Mrs. Beecher Monmouth flashed an intense glance upon her.
"What sort of box?"
"A black box, madame, the one you kept among your furs."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth's hand suddenly leapt out and gripped Cecily's wrist. Her voice grew low, little more than a hissing whisper.
"What are you saying, Cecily? What was Mr. Treves doing?"
"I don't know, madame."
Cecily twisted her arm, attempting to free it.
"Please, madame, you are hurting my wrist!"
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth thrust forth her face—her brilliant eyes had grown hard as agate.
"Why did you never tell me this before?"