“And in St. Louis—­” Mr. Rider began.

Mrs. Montague flushed, and a wary gleam came into her eye.

“Yes, of course,” she interrupted, hastily; “I was also the Mrs. Walton, of St. Louis.  It was very easy to hire an extra room under that name.”

“And your agent was—­who?” continued Mr. Rider.

“That does not matter,” she retorted, sharply.  “You have found me out.  I have recklessly explained my own agency in these affairs, but you will not succeed in making me implicate any one else.”

“Very well; we will question you no further upon that point now,” said the detective; “but it does not take a very wise head to suspect who was your accomplice, and I imagine it will not take a great deal of hunting, either, to find him,” and Mr. Rider resolved to make a bee line for the Fall River boat the moment he could get through with his business there.  “And now, gentlemen,” he resumed, turning to the lawyers and Ray, “I think we’ll close this examination here, and I’ll take my prisoner into camp.”

A cry of horror burst from Mrs. Montague’s blanched lips at this remark.

“You cannot mean it—­you will not dare to take me to a vile jail,” she exclaimed, in tones of mingled fear and anger.

“Jails were made for thieves, swindlers, and abductors,” was the laconic response.

The woman sprang to her feet again, and shot a withering glance at him.

“I go to a common prison? never!” she said, fiercely, and with all the haughtiness of which she was capable.

“The fact of your having figured as a leader in high life, madame, does not exempt you from the penalty of the law, since you have already declared yourself guilty of the crimes I have named,” coolly rejoined the detective.

“Oh, I cannot—­I cannot,” moaned the wretched woman, wringing her hands in abject distress.  Then her glance fell upon Mona, who had quietly seated herself a little in the background, after the detective had relieved her of the clothing which she had brought into the room.

“You will not let them send me to prison—­you will not let them bring me to trial and sentence me to such degradation,” she moaned, imploringly.

Mr. Rider regarded her with amazement and supreme contempt at this servile appeal, for so it seemed to him.

“How can you expect that Miss Richards will succor you after your heartless and wicked treatment of her?” he demanded more sharply than he had yet spoken to her.

“Because, Mr. Rider,” Mona gently interposed, “she bears a name she knows I am anxious to save from all taint or reproach; because she was the wife, and I the only child, of Walter Richmond Montague Dinsmore.”

The detective gave vent to a long, low whistle of surprise.

“Zounds! can that be possible?” he cried, as he turned his wondering glance upon the lawyers.