“How do you know he hasn’t cleared himself of the suspicion?  He may have done.  The old man dotes upon the girl.”

“I know all that.”

“And she may have turned upon you, and told the truth about the safe incident.  That’s more than likely.”

“She dare not utter a word.”

“You’re far too self-confident.  It is your failing.”

“And when, pray, has it failed?  Tell me.”

“Never, until the present moment.  Your bluff is perfect, yet there are moments when it cannot aid you, depend upon it.  She told me one night long ago, in my own room, when she had disobeyed, defied, and annoyed me, that she would never rest until Sir Henry knew the truth, and that she would place before him proofs of the other affair.  She has long intended to do this; and now, thanks to your attitude of passive inertness, she has accomplished her intentions.”

“What!” he gasped in distinct alarm, “has she told her father the truth?”

“A telegram I received from Sir Henry late last night makes it only too plain that he knows something,” responded the unhappy woman, staring straight before her.  “It is your fault—­your fault!” she went on, turning suddenly upon her companion again.  “I warned you of the danger long ago.”

Flockart stood motionless.  The announcement which the woman had made staggered him.

Felix Krail had come to him in Paris, and after some hesitation, and with some reluctance, had described how he had followed the girl along the Nene bank and thrown her into the deepest part of the river, knowing that she would be hampered by her skirts and that she could not swim.  “She will not trouble us further.  Never fear!” he had said.  “It will be thought a case of suicide through love.  Her mental depression is the common talk of the neighbourhood.”

And yet the girl was safe and now home again at Glencardine!  He reflected upon the ugly facts of “the other affair” to which her ladyship sometimes referred, and his face went ashen pale.

Just at the moment when success had come to them after all their ingenuity and all their endeavours—­just at a moment when they could demand and obtain what terms they liked from Sir Henry to preserve the secret of the financial combine—­came this catastrophe.

“Felix was a fool to have left his work only half-done,” he remarked aloud, as though speaking to himself.

“What work?” asked the hollow-eyed woman eagerly.  But he did not satisfy her.  To explain would only increase her alarm and render her even more desperate than she was.

“Did I not tell you often that, from her, we had all to fear?” cried the woman frantically.  “But you would not listen.  And now I am—­I’m face to face with the inevitable.  Disaster is before me.  No power can avert it.  The girl will have a bitter and terrible revenge.”

“No,” he cried quickly, with fierce determination.  “No, I’ll save you, Winnie.  The girl shall not speak.  I’ll go up to Glencardine to-night and face it out.  You will come with me.”