While she made ready, she fought down those two horrible fears—­of losing her child, of losing her lover; the less she feared, the better she could act, the more subtly, the swifter.  She remembered that she had somewhere a little stiletto, given her a long time ago.  She hunted it out, slipped off its red-leather sheath, and, stabbing the point into a tiny cork, slipped it beneath her blouse.  If they could steal her baby, they were capable of anything.  She wrote a note to her father, telling him what had happened, and saying where she had gone.  Then, in a taxi, they set forth.  Cold water and the calmness of her mistress had removed from Betty the main traces of emotion; but she clasped Gyp’s hand hard and gave vent to heavy sighs.

Gyp would not think.  If she thought of her little one crying, she knew she would cry, too.  But her hatred for those who had dealt this cowardly blow grew within her.  She took a resolution and said quietly: 

“Mr. Summerhay, Betty.  That’s why they’ve stolen our darling.  I suppose you know he and I care for each other.  They’ve stolen her so as to make me do anything they like.”

A profound sigh answered her.

Behind that moon-face with the troubled eyes, what conflict was in progress—­between unquestioning morality and unquestioning belief in Gyp, between fears for her and wishes for her happiness, between the loyal retainer’s habit of accepting and the old nurse’s feeling of being in charge?  She said faintly: 

“Oh dear!  He’s a nice gentleman, too!” And suddenly, wheezing it out with unexpected force:  “To say truth, I never did hold you was rightly married to that foreigner in that horrible registry place—­no music, no flowers, no blessin’ asked, nor nothing.  I cried me eyes out at the time.”

Gyp said quietly: 

“No; Betty, I never was.  I only thought I was in love.”  A convulsive squeeze and creaking, whiffling sounds heralded a fresh outburst.  “Don’t cry; we’re just there.  Think of our darling!”

The cab stopped.  Feeling for her little weapon, she got out, and with her hand slipped firmly under Betty’s arm, led the way upstairs.  Chilly shudders ran down her spine—­memories of Daphne Wing and Rosek, of that large woman—­what was her name?—­of many other faces, of unholy hours spent up there, in a queer state, never quite present, never comfortable in soul; memories of late returnings down these wide stairs out to their cab, of Fiorsen beside her in the darkness, his dim, broad-cheekboned face moody in the corner or pressed close to hers.  Once they had walked a long way homeward in the dawn, Rosek with them, Fiorsen playing on his muted violin, to the scandal of the policemen and the cats.  Dim, unreal memories!  Grasping Betty’s arm more firmly, she rang the bell.  When the man servant, whom she remembered well, opened the door, her lips were so dry that they could hardly form the words: