“No; what she told me.  And I know it’s true.”

“Well, for the Lord’s sake, Drusilla, what is it?”

Drusilla began to narrate.  She had forborne, she said, to put any questions till she was being “undone”; but in that attitude, favorable for confidence, she had asked Collins over her shoulder if anything troubled her, and Collins had told her tale.  Briefly, it was to the effect that some of the most distinguished kitchens in Boston and Waverton had been divided into two factions, one pro and the other contra, ever since the day, now three weeks ago, when Miss Maggie Murphy, whose position of honorable service at Lawyer Benn’s enabled her to profit by the hints dropped at that eminent man’s table, had announced, in the servant’s dining-room of Tory Hill itself, that Henry Guion was “going to be put in jail.”  He had stolen Mrs. Clay’s money, and Mrs. Rodman’s money, “and a lot of other payple’s money, too,” Miss Murphy was able to affirm—­clients for whom Guion, Maxwell & Guion had long acted as trustees—­and was now to be tried and sentenced, Lawyer Benn himself being put in charge of the affair by the parties wronged.  Drusilla described the sinking of her own heart as these bits of information were given her, though she had not failed to reprimand Collins for the repetition of foolish gossip.  This, it seemed, had put Collins on her mettle in defense of her own order, and she had replied that, if it came to that, m’m, the contents of the waste-paper baskets at Tory Hill, though slightly damaged, had borne ample testimony to the truth of the tale as Miss Maggie Murphy told it.  If Mrs. Fane required documentary evidence, Collins herself was in a position to supply it, through the kindness of her colleagues in Henry Guion’s employ.

Davenant listened in silence.  “So the thing is out?” was his only comment.

“It’s out—­and all over the place,” Drusilla answered, tearfully.  “We’re the only people who haven’t known it—­but it’s always that way with those who are most concerned.”

“And over three hundred guests invited to Olivia’s wedding next Thursday fortnight!  And the British Military Attache coming from Washington!  And Lord Woolwich from Ottawa!  What’s to happen I don’t know.”

Mrs. Temple raised her hands and let them drop heavily.

“Oh, Peter, can’t you do anything?”

“What can he do, child?  If Henry’s been making away with all that money it would take a fortune to—­”

“Oh, men can do things—­in business,” Drusilla asserted.  “I know they can.  Banks lend them money, don’t they, Peter?  Banks are always lending money to tide people over.  I’ve often heard of it.  Oh, Peter, do something.  I’m so glad you’re here.  It seems like a providence.”

“Colonel Ashley will be here next week, too,” Mrs. Temple groaned, as though the fact brought comfort.