“Yes—­I suppose it must have had.”

“But how—­” Mrs. De Peyster recalled their precarious position.  “Matilda, lock the door.  But, Olivetta, how could it ever, ever have happened?”

“I followed your directions—­and got to Paris all right—­and everything was going splendid—­and I was beginning to enjoy myself—­when—­when—­Oh, Caroline, I—­I—­”

“You what?” demanded Mrs. De Peyster.

“I lost my purse!” sobbed Olivetta.

“Lost your purse?”

“I left it in a cab when I went to the Louvre.  And in it was all my money—­my letter of credit—­everything!”

“Olivetta!”

“And I didn’t dare cable you for more.  For if I had sent a cable to you here, it might have betrayed you.”

“And what did you do?”

“There was nothing for me to do but to—­to—­sell some of your gowns.”

“Oh!” Mrs. De Peyster was beginning dimly to see the drift of things.

Olivetta’s mind wandered to another phase of her tribulations.

“And the price I got for them was a swindle, Caroline.  It was—­it was a tragedy!  For your black chiffon, and your silver satin, and your spangled net—­”

“But this person they took for me?” interrupted Mrs. De Peyster.

“Oh, whoever she is, she must have bought one of them.  She could have bought it for nothing—­and that Frenchman who cheated me—­would have doubled his money.  And after she bought it—­she—­she”—­Olivetta’s voice rang out with hysterical resentment—­“she got us all into this trouble by walking into the Seine.  It’s the most popular pastime in Paris, to walk into the Seine.  But why,” ended Olivetta with a spiteful burst,—­“why couldn’t she have amused herself in her own clothes?  That’s what I want to know!”

“And then?  What did you do?” breathed Mrs. De Peyster.

“When it came out three days later that it was you, I was so—­so frightened that I didn’t know what to do.  I didn’t dare deny the report, for that would have been to expose you.  And I didn’t dare cable to you that it was all a mistake and that I was all right, for that would have been just as bad.  Perhaps I might have acted differently, but I—­well, I ran away.  I crossed to London with your trunks.  There I learned that—­that they were sending your remains home.  I realized I had to get you word somehow, and I realized the only way was for me to come and tell you.  So I sold some more of your gowns, and just caught the Mauretania, and here I am.”

So ending, Olivetta, as though her bones had melted, subsided into a gelatinous heap of dejection, dabbing her crimson eyes with a handkerchief already saturated with liquid woe.

“It’s a relief to know it wasn’t you,” said Mrs. De Peyster.

“I’m sure—­it’s kind of you—­to say so,” snuffled Olivetta gratefully.

“But, aside from your being safe, our situation is unchanged,” said Mrs. De Peyster in tremulous, awe-stricken tone.  “For that—­that person is coming here just the same!”