Stella allowed a moment or two to pass before she answered.

“I shan’t go to the Willoughbys’ ball, Jenny.”

Jenny Prask stared in dismay.

“You won’t, madam!”

“No, Jenny.  But I want you to be careful not to mention it to any one.  I shall dress as if I was going, but at the last moment I shall plead a headache and stay behind.”

“Very well, madam,” said Jenny.  But it seemed to her that Stella was throwing down her arms.  Stella, however, had understood, upon hearing of the invitation for Lady Splay’s party, that she could do nothing else.  The Willoughbys were strict folk.  Mrs. Croyle could hardly hope to go without some rumour of her history coming afterwards to the ears of that family; and the family would hold her presence as a reproach against Millie Splay.  Stella had herself proposed her plan to Millie, and she noted the relief with which it was received.

“You will be careful not to mention it to a soul, Jenny,” Stella insisted.

“My goodness me, madam, I never talk,” replied Jenny.  “I keep my ears open and let the others do that.”

“I know, Jenny,” said Stella, with a smile.  “I can’t imagine what I should do without you.”

“And you never will, madam, unless it’s your own wish and doin’,” said Jenny heartily.  “I have talked it over with Brown”—­Brown was Mrs. Croyle’s chauffeur—­“and he’s quite willin’ that I should go on with you after we are married.”

“Then, that’s all right,” said Stella.

Many a one looking backwards upon some terrible and unexpected tragedy will have noticed with what care the great dramaturgist so wove his play that every little unheeded event in the days before helped directly to create the final catastrophe.  It happened on this evening that Stella went downstairs earlier than the other guests, and in going into the library in search of an evening paper, found Sir Chichester standing by the telephone instrument.

“Am I in your way?” she asked.

“Not a bit, Stella,” he answered.  “In fact, you might help me by looking up the number I want.”  He raised the instrument, and playing with the receiver as he stood erect, remarked, “Although I am happy to think that I shall not be called upon to deliver any observations on the occasion of the Chichester flower show next Thursday, I may as well ask one of the newspapers if their local correspondent would give the ceremony some little attention.”

Stella Croyle took up the telephone book.

“Which newspaper is it to be, Sir Chichester?”

“The Harpoon, I think.  Yes, I am sure.  The Harpoon.”

Stella Croyle looked up the number and read out: 

“Gerrard, one, six, two, double three.”

Sir Chichester accordingly called upon the trunk line and gave the number.

“You will ring me up?  Thank you,” he said, and replacing the receiver, stood in anxious expectancy.