The old maid ran up to Peggy and caught her firmly by the arms, pressing her down into a chair.
"Rest! rest!" she said, with the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Mignon, you will break my heart if you go on like this. You are innocent; I stake my soul on that. Wait—wait till to-morrow when I am witness. I will tell them!"
Peggy's arms went round the old maid's neck and she drew the gnarled face to hers. "Pauline," she said, "dear Pauline! They will torture you as they did me. It is useless. Sir Robert Fyffe will make you say just what he wants. It is not justice that triumphs in the end—it is intellect that damns. Pauline, do you think that Mr. Collingwood knew that we should be in Paris that night, and that he wrote the letter?"
Pauline kissed her. "I think, madame," she said, "that M. Collingwood knew that we should be in Paris. But I am certain he did not write that letter. M. Collingwood might have done a very foolish thing, thinking that you loved him—but he is a gentleman."
"But if he did not write it—then you think that Lady Attwill?..."
"Comme vous voulez? If it is not M. Collingwood, madame, it must be Lady Attwill."
"But why should she have done such a fiendish thing?"
"She has never forgiven you for marrying Mr. Admaston. Did I not tell you, madame? Did I not say that to you in Paris?"
Peggy nodded. "Yes, Pauline," she replied; "but I can't believe you. She has seen my misery. No, Pauline, it is impossible!"
"Madame, it is not impossible. She can only conquer by your misery."