Stella Larue was crying into a lace handkerchief. "You—you are all—against me," she sobbed. "What have I done?"
"Nothing," soothed Constance, patting her shoulder. "As for Charmant and Drummond, they are tied by these proofs," she added, tapping the papers with the prints, then picking them up and handing them to Warrington. "I think if the story were told to the directors at the Prince Henry to-night with reporters waiting downstairs in the lobby, it might produce a quieting effect."
Warrington was speechless. He saw them all against him, Vera, Braden, Stella, Drummond.
"More than that," added Constance, "nothing that you can ever do can equal the patience, the faith of the little woman I saw here to-day, slaving, yes, slaving for beauty. Here in my hand, in these scraps of paper, I hold your old life,—not part of it, but ALL of it," she emphasized. "You have your chance. Will you take it?"
He looked up quickly at Stella Larue. She had risen impulsively and flung her arms about Constance.
"Yes," he muttered huskily, taking the papers, "all of it."
CHAPTER VIII
THE ABDUCTORS
"Take care of me—please—please!"