Some tears, some tea, a bath, a change of clothing—where is the woman who will not vie with the Phoenix under such conditions, especially if she be sound in mind and limb? An hour after her arrival at Porchester Gardens, Rosalind was herself again, a somewhat pale and thin Rosalind, to be sure, but each moment regaining vigor, each moment taking huge strides back to the normal.

Of course, her ordered thoughts dwelt more and more with Osborne, but with clear thinking came a species of confusion that threatened to overwhelm her anew in a mass of contradictions. If ever a man loved a woman then Osborne loved her, yet she had seen him in the arms of that dreadful creature, Hylda Prout. If ever a man had shown devotion by word and look, then Osborne was devoted to her, yet he had taken leave of her with the manner of one who was going to his doom. Ah, he spoke of "a felon's cell." Was that it? Was it true what the world was saying—that he had really killed Rose de Bercy? No, that infamy she would never believe. Yet Furneaux had arrested him—Furneaux, the strange little man who seemed ever to say with his lip what his heart did not credit.

During those weary hours in Poland Street, when she was not dozing or faint with anxiety, she had often recalled Furneaux's queer way of conducting an inquiry. She knew little or nothing of police methods, yet she was sure that British detectives did not badger witnesses with denunciations of the suspected person. In newspaper reports, too, she had read of clever lawyers who defended those charged with the commission of a crime; why, then, was Osborne undefended; what had become of the solicitor who appeared in his behalf at the inquest? Unfortunately, she had no friend of ripe experience to whom she could appeal in London, but she determined, before that day closed, to seek those two, the solicitor and Furneaux, bidding the one protect Osborne's interests, and demanding of the other an explanation of his gross failure to safeguard her when she was actually carrying out his behests.

Mrs. Marsh, far more feeble and unstrung than her daughter, was greatly alarmed when Rosalind announced her intention.

"My dear one," she sobbed, "I shall lose you again. How can you dream of running fresh risk of meeting those terrible beings who have already wreaked their vengeance on you?"

"But, mother darling, you shall come with me—there are lives at stake——"

"Of what avail are two women against creatures like these Anarchists?"

"We shall go to Scotland Yard and obtain police protection. Failing that, we shall hire men armed with guns to act as our escort. Mother, I did not die in that den of misery, but I shall die now of impotent wrath if I remain here inactive and let Mr. Osborne lie in prison for my sake."

"For your sake? Rosalind? After what you have told me?"

"Oh, it is true, true! I feel it here," and an eager hand pressed close to her heart. "My brain says, 'You are foolish—why not believe your eyes, your ears?' but my heart bids me be up and doing, for the night cometh when no man can work, and I shall dream of death and the grave if I sleep this day without striking one blow for the man that loves me."

"Yet he said——"

"Bear with me, mother dear! I cannot explain, I can only feel. A woman's intuition may sometimes be trusted when logic points inexorably to the exact opposite of her beliefs. And this is a matter that calls for a woman's wit. See how inextricably women are tangled in the net which has caught Osborne in its meshes. A woman was killed, a woman found the poor thing's body, a woman gave the worst evidence against Osborne, a woman has sacrificed all womanliness to snatch him from me. Ah, where is Pauline Dessaulx? She, too, is mixed up in it. Has she discovered the loss of the daggers? Has she fled?"

Rosalind rose to her feet like one inspired, and Mrs. Marsh, fearing for her reason, stammered brokenly her willingness to go anywhere and do anything that might relieve the strain. When her daughter began to talk of "daggers" she was really alarmed. The girl had alluded to them more than once, but poor Mrs. Marsh's troubled brain associated "daggers" with Anarchists. That any such murderous-sounding weapons should be secreted in a servant's bedroom at Porchester Gardens, be found there by Rosalind, and carried by her all over London in a cab, never entered her mind. Perhaps the sight of Pauline would in itself have a soothing effect, since one could not persist in such delusions when the demure Frenchwoman, in the cap and apron of respectable domestic service, came in answer to the bell. So Mrs. Marsh rang: and another housemaid appeared.

"Please send Pauline here," said the white-faced mother.

"Pauline is out, ma'm," came the answer.

"Will she return soon?"

"I don't know, ma'm—I—I think she has run away."

"Run away!"

Two voices repeated those sinister words. To Rosalind they brought a dim memory of something said by Janoc, to Mrs. Marsh dismay. The three were gazing blankly at each other when the clang of a distant bell was heard.

"That's the front door," exclaimed the maid. "Perhaps Pauline has come back."

She hurried away, and returned, breathless.

"It isn't Pauline, ma'm, but a lady to see Miss Rosalind."

"What lady?"

"She wouldn't give a name, miss; she says she wants to see you perticular."

"Send her here.... Now, mother, don't be alarmed. This is not Soho. If you wish it, I shall get someone to wait in the hall until we learn our mysterious visitor's business."

Most certainly, the well-dressed and elegant woman whom the servant ushered into the room was not of a type calculated to cause a pang of distrust in any household in Porchester Gardens. She was dressed quietly but expensively, and, notwithstanding the heat of summer, so heavily veiled that her features were not recognizable until she raised her veil. Then a pair of golden-brown eyes flashed triumphantly at the startled Rosalind, and Hylda Prout said:

"May I have a few words in private with you, Miss Marsh?"

"You can have nothing to say to me that my mother may not hear," said Rosalind curtly.

The visitor smiled, and looked graciously at Mrs. Marsh.

"Ah, I am pleased to have this opportunity of meeting you," she said. "You may have heard of me. I am Hylda Prout." ... Then, seeing the older woman's perplexity, she added: "Since you do not seem to know me by name, let me explain that Mr. Rupert Osborne, of whom you must have heard a good deal, is my promised husband."

Mrs. Marsh might be ill and worried; but she was a well-bred lady to the marrow, and she realized instantly that the stranger's politeness covered a studied insult to her daughter.

"Has Mr. Osborne sent you as his ambassador?" she asked.

"No, he could not: he is in prison. But your daughter and I have met under conditions that compel me to ask her now not to interfere in the efforts I shall make to secure his release."

"Please go!" broke in Rosalind, and she moved as if to summon a servant.

"I am not here from choice," sneered Hylda. "I have really come to plead for Mr. Osborne. If you care for him as you say you do I want you to understand two things: first, that your pursuit is in vain, since he has given his word to marry me within a week, and, secondly, that any further interference in his affairs on your part may prove disastrous to him. You cannot pretend that I have not warned you. Had you taken my advice the other day, Rupert would not now be under arrest."

Mrs. Marsh was sallow with indignation, but Rosalind, though tingling in every fiber, controlled herself sufficiently to utter a dignified protest.

"You had something else in your mind than Mr. Osborne's safety in coming here today: I do not believe one word you have said," she cried.

"Oh, but you shall believe. Wait one short week——"

"I shall not wait one short hour. Mr. Osborne's arrest is a monstrous blunder, and I am going this instant to demand his release."

"He has not taken you into his confidence, it would seem. Were it not for his promise to me you would still be locked in your den at Poland Street."

"Some things may be purchased at a price so degrading that a man pays and remains silent. If Mr. Osborne won my liberty by the loss of his self-respect I am truly sorry for him, but the fact, if it is a fact, only strengthens my resolution to appeal to the authorities in his behalf."

"You can achieve nothing, absolutely nothing," shrilled Hylda vindictively.

"I shall try to do much, and accomplish far more, perhaps, than you imagine."

"You will only succeed in injuring him."

"At any rate, I shall have obeyed the dictates of my conscience, whereas your vile purposes have ever been directed by malice. How dare you talk of serving him! Since that poor woman was struck dead by some unknown hand you have been his worst enemy. In the guise of innocent friendship you supplied the police with the only real evidence they possess against him. Probably you are responsible now for his arrest, which could not have happened had I been at liberty during the past two days. Go, and vent your spite as you will—no word of yours can deter me from raising such a storm as shall compel Mr. Osborne's release!"

For a second or two those golden-brown eyes blazed with a fire that might well have appalled Rosalind could she have read its hidden significance. During a tick of the clock she was in mortal peril of her life, but Hylda Prout, though partially insane, was not yet in that trance of the wounded tiger which recks not of consequences so that it gluts its rage.

Mrs. Marsh, really frightened, rushed to the electric bell, and the jar of its summons, faintly audible, seemed to banish the grim specter that had entered the room, though unseen by other eyes than those of the woman who dreamed of death even while she glowered at her rival. Her bitter tongue managed to outstrip her murderous thoughts in the race back to ordered thought.

"You are powerless," she taunted Rosalind, "but, like every other discarded lover, you cling to delusions. Now I shall prove to you how my strength compares with your weakness. You speak of appealing to the authorities. That means Scotland Yard, I suppose. Very well. I, too, shall go there, in your very company, if you choose, and it will then be seen which of us two can best help Mr. Osborne."

The housemaid appeared.

"Please show this person out," said Rosalind.

"My carriage is waiting—Rupert's carriage," said Hylda.

"After she has gone, Lizzie," said Rosalind to the maid, "kindly get me a taxicab."

Porchester Gardens is well out to the west, so the taxicab, entered in a fever of haste by Rosalind and her mother, raced ahead of Osborne's bays in the flight to Westminster. Hylda Prout had experienced no difficulty in securing the use of the millionaire's carriage. She went to his Mayfair flat, paralyzed Jenkins by telling him of his master's arrest, assured him, in the same breath, that she alone could prove Osborne's innocence, and asked that all the resources of the household should be placed at her disposal, since Mr. Osborne meant to marry her within a few days. Now, Jenkins had seen things that brought this concluding statement inside the bounds of credibility, so he became her willing slave in all that concerned Osborne.

Winter was sitting in his office, with Furneaux straddled across a chair in one corner, when Johnson, the young policeman who was always at the Chief Inspector's beck and call, entered.

"Two ladies to see you, sir," he said.

Furneaux's eyes sparkled, but Winter took the two cards and read: "Mrs. Marsh; Miss Rosalind Marsh."

"Bring them here," he said.

"I rather expected the other one first," grinned Furneaux, who was now evidently on the best of terms with his Chief.

"Perhaps she won't show up. She must be deep, crafty as a fox, or she could never have humbugged me in the way you describe."

"My dear Winter, coincidence is the best dramatist yet evolved. You were beaten by coincidence."

"But you were not," and the complaint fell querulously from the lips of one who was almost unrivaled in the detection of crime.

"You forget that I supplied the coincidence. Clarke, too, blundered with positive genius. I assure you that, in your shoes, I must have acted with—with inconceivable folly."

"Thank you," said Winter grimly.

Rosalind and her mother came in. Both ladies had been weeping, but the girl's eyes shone with another light than that of tears when she cried vehemently:

"You are the responsible official here, I understand. I have no word for that man," and she transfixed Furneaux with a tragic finger, "but I do appeal to someone who may have a sense of decency——"

"You have come to see me about Mr. Osborne?" broke in Winter, for Rosalind's utterance was choked by a sob.

"Yes, of course. Are you aware——"

"I am aware of everything, Miss Marsh. Please be seated; and you, too, Mrs. Marsh. Mr. Osborne is in no danger whatsoever. I cannot explain, but you must trust the police in this matter."

"Ah, so he said," and Rosalind shot a fiery glance at the unabashed Furneaux.

"Seen anybody?" he asked, with an amiable smirk.

"What do you mean?"

"Has anybody been gloating over Mr. Osborne's arrest?"

For the life of her, Rosalind could not conceal the surprise caused by this question. She even smothered her resentment in her eagerness.

"Mr. Osborne's typist, a woman named Hylda Prout, has been to see me," she cried.

"Excellent! What did she say?"

"Everything that a mean heart could suggest. But you will soon hear her statements. She is coming here herself, or, at least, so she said."

"Great Scott!"

Furneaux sprang up, and ran to the bell. For some reason which neither Mrs. Marsh nor her daughter could fathom, the mercurial little Jersey man was wild with excitement; even Winter seemed to be disturbed beyond expression. Johnson came, and Furneaux literally leaped at him.

"Ring up that number, quick! You know exactly what to say—and do!"

Johnson saluted and vanished again; Winter had chosen him for his special duties because he never uttered a needless word. Still, these tokens of activity in the police headquarters did not long repress the tumult in Rosalind's breast.

"If, as you tell me, Mr. Osborne is in no danger——" she began; but Winter held up an impressive hand.

"You are here in order to help him," he said gravely. "Pray believe that we appreciate your feelings most fully. If this girl, Hylda Prout, is really on her way here we have not a moment to lose. No more appeals, I beg of you, Miss Marsh. Tell us every word that passed between you and her. You can speak all the more frankly if I assure you that Mr. Furneaux, my colleague, has acted throughout in Mr. Osborne's interests. Were it not for him this young gentleman, who, I understand, will soon become your husband, would never have been cleared of the stigma of a dreadful crime.... No, pardon me, not a syllable on that subject.... What did Hylda Prout say? Why is she coming to Scotland Yard?"

Impressed in spite of herself, Rosalind gave a literal account of the interview at Porchester Gardens. She was burning to deliver her soul on matters that appeared to be so much more important, such as the finding and loss of the daggers, the strange behavior of Pauline Dessaulx, the statement, now fiery bright in her mind, made by Janoc when he spoke of his sister's guilt—but, somehow, the tense interest displayed by the two detectives in Hylda Prout's assertions overbore all else, and Rosalind proved herself a splendid witness, one able to interpret moods and glances as well as to record the spoken word.

Even while she spoke a lurid fancy flashed through her brain.

"Oh, gracious Heaven!" she cried. "Can it be——"

Winter rose and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You have endured much, Miss Marsh," he said in a voice of grave sympathy. "Now, I trust to your intelligence and power of self-command. No matter what suspicions you may have formed, you must hide them. Possibly, Mr. Furneaux or I may speak or act within the next half-hour in a manner that you deem prejudicial to Mr. Osborne. I want you to express your resentment in any way you may determine, short of leaving us. Do you understand? We shall act as on the stage; you must do the same. You need no cue from us. Defend Mr. Osborne; urge his innocence; threaten us with pains and penalties; do anything, in short, that will goad Hylda Prout into action in his behalf for fear lest you may prevail where she has failed."

A knock was heard at the door. He sank back into his seat.

"Do you promise?" he muttered.

"Yes," she breathed.

"Come in!" cried Winter, and the imperturbable Johnson ushered in Hylda Prout. Even in the storm and stress of contending emotions Rosalind knew that there was a vital difference between the reception accorded to the newcomer and that given to her mother and herself. They had been announced, their names scrutinized in advance, as it were, whereas Hylda Prout's arrival was expected, provided for; in a word, the policeman on guard had his orders and was obeying them.

"Well, this is a surprise, Miss Prout," exclaimed Furneaux before anyone else could utter a word.

"Is it?" she asked, smiling scornfully at Rosalind.

"Quite. Miss Marsh told us, of course, of your visit, and I suppose that your appearance here is inspired by the same motive as hers. My chief, Mr. Winter, has just been telling her that the law brooks no interference, yet she persists in demanding Mr. Osborne's release. She cannot succeed in obtaining it, unless she brings a positive order from the Home Secretary——"

"I shall get it," vowed Rosalind, to whom it seemed that Furneaux's dropped voice carried a subtle hint.

"Try, by all means," said Furneaux blandly. "Nevertheless, I strongly advise you ladies, all three, to go home and let matters take their course."

"Never!" cried Rosalind valiantly. "You must either free Mr. Osborne to-night or I drive straight from this office to the House of Commons. I have friends there who will secure me a hearing by the Home Secretary."

Furneaux glanced inquiringly at Winter, whose hand was stroking his chin as if in doubt. Hylda Prout took a step nearer the Chief Inspector. Her dress brushed against the drawer which contained the daggers, and one of those grewsome blades had pierced Rose de Bercy's brain through the eye.

"The Home Secretary is merely an official like the rest of you," she said bitingly. "Miss Marsh may appeal to whom she thinks fit, but the charge against Mr. Osborne will keep him in custody until it is heard by a magistrate. Nothing can prevent that—nothing—unless——" and her gaze dwelt warily on Furneaux for a fraction of an instant—"unless the police themselves are convinced that the evidence on which they rely is so flimsy that they run the risk of public ridicule by bringing it forward."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Furneaux knowingly.

"I think I am wasting time here," cried Rosalind, half rising.

"One moment, I pray you," put in Winter. "There is some force in Miss Prout's remarks, but I am betraying no secret in saying that Mr. Osborne's apparently unshakable alibi can be upset, while we have the positive identification of at least three people who saw him on the night of the crime."

"Meaning the housekeeper, the driver of the taxicab, and the housemaid at Feldisham Mansions?" said Hylda coolly, and quite ignoring Rosalind's outburst.

"At least those," admitted Winter.

"Are there others, then?"

"Really, Miss Prout, this is most irregular. We are not trying Mr. Osborne in this room."

"I see there is nothing for it but to carry my plea for justice to the Home Secretary," cried Rosalind, acting as she thought best in obedience to a lightning glance from Furneaux. "Come, mother, we shall soon prove to these legal-minded persons that they cannot juggle away a man's liberty to gratify their pride—and spite."

Hylda's eyes took fire at that last word.

"Go to your Home Secretary," she said with measured venom. "Much good may it do you! While you are being dismissed with platitudes I shall have rescued my affianced husband from jail."

"Dear me! this is most embarrassing. Your affianced husband?"

Furneaux cackled out each sentence, and looked alternately at Hylda and Rosalind. There was no mistaking his meaning. He implied that the one woman was callously appropriating a man who was the acknowledged suitor of the other.

Hylda laughed shrilly.

"That is news to you, Mr. Furneaux," she cried. "Yet I thought you were so clever as to be almost omniscient. Come now with me, and I shall prove to you that the so-called identification of Mr. Osborne by Hester Bates and Campbell, the chauffeur, is a myth. The hysterical housemaid I leave to you."

Winter leaned back in his chair and waved an expostulating hand.

"'Pon my honor, this would be amusing if it were not so terribly serious for Osborne," he vowed.

"If that is all, I prefer to depend on the Home Secretary," said Rosalind.

"Let her go," purred Hylda contemptuously. "I can make good my boast, but she cannot."

"Boasting is of no avail in defeating a charge of murder," said Furneaux. "Before we even begin to take you seriously, Miss Prout, we must know what you actually mean by your words."

"I mean this—that I, myself, will appear before Hester Bates in such guise that she will swear it was me, and not Mr. Osborne, whom she saw on the stairs that night. If that does not suffice, I shall meet Campbell at the corner of Berkeley Street, if you can arrange for his presence there, and tell him to drive me to Feldisham Mansions, and he will swear that it was I, and not Mr. Osborne, who gave him that same order on the night of the third of July. Surely, if I accomplish so much, you will set Rupert at liberty. Believe me, I am not afraid that you will commit the crowning blunder of arresting me for the murder, after having arrested Janoc, and his sister, and Rupert."

Winter positively started. So did Furneaux. Evidently they were perturbed by the extent of her information. Hylda saw the concern depicted on their faces; she laughed low, musically, full-throated.

"Well, is it a bargain?" she taunted them.

"Of course——" began Winter, and stopped.

"There is no denying the weakness of our position if you can do all that," said Furneaux suavely.

"Pray do not let me detain you from visiting the House of Commons," murmured Hylda to Rosalind.

"Perhaps, in the circumstances, you had better wait till to-morrow," said Winter, rising and looking hard at Rosalind.

This man had won her confidence, and she felt that she was in the presence of a tragedy, yet it was hard to yield in the presence of her rival. Tears filled her eyes, and she bowed her head to conceal them.

"Come, mother," she said brokenly. "We are powerless here, it would seem."

"Allow me to show you the way out," said Winter, and he bustled forward.

In the corridor, when the door was closed, he caught an arm of each and bent in a whisper.

"Furneaux was sure she would try some desperate move," he breathed. "Rest content now, Miss Marsh. If all goes well, your ill-used friend will be with you to-night. Treat him well. He deserves it. He did not open your letter. He sacrificed himself in every way for your sake. He even promised to marry that woman, that arch-fiend, in order to rescue you from Janoc. So, believe him, for he is a true man, the soul of honor, and tell him from me that he owes some share of the restitution of his good name in the eyes of the public to your splendid devotion during the past few minutes."

Not often did the Chief Inspector unbend in this fashion. There was no ambiguity in his advice. He meant what he said, and said it so convincingly that Rosalind was radiantly hopeful when she drove away with her mother.