She handed him the clipping. It was from a weekly paper, which concerned itself with the doings of society, and he read, his eyes glowing:
The much heralded theatricals at "Roods Knoll" have come and gone, but the echoes of this affair are still reverberating the length of the Avenue. It seems that the very clever play, written by a well-known woman of society, was based upon fact, and that the hero and heroine of the adventures depicted are in New York, the girl in question a member of the hunting set and the man a distinguished portrait painter—both of whom shall be nameless. As everyone knows, the play is laid in rural France, and deals with the loves of a French countess who has fled from her husband to join her lover, also married, upon the road, where they become members of a band of strolling mountebanks, the lady masquerading as a Dame Orchestre and the gentleman as an itinerant painter of portraits—
Markham stopped, his eyes seeking those of his hostess.
"The play was given," he said hoarsely, "at your house?"
"It was, Mr. Markham," she said simply. "Read it through to the end, please."
He did so, his horror increasing as the full significance of the description grew upon him. Hermia had seen—had read this. They were talking about her and about him? He could not understand.
"You said that Miss—Miss Challoner's name had been mentioned—and mine," he said slowly. "There is no name—mentioned her. The identity of the people—"
"Your names have been mentioned, Mr. Markham, in my presence. The story back of this vile clipping is on the lips of every gossip in town. Where it originated Heaven only knows, but facts are given and dates which make it ugly in the extreme. I thought it best that you should know and sent for you to assure you that I had no knowledge about the play and its possible reference to any one."
"The play," he asked quietly, "was written by Madame Tcherny?"
She nodded, her eyes regarding him soberly.