The group gazed at Mrs. De Peyster’s face.  A murmur of sympathy and understanding ran among them.

“In her hysterical condition,” continued Mr. Pyecroft, “she had but one thought, and that was to get home as quickly as she could.  She crossed to England, sailed on the Mauretania, kept to her stateroom, and arrived here at the house heavily veiled about an hour ago.  I may add the details that she sailed under the name of Miss Harriman and that her trunks are now at the Cunard pier.  There you have the entire story, gentlemen.”

He looked down at Mrs. De Peyster.  “I believe I have stated the matter just as you outlined it to us?”

“Ye—­yes,” breathed Mrs. De Peyster.

“There is no detail you would like to add?”

“N—­none,” breathed Mrs. De Peyster.

“Then, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pyecroft, turning to the reporters, “since you have all the facts, and since Mrs. De Peyster is in a state bordering on collapse, we would take it as a favor if—­”

“No need to dismiss us,” put in Mr. Mayfair.  “We’re in a bigger hurry to leave than you are to have us go.  God, boys,” he ejaculated to his fellows, “what a peach of a story!”

In a twinkling Mr. Mayfair and his fellows of the press had vanished, each in the direction of a telephone over which he could hurry this super-sensation into his office.

Within the room, all were staring at Mr. Pyecroft, as though in each a whirling chaos were striving to shape itself into speech.  But before they could become articulate, that sober young gentleman had stepped from out of their midst and, his back to them, was discreetly engrossing himself in the examination of the first object that came to his hands:  which chanced to be something lying on top of the exquisite safe—­a slender platinum chain with a pendant pearl.

With him gone, all eyes fixed themselves upon Mrs. De Peyster, and there was a profound and motionless silence in the room, save at first for some very sincere and vigorous snuffling into the handkerchiefs of Olivetta and Matilda.  As for Mrs. De Peyster, she sat below the awesome, imperturbable Mrs. De Peyster of the portrait, and oh, what a change was there in the one beneath!—­huddled, shaking, not a duchess-like line to her person, her face dropped forward in her hands.

“Mother—­” Jack breathed at length.

“Caroline!” breathed Judge Harvey.  Then added:  “I’m sure it—­it’ll never become known.”

“Oh, to think it’s all over—­and we’re out of it!” Olivetta cried hysterically.  “Oh!  Oh!” And she limply pitched sidewise in her chair.

“Mees Harmon—­Olivetta!” exclaimed M. Dubois.  He sprang forward, knelt at her side and supported her wilted figure against his bosom.  Upon this poultice to her troubles Olivetta relaxed and sobbed unrestrainedly.  And no one, particularly Mrs. De Peyster, paid the least heed to this little episode.

William, the coachman, the irreproachable, irreplaceable, unbendable William, his clean-shaven mask of a face now somewhat pale—­William took a few respectful paces toward his resurrected mistress.