“As she is in America we will see very little of her,” sighed Lady Caranby, “besides, she loves Basil more than me.  Poor boy, I hope he will get on in America.”

“Of course he will.  He will marry an heiress—­” And Cuthbert’s prophecy proved to be correct—­“Don’t let us talk of these things any more, Juliet.  This dreadful murder nearly wrecked our life.  My poor uncle talked of a fatal woman.  Maraquito was that to us.”

“And I?” asked Juliet, nestling to her husband.

“You are the dearest and sweetest angel in the world.”

“And you are the greatest goose,” said she, kissing her husband fondly, “we have had enough of fatal women.  Let us never mention the subject again.”

And they never did.

The end