"Or had this liaison gone too far by this time for you to feel embarrassed?"

Mr. M'Arthur jumped up.

His face blazed with simulated fury. "My lord," he barked, "I protest against these insulting suggestions."

The excited voice of the counsel rather failed of its effect as the judge looked down upon him. "Sir Robert is within his rights, Mr. M'Arthur," he said. "He would not ask these questions without good reason."

Sir Robert Fyffe saw his chance at once. He glanced at the jury; he made a little deprecating motion of his head to the President. "Too good reason, my lord! My duty is not a pleasant one.... Was this the first time, Mrs. Admaston, that you had received Mr. Collingwood in this state of undress—when the rest of the household was asleep?"

Peggy had clasped her hands. She threw them apart with a wild gesture and clutched the rail of the witness-box. "My lord!" she said, "I assure you that nothing has ever taken place between us."

The President gazed at her with calm compassion.

He had heard appeals like this one too often. He was not there to be influenced by emotions, or to be prejudiced by his natural kindness of heart.

He was there to judge.

"You must answer Sir Robert, Mrs. Admaston," he said quietly.

"We used to sit up late sometimes at Lord Ellerdine's and talk," Peggy admitted.

There were murmurs all over the court. Society was interested.

Sir Robert Fyffe leant forward to the solicitor in front of him, said something in an undertone, and then looked up.

"Was that at Lord Ellerdine's place in Yorkshire?"

"Yes."

"When were you last there?"

"About a year ago," Peggy replied.

"Indeed! About a year ago——"

"Hardly a year."

"At anyrate, several months before the Paris trip Mr. Collingwood was sitting up in your room into the small hours of the morning making passionate love to you?"

Mrs. Admaston said nothing at all.

"Is not that so?" the insistent voice inquired.

"There was no harm, Sir Robert," was the hesitating answer.

"No harm! Did Lord Ellerdine know?"

"No."

"Did your husband know?"

"No."

And now into the voice of the great counsel began to creep a note of contempt, which was doubtless perfectly genuine. He had met the woman he was cross-examining in society. He had liked her. But, as every one knew, Sir Robert's own domestic life was one of singular happiness and accord.

It is pretty certain that—having known Admaston and his wife—he was becoming genuinely indignant at what he thought the treachery of the girl.

"Was this another of those perfectly harmless things which you didn't care to tell your husband about?" he said.

"I saw no harm in it," Peggy replied, and in answer to the colder note in Sir Robert's voice her own became stubborn.

"But you would not have liked him to know? Well! You have now admitted that Mr. Collingwood had been making passionate love to you for months before the trip to Paris. We are getting at the truth gradually. I suppose that he made these declarations of love several times at Lord Ellerdine's?"

"I think he spoke to me on two or three occasions," Peggy almost murmured.

"And was this really the first time he declared his love for you?"

"Yes, the first time."

"You are sure?"

"Quite sure."

"And you still went about everywhere with him—but you were careful not to tell your husband the truth?"

"My husband trusted me. I never abused his trust."

As Peggy said this, the foreman of the jury, a plump, shortish, clean-shaved gentleman who in private life was a chemist, looked up with a puzzled expression upon his face.

He thought he detected a ring of real sincerity in the witness's voice which the facts did not seem to justify.

"Was not this an abuse of his trust?" Sir Robert said—perhaps more gravely than he had spoken yet.

"Oh! we can't all be perfect! I don't deny that I flirted," Peggy answered.

Her affectation of lightness went very ill with the weighty, measured accusations of Sir Robert Fyffe.

It struck a jarring note in the court. It did her harm.

"You do not deny that you flirted," Sir Robert said, with a little nod of his head—"and encouraged this man, this very charming companion, to flirt with you?"

"And if I did," she replied, still defiant, "my husband trusted me, and knew that there was nothing in it."

"Mrs. Admaston, if that is true, why were you afraid to talk to him upon the night of the 23rd March, and why did you connive at a deliberate lie on the following day?"

There was a cold and deliberate disgust in Sir Robert's voice, and almost every person there gave a little sympathetic shudder.

But Peggy, brave to the last, still fought on. "I was a fool," she said, with a little shrug of the shoulders, as if the question was of no great moment. "I was a fool. The others thought the thing much worse than it was, and that frightened me. I have told you already that I loathed myself for lying as I did."

Sir Robert knitted his brows for a moment, and then decided on his course of action.

That brilliant brain was never at a loss. Again, after a second's hesitation, the deadly thrust was delivered. It was delivered with such apparent suavity and innocence, with such a relaxation of the hard, accusing note, that the girl in the witness-box was utterly deceived.

"You mean," said Sir Robert, "that though you did not tell your husband everything about your harmless flirtations—your peccadilloes—you never before deliberately lied to shield yourself?"

"Yes," Peggy replied eagerly; "that is what I mean."

"Does it not strike you, Mrs. Admaston, that any one who knew of your previous adventures with Mr. Collingwood, the pleasure you obviously find in his society, and the methods you have adopted to blind your husband to the progress of this innocent friendship, would have good ground for supposing that the accident which brought about the last of this series of innocent and pleasant reunions was in reality not accident, but deliberate design?"

"I see what you mean," she answered; "but whatever any one thought, it was an accident!"

"An accident! Oh, just consider this chapter of accidents! By accident, you and Mr. Collingwood got on to the wrong train at Boulogne; by accident, although the luggage of the whole party was together at Charing Cross Station and Mr. Collingwood was instructed to register it all through to St. Moritz, your luggage and Mr. Collingwood's was not registered—an accident which enabled you to take it on with you upon the Paris train, which you only entered by accident. By accident, Mr. Collingwood seems to have taken for himself and a lady rooms at an hotel in Paris which, but for the accident which took you and him to Paris, could have been of no possible use to him. Do you still ask the jury to believe that your visit to Paris was an accident?"

Sir Robert had a little over-emphasised himself—that is, as far as the witness was concerned,—though his accentuated speech had its effect upon the jury. Peggy herself recognised artifice. When there had been a real note of sincerity in the counsel's voice it had frightened her far more than any rhetoric could.

"Certainly I do," she answered with spirit.

The barrister recognised in a moment that, while he had made an effect upon the court, he had at the same time given new courage to the witness. He was, as all great counsel are, a psychologist of the first order. He responded instantly, and in this duel of two minds—his and Mrs. Admaston's—his keener and more trained intelligence realised exactly what was passing in her thoughts.

"I suggest to you, Mrs. Admaston," he said very briskly, "that you and Mr. Collingwood had planned this trip to Paris—that he took the rooms with your knowledge—that you both missed the train deliberately, and reached Paris in accordance with your preconceived design?"

"And I tell you," Peggy replied, "that all these suggestions are absolutely false."

"Absolutely false?"

Her voice rang out into the court shrill with the long torture of her examination, but passionate with her own certainty of her innocence. "There's not a rag of truth in any of them. You may think you can make black white, and white black, you may hire spies, tamper with railway servants and waiters...."

An instant reproof came from the judge—two words: "Mrs. Admaston!" he said.

She looked up, but hardly heard him.

"... And do all the rest of the degrading work which seems inseparable from this court."

"Mrs. Admaston," the President said again, "you must not speak like that."

All men, even judges, are influenced by circumstance. It is probable that the President would have been far more severe at such an outburst as this, if Mrs. Admaston had not been a millionairess in her own right and the wife of a prominent Cabinet Minister. And it is sure also that, under such circumstances as these, an ordinary woman, without the unconscious consciousness of her financial and social position, would not have dared to do as Peggy did.

Despite the President's admonition, a torrent of half hysterical, wholly indignant words poured from the witness-box.

"And what right have they to treat me like this?" Peggy cried. "Am I to be treated as guilty, merely because I have foolishly courted temptation? I don't know what I have said, I don't know what I shall say before this torture is completed; but I am sensible enough to know that I have no chance in all this farrago of horrible insinuation which twists every little piece of harmless and girlish folly into some vicious and debasing form. I cannot keep quiet under it. I tell you it is all—all—lies—nothing but lies!"

"Now, Mrs. Admaston," Sir Robert said, apparently unmoved by this tirade, "I must ask you to give me your very close attention."

"You must try to be more composed," the President said kindly to Peggy, "if you wish to do yourself justice."

Peggy's white, set face looked straight out before her. She summoned up all her courage to bear the remainder of her torture.

"You still persist," said Sir Robert, "in saying that your trip to Paris resulted from an accident?"

"Emphatically I do," she answered.

Sir Robert looked towards the judge.

"Has your lordship got that document," he said, "which Mr. Admaston identified when he was in the witness-box?"

The President nodded. "That was the anonymous letter received by Miss Admaston—Mr. Admaston's aunt,—was it not, and produced by her on subpoena yesterday? Yes. I have it here in the envelope."

"Perhaps your lordship will allow the witness to look at the envelope."

Mr. M'Arthur jumped up. "My lord," he said, "I submit again that nothing can make this letter evidence."

"And you are quite right, Mr. M'Arthur," the judge answered. "But at present Sir Robert is not suggesting that it is evidence—Usher," he continued, "please hand this to the witness."

"Look at that envelope," Sir Robert continued. "You will see that it is dated March 23rd, and the postmark shows that it was collected at 10.30 a.m. Now, you persist in saying that at the time that letter was posted nothing was further from your mind than that you would be staying the night in Paris."

"I have already said so," Peggy answered.

"And do you say so still?"

"Of course I do," she answered tartly.

"We shall see," Sir Robert Fyffe rapped out. "The letter is addressed to Miss Admaston—is it not? And Mr. Admaston has sworn that she brought it to him to the House of Commons just after three o'clock on the same day. Is Miss Admaston a friend of yours?"

"I don't think she altogether approves of me," Peggy answered.

"You know that Mr. Admaston has sworn that it was the information contained in that letter which determined him to have you watched in Boulogne and in Paris?"

"Yes, I know."

"And at the time that letter was written, no one could possibly have known that you were going to spend the night in Paris or miss the train at Boulogne?"

"Of course they couldn't."

"May I take it, therefore," Sir Robert continued, "that you believed your husband when he says that that letter was in his hands soon after three o'clock—long before you even reach Folkestone?"

"I believe my husband implicitly," Peggy said, and there was a little quaver in her voice.

"Do you recognise the handwriting?" Sir Robert asked.

"I have never seen it before," she answered.

The judge looked intently at the K.C. "I don't want to interrupt you, Sir Robert," he said; "but do you know whose handwriting it is?"

"No, my lord," Sir Robert replied. "I am really asking for information."

"It is very curious," said the judge.

"It is, my lord," said Sir Robert. "My learned friend, Mr. Carteret, who is watching the case on behalf of Miss Admaston, informs me that he has had it submitted to every well-known handwriting expert in the United Kingdom, and indeed in Europe."

"And compared with the writing of every person however remotely connected with the parties concerned in this case?"

"He has even had it compared with Mrs. Admaston's, my lord."

"And no doubt with Mr. Collingwood's?" the judge continued.

"Yes," Sir Robert said, "and with Mr. Collingwood's too, my lord—though, I regret to say, with no result."

He turned from the judge to Peggy. "And can't you help us, Mrs. Admaston?" he concluded.

"No, not from the envelope," Peggy answered.

"It is a most peculiar handwriting," the judge observed, leaning back in his seat.

Sir Robert continued his cross-examination. "Now, Mrs. Admaston," he said, "remember that that letter was in the hands of your husband just after three o'clock on 23rd March. Now, will you be so good as to read it?"

"Out loud?"

"Oh no. Read it to yourself."

There was dead silence in the court as with trembling hands the girl took the letter from the envelope and began to read it. All the spectators, those engaged in the case, and several members of the jury knew that the dramatic moment of all had arrived. There had been many dramatic moments, but this was to be the culminating one.

The excitement was intense, and, when Peggy suddenly gave a little cry, there was a low murmur of sound. She cried out loudly, sharply, as if in pain, while the judge and jury regarded her intently. Then she bent forward over the letter again and appeared to re-read it.

Suddenly she lifted her head and turned desperately to the President. "Oh! my lord, this is infamous!" she cried.

Without any hesitation at all Sir Robert made his point.

"Do you still persist, Mrs. Admaston, in your statement that your trip to Paris was the result of an accident?"

Peggy was desperate. "My lord—this letter—it is a trap—it must be—a trap——" she wailed.

"Come, Mrs. Admaston," Sir Robert said very sternly; "can you still keep up this farce, this hypocritical farce?"

Suddenly Collingwood jumped up from his place. "My lord, I protest!" he said, in a voice which trembled with indignation.

The judge gave him a keen look as he subsided, muttering to himself.

"You will have an opportunity to-morrow," the judge said, "of showing your sympathy."

"Now, madam, having read that letter——" Sir Robert resumed.

The foreman of the jury rose. "My lord," he said, "the jury would like to see that letter."

"What do you say, Mr. M'Arthur and Mr. Menzies?" asked the judge.

"I can see no purpose in keeping it out any longer, my lord," Mr. M'Arthur answered, while Mr. Menzies said that any mischief which it might do had been done already.

The President seemed to approve. "I think you are right," he said. "Usher, give me the letter."

The letter was handed up again to the bench, and, adjusting his pince-nez, the judge proceeded to read it.

"Listen, gentlemen," he said, "and I will read it to you. The importance of this letter, gentlemen, which, as you have seen, has so terribly upset this poor lady, is that it was clearly written before 10.30 on the morning of the 23rd March, and was in the hands of Mr. Admaston long before Mrs. Admaston and her friends reached Folkestone—let alone Boulogne. The letter is dated March 23rd, and it is unsigned. Now, gentlemen, an anonymous letter is open to grave suspicion, but in the peculiar circumstances of this case the fact of its being anonymous makes no difference. If any one, other than the respondent and co-respondent, knew that they were going to stay in Paris on the night of the 23rd, and knew that before they started, it is difficult to exaggerate the importance of the fact. I will now read the letter:—

"'Mrs. Admaston will be staying at Paris to-night alone with Mr. Collingwood. They have arranged to get separated from Lord Ellerdine and Lady Attwill at Boulogne and to stay the night together at the HÔtel des Tuileries. If Mr. Admaston does not believe this, let him telephone the hotel to-night.'

Mr. Carteret," the judge concluded, "were any other letters in this strange handwriting received by Miss Admaston?"

"One other, my lord, three days ago," said Mr. Carteret.

"I should like to see it," said the President.

The second letter was handed up to him, and he read it through carefully.

"It is all very mysterious," he said, shaking his head. "I think, gentlemen, that you had better hear it. It is as follows:—

"'Please destroy the other letter and this, and save an old servant who honours the family from the anger of Mrs. Admaston.'"

The judge paused, carefully scrutinising the letter; then he took up an ivory reading-glass and looked at the letter through the magnifying lens.

"Am I right, Mr. Carteret," he said, "in my view that this letter has been blotted and not allowed to dry?"

Mr. Carteret leant over and had a hurried conversation with his handwriting expert. "I am instructed that there is no doubt as to that, my lord," he said, looking up.

"I should much like to see that blotting-paper," the President remarked.

"Blotting-paper!" said Sir Robert Fyffe. "So should we all, my lord." Then he rose to his feet. "Now, Mrs. Admaston, having read this letter, do you still dare to repeat that until you had the misfortune to miss the train at Boulogne you had no intention of spending the night in Paris with Mr. Collingwood?"

Peggy did not answer.

She stared at the letter upon the judge's desk as if fascinated by it.

"My lord and the jury are waiting for an answer," Sir Robert repeated. "Come, madam."

"And what answer can I give?" the tortured girl said faintly.

Sir Robert was showing her no mercy now. "The truth, madam, if you can," he said.

"The truth!" she answered. "What is the truth to you? It's not the truth you want. It's me—my very soul—that's what you want! Not to wring the truth out of me, but just so much of it as will serve your ends!"

"Mrs. Admaston," the President said compassionately, but with emphasis, "these outbursts do not assist your case."

"My case!" Peggy cried helplessly. "My lord, who will believe me in the face of this lying letter? It is a trap—a trap, I say! I have been hunted and hounded into it. I am not surprised now that innocent women in hundreds let their cases go by default rather than face the humiliation and torture of this awful place."

"Madam, I must insist upon an answer," Sir Robert said relentlessly.

"What am I to answer?" she cried again, wringing her hands with a terribly piteous gesture.

"If you ask me, Mrs. Admaston, let me advise you to answer the truth."

"The truth?"

"Yes, the truth—that this trip to Paris was all arranged between you and your lover"—his voice sank and became deeply impressive; "that at the very moment in which your husband was trying to reach you upon the telephone you were in that lover's arms?"

"It is a lie!" she said despairingly.

"The telephone bell rang several times before it was answered, did it not?"

"Yes, but——"

Sir Robert cut her short. "I suggest to you that even then you were in your lover's arms?" he said with bitter scorn.

"It is a lie!" Peggy answered once more.

"Then, Mrs. Admaston, and for the last time, I press for an answer. Do you still insist that you and your lover——"

She didn't allow him to finish his sentence. Desperate as she was, the hot words poured from her in a cataract of sound.

"How dare you suggest that he is my lover!" she cried. "I tell you that I have never loved him!—never—never—never—never! If I had loved him do you think that I would be here now? For months and months he has begged and entreated me to let my husband divorce me so that I could marry him. If I had loved him, do you think that I would have faced this horrible place? I have never loved him. I have been foolish—I have played with fire—I have loved his admiration. I did not know that the law—man's law—made no difference between the opportunity to do wrong and the wrong itself. I know now. Some day men who know women will make other laws—some of us must have our lives broken first. In the face of that letter and the evidence, no man would ever believe me, whatever I say; but I swear before God that it was all an accident—our being in Paris. I swear that I meant no harm by all my little lies. I swear I have done nothing wrong—nothing; but no one will believe me now—no one." Her voice sank and dropped, and she ended her outburst with a deep moan of pain.

"I think we will adjourn now," said the President, and there was pain in his voice also.

He gathered up the papers before him on his desk and rose. The court rose also.

There was an immediate hum and bustle, which broke out into the loud murmurs of subdued conversation as the judge left his seat and disappeared through the door at the back.

Peggy Admaston, wringing her hands, her face a white wedge of anguish, the pallor dreadfully accentuated by the burnished masses of her dark hair, almost stumbled down the steps of the witness-box. Mr. M'Arthur and her solicitor—a little confused knot of people, indeed—hastened up to her, and with a grim face Sir Robert Fyffe, not looking in the girl's direction, arranged his papers and spoke earnestly to his junior.

The scene was one of indescribable excitement.

It was as though a thunderbolt had fallen, and people looked at each other with pale, questioning faces.

The hum died down for an instant, as the weeping woman was led gently from the court.

Then it recommenced louder than ever, mingled with the shuffling of innumerable feet.