"What do you think of that?" Prout asked.
Leona Lalage said nothing. She could only look and look in a fascinated way.
"It--it proves nothing," she said with an effort, presently. "A pleasant face. Don't you think that she is a little like me?"
[CHAPTER XLII.]
FEAR!
Leona Lalage held herself up talking bravely about the weather, whilst Prout was dumb with admiration of her audacity. Her very recklessness inspired his respect. He little knew of the deadly fear and suffering concealed behind that smiling mask. The last thing he saw as he closed the door of the brougham was an averted face and a small hand.
The blood horses dashed on, whilst Leona Lalage lay back against the cushions and fainted for the third time in her life. It had been a wonderful effort to put the deadly feeling off so long, but her iron will had conquered.
She came to herself again with a shudder and a feeling of anguish in every limb. She was not suspected yet, or even a fool of an English detective would not have shown her that picture. Broken and agitated as she was, her quick brain began to work again.
In the first place she must get those notes back from Isidore. Even if they had to be obtained by force it must be done. She took a visiting card from her case, and in as steady a hand as possible penciled a line or two on the back asking Isidore to come round and dine with her that evening. Once this was done and left at the capitalist's rooms she felt a little easier in her mind. She was doing something.