"I thought, madame, you knew he was there."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth relaxed her grip; she stepped back a pace or two and threw up her head.
"God in heaven, what a fool you are!"
"It was natural I should think that," protested Cecily, recoiling a step or two.
"Natural! You idiot!"
"He came in with your key, madame."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth stared in utter amazement.
"My key?"
"Yes, madame; I saw him fling something under the table, and found afterwards it was your key. He must have taken it from your bag, madame, when he visited you in the afternoon."
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth suddenly twisted on her heel and began to pace the room. The truth had smitten her like a blow. Wild thoughts surged through her brain. All these long months she had believed herself tricking and duping Bernard Treves—her business in life was to trick, dupe, and mould men to her own ends, to the ends of the Fatherland, to the imposition of its monstrous Kultur upon the world—and now this man, this handsome, drug-sodden weakling had out-manoeuvred her! She had spun a web for him, had toyed with him, expended her charm upon him, and all the time he had been secretly and darkly laughing in his sleeve. Instead of a friend and a tool, he had been an astute and daring enemy!