Lady Heyburn, dressed in a smart walking-gown of grey, pushed her fluffy fair hair from her brow, while upon her face was an expression which told of combined fear and anger.

Her visitor was surprised.  After that watchful afternoon in the Boulevard des Capucines, he had sat in a corner of the Cafe Terminus listening to Krail, who rubbed his hands with delight and declared that he now held the most powerful group in Europe in the hollow of his hand.

For the past six years or so gigantic coups had been secured by that unassuming and apparently third-rate financial house of Lenard et Morellet.  From a struggling firm they had within a year grown into one whose wealth seemed inexhaustible, and whose balances at the Credit Lyonnais, the Societe Generale, and the Comptoir d’Escompte were possibly the largest of any of the customers of those great corporations.  The financial world of Europe had wondered.  It was a mystery who was behind Lenard et Morellet, the pair of steady-going, highly respectable business men who lived in unostentatious comfort, the former at Enghien, just outside Paris, and the latter out in the country at Melum.  The mystery was so well and so carefully preserved that not even the bankers themselves could obtain knowledge of the truth.

Krail had, however, after nearly two years of clever watching and ingenious subterfuge, succeeded, by placing the group in a “hole” in calling them together.  That they met, and often, was undoubted.  But where they met, and how, was still a complete mystery.

As Flockart had sat that previous afternoon listening to Krail’s unscrupulous and self-confident proposals, he had remained in silent wonder at the man’s audacious attitude.  Nothing deterred him, nothing daunted him.

Flockart had returned that night from Paris, gone to his chambers in Half-Moon Street, breakfasted, dressed, and had now called upon her ladyship in order to impart to her the good news.  Yet, instead of welcoming him, she only treated him with resentment and scorn.  He knew the quick flash of those eyes, he had seen it before on other occasions.  This was not the first time they had quarrelled, yet he, keen-witted and cunning, had always held her powerless to elude him, had always compelled her to give him the sums he so constantly demanded.  That morning, however, she was distinctly resentful, distinctly defiant.

For an instant he turned from her, biting his lip in annoyance.  When facing her again, he smiled, asking, “Tell me, Winnie, what does all this mean?”

“Mean!” echoed the Baronet’s wife.  “Mean!  How can you ask me that question?  Look at me—­a ruined woman!  And you——­”

“Speak out!” he cried.  “What has happened?”

“You surely know what has happened.  You have treated me like the cur you are—­and that is speaking plainly.  You’ve sacrificed me in order to save yourself.”

“From what?”