She could not tell him that she had sent that all away, and had not a shilling left.  There were times when Marion, Lady Atherton, heiress of Hanton, mistress of one of the finest fortunes in England, wife of one of the richest men—­when she hardly knew where to turn for money; the poorest beggar in the street was more at ease.

In the meantime, Allan Lyster, by his successful trading on a woman’s secret, was leading a life of complete and perfect luxury.  He spared no expense; he gambled, betted, played at every game of chance; he was well known at Tattersall’s in all the green rooms; he played to perfection the part of a fast man about town, while the woman he had pretended to love was wearing her life away in mortification and suspense.

At last, what she had long foreseen came to pass.  Allan wrote to her for money when she was utterly unable to get it.  She was compelled to borrow it from Lord Ridsdale.  He lent it to her with a smile, telling her at the same time, with real gravity in his voice, that he hoped she was keeping no secret from her husband.

So the time came when she could no longer keep pace with his extravagance, when she was compelled to refuse his request.  He had lost some money in a bet over some horses.  He told her that he must have it, and she assured him that it was impossible.  Then the blow fell.  He wrote to say that if the money were not sent him by Thursday he should at once commence an action against her.

“The damages that I shall win,” he wrote, “will be so large that I shall not want to ask you for more.”

She was terrified almost out of her senses.  To many women it would have occurred to sell or pledge their jewels, to change diamonds for paste.  She thought of none of these things.  Lord Ridsdale had gone to Paris, she could not ask him, and Lady Atherton was at her wits’ end.

She learned, however, that she was too fearful, that he was trading on her alarm, that he could not bring an action against her, because at the time that promise had been given she was a ward and not of age.  She wrote and told him that his threat was in vain.

It was the answer to that question that drove her from home a fugitive, that exiled her from all she loved, that drove her mad with terror.

He wrote to her and admitted that her argument was perfectly just, that perhaps in strict legal bounds he could not maintain such an action; but the shame and exposure for her, he told her, would be none the less.

“If you persist in your refusal,” he wrote, “I shall go at once to Lord Atherton.  I will show him those letters, and ask him in justice to give me some share of the fortune he has deprived me of.  I shall read every word to him, and tell him all that took place; he may judge between us.”