“And then—­I couldn’t help it!”—­there was a new note of agitation in Doris’s voice—­“but what had happened was so horrid—­it was so like seeing a man going to ruin under one’s eyes, for, of course, one knew that she would get hold of him again—­that I ran out after your son and begged him to break with her, not to see her again, to take the opportunity, and be done with her!  And then he told me quite calmly that he must marry her, that he could not help himself, but he would never live with her.  He would marry her at a registry office, provide for her, and leave her.  And then he said he would do it at once—­that he was going to his lawyers to arrange everything as to money and so on—­on condition that she never troubled him again.  He was eager to get it done—­that he might be delivered from her—­from her company—­which one could see had become dreadful to him.  I implored him not to do such a thing—­to pay any money rather than do it—­but not to marry her!  I begged him to think of you—­and his father.  But he said he was bound to her—­he had compromised her, or some such thing; and he had given his word in writing.  There was only one thing which could stop it—­if she had told him lies about her former life.  But he had no reason to think she had; and he was not going to try and find out.  So then—­I saw a ray of daylight—­”

She stopped abruptly, looking full at the woman opposite, who was now following her every word—­but like one seized against her will.

“Do you remember a Miss Wigram, Lady Dunstable—­whose father had a living near Crosby Ledgers?”

Lady Dunstable moved involuntarily—­her eyelids flickered a little.

“Certainly.  Why do you ask?”

“She saw Mr. Dunstable—­and Miss Flink—­in my uncle’s studio, and she was so distressed to think what—­what Lord Dunstable”—­there was a perceptible pause before the name—­“would feel, if his son married her, that she determined to find out the truth about her.  She told me she had one or two clues, and I sent her to a cousin of mine—­a very clever solicitor—­to be advised.  That was yesterday morning.  Then I got my uncle to find out your son—­and bring him to me yesterday afternoon before I started.  He came to our house in Kensington, and I told him I had come across some very doubtful stories about Miss Flink.  He was very unwilling to hear anything.  After all, he said, he was not going to live with her.  And she had nursed him—­”

“Nursed him!” said Lady Dunstable, quickly.  She had risen, and was leaning against the mantelpiece, looking sharply down upon her visitor.

“That was the beginning of it all.  He was ill in the winter—­in his lodgings.”

“I never heard of it!” For the first time, there was a touch of something natural and passionate in the voice.

Doris looked a little embarrassed.

“Your son told me it was pneumonia.”

“I never heard a word of it!  And this—­this creature nursed him?” The tone of the robbed lioness at last!—­singularly inappropriate under all the circumstances.  Doris struggled on.