when I tell you that it’s that and nothing else that has brought me all the way to America.  And my first idea was to go straight to your daughter-in-law, since her influence is the only thing we can count on now, and put it to her fairly, as I’m putting it to you.  But, on the whole, I dare say it’s better to see you first—­you might give me an idea of the line to take with her.  I’m prepared to throw myself on her mercy!”

Margaret rose from her chair, outwardly rigid in proportion to her inward tremor.

“You don’t understand—­” she began.

Lady Caroline brushed the interruption aside.  “Oh, but I do—­completely!  I cast no reflection on your daughter-in-law.  Guy has made it quite clear to us that his attachment is—­has, in short, not been rewarded.  But don’t you see that that’s the worst part of it?  There’d be much more hope of his recovering if Mrs. Robert Ransom had—­had—­”

Margaret’s voice broke from her in a cry.  “I am Mrs. Robert Ransom,” she said.

If Lady Caroline Duckett had hitherto given her hostess the impression of a person not easily silenced, this fact added sensibly to the effect produced by the intense stillness which now fell on her.

She sat quite motionless, her large bangled hands clasped about the meagre fur boa she had unwound from her neck on entering, her rusty black veil pushed up to the edge of a “fringe” of doubtful authenticity, her thin lips parted on a gasp that seemed to sharpen itself on the edges of her teeth.  So overwhelming and helpless was her silence that Margaret began to feel a motion of pity beneath her indignation—­a desire at least to facilitate the excuses which must terminate their disastrous colloquy.  But when Lady Caroline found voice she did not use it to excuse herself.

“You can’t be,” she said, quite simply.

“Can’t be?” Margaret stammered, with a flushing cheek.

“I mean, it’s some mistake.  Are there two Mrs. Robert Ransoms in the same town?  Your family arrangements are so extremely puzzling.”  She had a farther rush of enlightenment.  “Oh, I see! I ought of course to have asked for Mrs. Robert Ransom ’Junior’!”

The idea sent her to her feet with a haste which showed her impatience to make up for lost time.

“There is no other Mrs. Robert Ransom at Wentworth,” said Margaret.

“No other—­no ‘Junior’?  Are you sure?” Lady Caroline fell back into her seat again.  “Then I simply don’t see,” she murmured helplessly.

Margaret’s blush had fixed itself on her throbbing forehead.  She remained standing, while her strange visitor continued to gaze at her with a perturbation in which the consciousness of indiscretion had evidently as yet no part.

“I simply don’t see,” she repeated.

Suddenly she sprang up, and advancing to Margaret laid an inspired hand on her arm.  “But, my dear woman, you can help us out all the same; you can help us to find out who it is—­and you will, won’t you?  Because, as it’s not you, you can’t in the least mind what I’ve been saying—­”