“A battle?  The English defeated?”

“Yes; thank Heaven, beaten, massacred, disastrously defeated!  It is only the beginning of the end.  We shall hear soon of far worse.  The Czar is gathering together all his strength; what can the puny forces of the allies do against him?  They will be outnumbered thousands to one—­annihilated before they can escape to their ships.”

“Pshaw!  What do I care!  Whether they are driven away from the Crimea, or remain, is much the same to me.  But, after all, this is mere talk; you can’t terrify me by such vapourings.”

“I tell you I know this for a fact.  The Russian forces in the Crimea have been continually reinforced for weeks past.  I know it; I saw them.  I was there, in their midst, not many days ago.  Besides, I am behind the scenes, deep in their counsels.  Rely upon it, the allies are in imminent danger.  You will hear soon of another and far greater fight, after which it will be all over with your friends!”

“Well, well! my friends, as you call them, must look to themselves.  Still, this is mere talk of what may be.  Tell me what has actually occurred.  There has been a battle:  are many slain?  General Wilders—­is he safe?”

“You need have no apprehensions for your dear husband, madam; his command was not engaged.  The chief brunt of the fight fell upon the cavalry, who were cut to pieces.”

“What of young Wilders?  Hugo Wilders, I mean—­Lord Lydstone’s brother.”

“His name is returned amongst the killed.  It will be a blow for the noble house of Essendine, and not the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

“The other brother, young Anastasius, whom you are going to see, cannot survive, I hear.”

“Poor young fellows!” said Mrs. Wilders, with a well-assumed show of feeling.

“You pity them?  I honour your sentiments, madam; but, nevertheless, they can be spared, especially by you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, quickly.

“I mean that after they are gone only one obstacle intervenes between you and all the Essendine wealth.  If Lord Lydstone were out of the way, the title and its possession would come, perhaps, to your husband, certainly to your son.”

“Silence!  Do not put thoughts into my head.  You must be the very fiend, I think.”

“I know you, Cyprienne, and every move of your mind.  We are such old friends, you see,” he said, with a sneering, cynical smile.  “And now, as before, I offer you my help.”

“Devil!  Do not tempt me!”

He laughed—­a cold, cruel, truculent laugh.

“I know you, I repeat, and am ready to serve you as before.  Come, or send, if you want me.  I am living here in this hotel; Mr. Hobson they call me—­Mr. Joseph Hobson, of London.  My number is 73.  Shall I hear from you?”

“No, no!  I will not listen to you.  Let me go!” And Mrs. Wilders, breaking away from him, hurried down the street.